Final Approach (59 page)

“Senator, I'm not a doctor, but I don't think you can change blood types.” Timson was looking at him as if he were dealing with a dangerous fool.

“So happens, Captain, that I agree, though I, too, am not a doctor. What color are your eyes, Captain?”

“Uh, green.”

“And would you describe your hair color as brown?”

“Yes sir.”

“Now, would you look at the stack of FAA forms you filled out every six months.”

“Okay.”

“Those forms all have you with green eyes and brown hair, right?”

“I … of course. What else would they have?”

“Indeed. You filled them out, they should be accurate, right?”

“Yes. Right.”

“Now, look at Doctor McIntyre's office examination forms for the same period. Tell us what your hair color and eye color is on each one.”

Timson started rifling through the papers again, finding the notations, his face turning crimson slowly but steadily as he realized something was wrong … something not of his making.

“What,” Kell continued, “do you see notated there over a five-year period each and every time the doctor filled out his report?”

“I … it says brown eyes and blond hair.”

“And again, each of the doctor's forms has you as an O positive blood type, right?”

“Yes. I guess so.” Timson kept rifling back and forth as if the entries were going to change.

“Could you be mistaken about your blood type, Captain?”

Timson shrugged. “I guess I could. I always thought I was B negative.”

“Captain, our staff is now handing you a copy of the hospital blood report from Kansas City's Truman Medical Center, the work-up done just after you were admitted the night of the crash. What is your blood type there?”

Timson looked, then looked again, small beads of perspiration showing around his receding hairline. “Uh, this says … B negative.”

“So, you
were
right after all?”

No answer as Timson kept his head in the papers, looking for the trap he knew was there somewhere. Finally he looked up. “I don't understand where you're going with this, Senator. If there's a question you want to ask me, please just ask.”

“Okay, sir. We've established that the FAA application forms are your work product, and the other forms are Dr. McIntyre's. Both sets, though, reflect a perfectly healthy individual with two different hair and eye colors, and the doctor's forms have the wrong blood type. The FAA forms, of course, don't ask for blood type. Could it be that somehow the doctor got the wrong medical records mixed up with yours?”

“I don't see how …”

“Captain Timson, when an FAA-certified doctor fills out these forms, he usually does so while he's giving the exam, right?”

“I suppose.”

“Well, I'm only a private pilot with a third-class medical certificate, but that's how my doctors have always done it, progressively: height, weight, pulse rate, eye color, hair color, et cetera. Now, were you present when each of these medical exams was filled out by Doctor McIntyre?”

“I'm not sure.” The voice was tightening. Kell could hear the tension level increasing as Timson fought for control.

“Now, Captain, tell me, how did a busy executive like you handle the biannual medical-exam routine? I mean, at your age you needed an electrocardiogram each time, as well as the full physical.”

Timson leaned into the microphone. “Senator, our company doctor was completely equipped in his office near mine to give those exams. I would simply go to him.”

“Physically?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“You physically, each and every time, went down to the doctor's office and had him give you the exam in person?”

“How else would it be done?”

“Again, Captain, let me ask the questions. And, please don't be offended, but you are under oath here. Were these FAA medical exams given to you personally in Dr. McIntyre's office each and every time?”

Dick Timson just stared at Kell for a minute, calculating the odds. The import of the questions was clear. If Martinson knew enough to ask such questions, he knew the exams had been pencil-whipped. Therefore, if he lied about them, he could face perjury charges of some sort for lying to Congress. They put people in jail for that sort of thing.

“Senator, let me explain how this worked. I kept in constant touch with Doc McIntyre. He knew my physical condition. I would fill out these medical applications every six months, and he would make his own decision on what, or how much, he would need to do in person to examine me. Sometimes he took my blood pressure in my office, for instance. I trusted his medical discretion. If he'd needed me in his office, then I would have gone.”

