Authors: Lance Horton
Shadow Dragon (20 page)
She scanned down to the section detailing the personnel information. There had been three people killed in the crash. Two were the pilot and copilot, and the third was an employee of NorCorp. Both the pilot and copilot had originally received their training during service in the US Air Force. The pilot had flown for Delta Airlines for seventeen years before he had retired to fly on a part-time basis as a private pilot for NorCorp. The copilot had just left the air force two months prior, and this was his first commercial flight. There was an extensive investigation into the background of both men, including interviews with family and coworkers as well as the most recent medical records. The conclusion of the report was that there was no evidence to indicate that the crash had been caused by pilot negligence or error.
Of the single passenger, nothing more was mentioned aside from the fact that he was an employee of NorCorp. While this wasn’t necessarily anything suspicious, it did leave Carrie to wonder about who he was and why he was being flown to Seattle on the company’s private jet.
The report also contained a section detailing specific information on the plane, a Gulfstream V-SP, including its empty and maximum weight capacity, last annual inspection, and maintenance records, but again, it wasn’t much help with any information that Carrie thought might be relevant, such as a description of any cargo the plane might have been carrying in addition to its mysterious passenger.
Switching tactics, she tried to go another way, namely through the website of the company that owned the plane. The NorCorp website itself was impressive, with an overview of the numerous companies that made up the giant conglomerate and products ranging from cosmetics to pharmaceuticals to medical equipment and specialty plastics.
Carrie spent over a half an hour navigating the site, scrolling through company overview after company overview and countless pages of mission statements and corporate financials. Not surprisingly, she was unable to find a single mention of the plane crash.
Undeterred, her next approach was to call up the
Baltimore Sun’s
website, where she did a search through the obituary pages for the three days following the plane crash. Then on second thought, because it had taken three days to find the wreckage, she expanded her search to six days. After she printed out the results, she began reading through them, looking for any that mentioned the plane crash. The first one she found was for Derick Hughes, the copilot. As she continued through the list, she was disappointed to find that there were no other obituaries related to the crash. Next, she repeated the process with the
Washington Post’s
and
Seattle Post Intelligencer’s
online obits for the same date range, but again, she came up empty-handed. Because NorCorp’s headquarters was located in Atlanta, she tried the
Atlanta Constitution
site as well, where she found the obituary for James Laidlaw, the pilot, but still nothing on the passenger, Dr. Sandefur.
Frustrated to the point of giving up, Carrie decided to call in someone who was better in the ways of electronic information retrieval than she could ever hope to be.
She took her cell phone from her purse and punched in the two-digit speed-dial number for her office in Denver.
“Hi, Sandy,” she said to the receptionist. “Is Charlie in?”
The day was clear and bright. The sun shone in a brilliant blue sky, the dazzling white of the snow-covered landscape almost blinding him in spite of the mirrored sunglasses he wore as he drove from Flathead Lake and the Lakeshore RV Park back to Kalispell. But Kyle was in no mood to enjoy the day. He was becoming accustomed to living in a world that was eternally cold and gray.
He rode in silence. There were no Jimmy Buffet CDs in the rental, and even if there had been, he wouldn’t have played them. His taste for the music had soured. Instead of reminding him of good times, it now served as a painful reminder of yet another of his many failures.
He had just left the Lattimers after he had returned their camera. They had anxiously asked if there had been any more news about Danny and Tammy, and Kyle had told them no. He hadn’t even bothered to take off his shades. He had been too ashamed to look them in the eyes.
His cell phone rang. He frowned when he saw the caller ID. It was Janet again.
He wasn’t in the mood for her, but he had been putting her off for days.
Better to get it over with now while I have some privacy
, he thought.
“Agent Andrews,” he said just to see if she would say anything.
“Kyle, it’s your mother.”
“Hello, Janet.”
“Have you told them yet?” she asked.
“No, I haven’t. I’m in the middle of a case. I can’t just quit in the middle of it.”
“Why not? I’m sure they can find someone to take your place.” Normally, Kyle would have been irritated by her constant trivialization of his chosen career, but as she spoke, her voice quivered as if she were about to cry, which was something that was completely out of character for her.
“I need you here with me,” she added shakily.
“Why?” Kyle asked suspiciously. He could tell something was wrong.
“I’m supposed to start chemo next week,” she said and began to cry. “The cancer’s spread to my lymph nodes.”
“Hey, Carrie,” Charlie Weisman said as he came on the line.
It was comforting to hear a familiar voice. “Hey, Wise Man.”
“I wasn’t expecting to hear from you for at least another week or so,” he said. “Is everything okay?”
“I’ve been better,” she admitted. “How’s it going there?”