Twenty feet behind the witness table, David Bayne's entire defenses had gone on full alert. Overnight he had coolly calculated how to put a reasonable spin on his calls to Farris, which were decidedly not illegal, but what the hell was coming now? Sitting beside him, Ron Putnam was dying a slow death inside, his decision to keep from Bayne McIntyre's falsification of medical exams obviously a fatal mistake. Somehow they had found out. He had based his decision on the once-reasonable hope that nothing more would be discovered, and that hope was crumbling.

In Dallas, glued to the C-SPAN broadcast on a television in his den, John Walters was oblivious to anything else, including the questions from his wife. Walters could see that something was very wrong. Something was coming, but what. Timson was coming apart! The feeling of impending doom almost blocked the senator's next question.

“You never, shall we say, pressured him to just fill out the forms and issue the license?”

“Of course not!” Timson was trying to be firm, but his resolve was slipping. Kell could see his jaw trembling slightly.

“But isn't it also true that not once in five years did you ever get a traditional, complete personal physical exam from Dr. McIntyre?”

There was a long pause before he answered in a quieter voice. “Yes sir. During that period, he always elected not to do it in person.”

“Did he, Captain, have you send in a urine sample?”

“I … what?”

“Each of these exams has a lab work-up of some sort, and at least one over that five-year span has a blood work-up with the blood type listed as O positive. We just talked about it. Or could those work-ups be those of some other individual?”

“I wouldn't know.”

“In fact, Captain, I think it's obvious, isn't it, that all the lab slips attached to your medical forms, and probably every single entry made by the doctor on those medical forms, was for someone else and not Richard Timson. Isn't that right?”

“I don't know that!”

“Okay, let's turn to something else. When you fill out the FAA forms, they ask a long list of medical questions. One of them asks if you've ever had frequent blackouts, another whether you've had a significant injury since the last report, and yet another whether you're under medication. Right?”

Timson knew he'd been nailed. He didn't know how, but he knew it was all crumbling. The defense, the facade, everything. But how? How could they know? “What are you getting at, Senator?”

“Captain Timson, do you know anyone by the name of Joseph Thompson?”

Timson gasped audibly, then caught himself, but he knew instantly he'd been discovered, though his whirling mind could not grasp how on earth. No one knew! No one in the company knew! How in God's name could they know about
Thompson?

Fifteen feet behind him in the audience, Mark Weiss realized he'd been holding his breath, in some ways since leaving Dallas. There was a chilling reality to this hearing: the truth would not be unfolding without Louise Timson's call. Kell Martinson's precisely targeted questions would not have been possible without her confession.

She had phoned Martinson's office yesterday during the hearing, her plea coming in the form of a folded yellow slip handed to Weiss by one of the senator's people. “Urgent you call Louise Timson immediately,” it said, giving her Dallas number. The senator was still dismembering Dean Farris at the time, and Mrs. Timson had been watching the process on C-SPAN back in Dallas, aware that her husband would face the same questioning the following morning. Apparently she had reached the breaking point.

“Mrs. Timson?”

“Dr. Weiss. Thank you for calling me back. I … you said anytime. I saw you in the audience, on TV.” There was a pause. “I know what they're going to do to Dick if I don't stop it. Can you come here?”

He had hesitated, but only for a second. He had indeed told her anytime, anywhere.…

“To Dallas?”

“Yes. Please. Please!” The voice broke into sobs, then recovered. “Dick left this afternoon. He's on his way there. Please, I need to talk to you. I'll pay for the ticket, Dr. Weiss, but I need to tell you what … what happened. Why they mustn't blame him.”

It had been a mad dash to National Airport, but Mark was on a 5:30
P.M.
flight to Dallas, arriving at the Timson home before 8
P.M.
local time, carrying his tape recorder and consumed with questions.

Louise Timson had seemed rock-steady and calm when she met him at the door, and almost relieved as she showed him into the living room. She had taken the time to dress elegantly, Mark noticed, an expensive jade bracelet dangling from her wrist as she served him the coffee she insisted on making, the flash of a substantial diamond wedding ring catching his eye as she smoothed the skirt of her carefully selected outfit. The elegant house and the taste of the lady within were typical earmarks of North Dallas opulence.

She had seemed distraught and near hysteria on the phone. Now, however, she had pulled herself together, proceeding along a set course, her mind made up about what she had to do and exactly how she must do it. There was massive tension behind the facade of her composure, a tension Mark could feel, like the tiny vibrations of an overwound spring barely restrained by failing bonds. Had she walked into his office, he would have fought to remove those bonds. But this meeting must obviously proceed her way, and he decided to follow her lead.

Her hostess duties done at last, Louise Timson sat primly on the edge of a beautiful wing back chair and handed Mark a thick folder of papers, silently asking him not to open them just yet.

“My husband, Dr. Weiss, is a good man,” she began, “but impatient and very competitive. Even with our son Ron, who is our only child. Dick never knew much about raising children. None of us do at first, but he didn't have a good childhood, so he had no base of comparison. He was tough on our son—too tough—and Ron has always fought back, fighting especially to win his father's respect, to impress Dick, most of the time without success.”

She paused and again smoothed her unwrinkled skirt, as if the success of her meeting with Mark Weiss depended on absolute perfection in the trappings of domestic tranquility.

“Ron has always loved sports, and he's always been very good at them—better than Dick ever was.”

She painted a complex picture then of a man progressively eclipsed and alarmed by the superior abilities of his own son, who could shoot more baskets, run faster, catch a baseball better than most—abilities that deeply threatened the father.

“About five years ago, when he was fourteen, Ron won a dirt motorbike in a contest. He became good at riding it, even started coming home with … with … trophies for rallies and …”

“Motocross?”

She nodded and studied her hands, which were gripping each other.

“Dick stayed out of it. He was always busy anyway, so he paid no attention, until one Saturday I made a terrible mistake. I asked Dick to pick up Ron from a race in a hilly area north of here.” She had been looking beyond Mark, but now she looked him in the eye for a moment. “He couldn't drive the bike on city streets, you see.”

She looked away again and continued. “Anyway … I knew better, but I … I was selfish, and busy, and I thought, just this once, maybe they won't get in an argument. He went and he found Ron, watched him ride for awhile, and then ordered him to hand over the bike so he could demonstrate to Ron how it should be done.”

“Had he ever—?”

“No!” Her reply was sharp, and she studied her hands briefly before looking at the wall again, struggling constantly for control. “Dick had never ridden a motorcycle. Ron tried to give him his helmet, but he refused. He took off across the dirt course jumping the bike over every hill, and Ron saw him crest three of them, but not the fourth.”

“He fell?”

“Headfirst at high speed into a pile of large rocks. He was unconscious for a half hour. Ron was scared to death, and the bike was badly beaten up. Ron ran to his father and found him unconscious and bleeding. There were others there offering help and someone called an ambulance, which took a half hour to arrive—they were out quite a ways from town. Dick finally came around, and when he regained his bearings on where he was, he refused the ambulance, got to his feet, and insisted on driving Ron home. He even picked up Ron's bike.

“They didn't go to an emergency room?”

“My husband, Dr. Weiss, is impervious to physical injury or illness or any incapacity … or so he thinks. But he was bleeding badly, and he looked horrible when the two of them walked in. The thing was, within ten minutes he blacked out, for the first time, staying unconscious for two, maybe three minutes.”

“For the first time. It happened again?”

She nodded. “I've had some first-aid training. Dick thinks I'm too stupid to tell him anything, but I knew he must have a concussion, and I knew the blackout—blackouts—meant he needed medical attention fast. But he yelled at me and screamed and threatened every time I tried to get him to the hospital that evening and Sunday. Yet …” Her voice caught and she closed her eyes momentarily, the memories vivid, the feelings fully recalled. “Yet he was blacking out every hour or so.”