“We’re gettin’ by,” he said, and then, whispering where no one else could hear him, he added, “Just between you and me, Allan’s freaking out. He’s afraid you’re not going to come back.”
“Are you kidding me?” she said. It felt good to know that she was missed.
“You know how he is.”
“Yeah, I know. But listen, the reason I called is I wanted to see if you can dig up some information for me.”
“Sure, what do you got?”
Carrie looked out the door to make sure no one—meaning Wallace Hipple—was eavesdropping on her conversation. She closed the door. “A year and a half ago on October 3rd, a plane crashed in the mountains near my grandparents’ cabin. The only thing I’ve been able to find out about it is that it was owned by a huge multinational conglomerate called NorCorp. I found some information on the NTSB’s site but not what I was looking for, so I went to the company’s website. Of course, there wasn’t even a mention of it there. I wanted to see if maybe you could dig up something on it.”
“Sure. Anything in particular you want me to look for?” Charlie asked.
“I don’t know,” Carrie replied. “You know how I am. I’m probably just overreacting, but something just doesn’t seem right about all this. There was a passenger on the plane. The NTSB’s report hardly mentions him. It didn’t even give his name. I searched the obituaries in all the papers—Baltimore, Washington, Seattle, even Atlanta, where NorCorp’s headquarters is located—and came up with nothing. I want to know why he was being flown across the country to Seattle on the corporate jet but wasn’t important enough to be mentioned anywhere after the fact. And see if you can find out if the plane was carrying anything. There’s no mention of any cargo in the report, but it doesn’t specifically say there wasn’t any either. Just see what you can find out about any of it. I’m going to call the NTSB myself and see if I can come up with something more that way. If you come across anything that jumps out at you, let me know.”
“You got it,” Charlie said. In the background, she could already hear the furious clicking of his keyboard. That was one thing Carrie loved about Charlie. He was always eager to do anything she asked without ever questioning why. Aside from Allan, Charlie was a big reason why she had never considered leaving the paper. She knew she wouldn’t be half as good a reporter without him.
“You got your laptop with you?” Charlie asked.
“No,” Carrie replied. “Just my phone. I didn’t plan on doing any work while I was here. I’ve been using the local paper’s computer.”
“No problem. I’ll call you if I find anything. Give me the name and address of your motel, and I’ll FedEx your laptop to you. I wouldn’t recommend using the paper’s computer anymore if you want to scoop them. They might be watching what you’re doing.”
Carrie hadn’t thought of that, but it was exactly the sort of cheap ploy she would expect from Wallace Hipple.
“That would be great. Thanks, Wise Man. I owe you big time,” she said. “And I don’t mean just a burger and shake. This one’s worth dinner at Morton’s at least.”
“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Charlie replied. “I’d have to get dressed up for that. Just make it a steak burger from CityGrille, and I’ll be happy.”
Carrie smiled. “Deal! But you’re selling yourself short there, Wise Man.”
Carrie’s next stop was downtown, only this time her destination was across the street from the justice center at the old yellow county courthouse.
Inside, she checked the building directory and then proceeded downstairs. She followed the directions on a sign posted on the wall and made her way down the drab corridor to the door with “County Clerk” stenciled on the glass in gold letters.
She opened the door and entered into a small reception area. Across from her, an old oak counter ran across the width of the room, its surface worn smooth from years of paperwork being shuffled back and forth. An elderly lady at one of the desks behind the counter looked up at Carrie through thick, silver-framed glasses. The nameplate on her desk read Marjorie Mays.
“Can I help you, dear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Carrie replied. “I need to get a copy of the death certificates for several men who were killed in a plane crash on October 3rd of the year before last.”
“Are you related to one of them?” the old lady asked as she stood up and shuffled over.
“No, I’m researching their deaths for a newspaper article,” Carrie replied.
Marjorie looked at Carrie over the top of her glasses and frowned as if trying to decide whether or not to help her.
“You have their names?”
“Yes,” Carrie said, pulling out a sheet of paper with the information.
Marjorie pulled three 5x8 index cards from a stack on the counter and slid them in front of Carrie. “I need you to fill out one of these for each of the copies you are requesting, including your name and address, employer, and a phone number. There’s a three-dollar charge for each copy.”
Carrie filled out the information, paid for the copies, and then waited impatiently while Marjorie printed out the certificates. Using a small silver tool, she imprinted the county seal on each of the certificates before she returned to the counter.
Outside in the hallway, Carrie shuffled through the documents, anxious to review the new information. The first was the copilot, which she skipped. The second one was the one she was looking for, the mysterious passenger. The death certificate showed his name as Dr. Phillip Keith Sandefur. He had been fifty-eight at the time of the crash. His “occupation” on the form was listed simply as “technician,” and under “business or industry” was printed “medical.”
Carrie frowned and blew a strand of hair from her face. She had hoped the death certificate would give her more information than that. Was he a medical doctor, or did he just have a PhD? If he
was
a medical doctor, would his occupation have been listed simply as “technician?” And if that’s all he had been, what could be so important that the company would fly a technician across the country? Some special surgical equipment that had broken down and required immediate repair? That seemed unlikely. It was frustrating that his listed occupation and industry were so generic. There wasn’t really enough information for her to even speculate as to what he did. But it hadn’t been a complete waste of effort. She thought she had found the thread she was looking for. Now it was just a matter of following it.
She made her way upstairs and hurried back out to the Hummer. In spite of the clear, bright day, it was cold, with patches of fresh snow still on the ground. She started the truck to get the heater going and then called Charlie to give him the passenger’s name and occupation and, perhaps more importantly, his social security number.
After she hung up with Charlie, Carrie glanced at her watch. As so often happened when she was researching a story, she had lost all track of time. It was after two o’clock now, and she hadn’t eaten lunch. She remembered seeing a combination KFC/A&W a few blocks north on Main Street, so she drove through and picked up a cheeseburger and large fries.
Back in her room, she flipped through her notes while she ate, heedless of the greasy prints she left on the pages. When she found what she was looking for, she picked up the phone and began to dial.
After three rings, a stern-sounding receptionist answered, “National Transportation and Safety Board, how may I direct your call?”
“Jack Kleister please,” Carrie replied.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Yes, Carrie Daniels. I’m a reporter with the
Denver Inquirer
. I have a few questions regarding an accident investigation Mr. Kleister was in charge of.”
“Just a moment please,” the receptionist said as she sent the call through.
“Kleister here,” came the sudden response. He sounded older and his voice was deep and nasally, as if he might have spent a good portion of his life smoking.
“Hello, Mr. Kleister, my name is Carrie Daniels. I’m a reporter with the
Denver Inquirer
, and if I could, I would like to ask you a few questions regarding a plane crash you were the lead investigator on about eighteen months ago.”
“Accident.”
“Excuse me?”
“Airplane ‘accident.’ We don’t refer to them as ‘crashes.’”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“What paper did you say you were with?”
“
The Denver Inquirer
.”
“I’m not familiar with that one.”
“It’s a weekly paper,” Carrie said. “We typically focus on local political stories, but I’m currently working on a special report into the crash—I mean accident—of—” Carrie glanced at her notes to get the number correct. “Flight N9712E that crashed in northwest Montana on October 3rd about eighteen months ago.”
“The final report regarding that is posted on our website, I’m—”
“Yes, sir, I know,” Carrie interrupted politely. She didn’t want to make the man angry, but she didn’t want him to think she was an idiot either. “I reviewed the report. But there were some additional questions I had, and I was hoping you might be able to answer them for me.”
There was a pause, and Carrie cringed. Here it was—the moment she always hated, when she was told, “No,” or “I’m sorry. I can’t help you,” and she was forced to find another way to get the information she was after. It happened almost every time, and while it never stopped her, it just made things more difficult and time-consuming. Fortunately, she already had Charlie working it from another direction.
There was a long, rumbling cough from the other end of the phone. “Excuse me,” he said as he sniffed and snorted. “I’ve got a bad chest cold. Now what sort of questions did you have?”
Surprised by his acquiescence, Carrie grabbed her notepad. She wished she had a recorder, but pen and paper would have to do. “Well, sir, the report states that the plane was owned by NorCorp, but there are a number of companies owned by NorCorp. Do you recall which company was using the plane?”
“Can’t say that I do. The plane was registered to NorCorp, and all of the records and maintenance information I recall seeing were in NorCorp’s name.” He paused to cough again before he continued, “Our investigation focuses on the cause of the accident, not on the company or passengers using the plane unless they are suspected of criminal activity.”
“I see.” Based on that answer, Carrie’s hopes for her other questions began to fade, but she decided to try them anyway. “There was a third person killed in the cra—uh—accident, a Dr. Phillip Sandefur.”
“Don’t remember his name for certain, but go on.”
“Is it possible that you might have the name of the company that Dr. Sandefur worked for on file somewhere?”
“It’s possible. But if the passengers are not suspected to have had any impact on the accident, then more than likely, there is going to be very little information on him in our files.”
“Could you please check that for me?”
“It’s not that simple,” he wheezed and coughed as he spoke. “After the final report is issued, all of the pertinent hard-copy records are sent to our storage warehouse. You’re talking about a pretty big undertaking to pull all of those files just to look up where the guy worked. Can I ask why you are so interested in this person?”
“I’m not sure I’m as interested in the person himself as I am the company he worked for.” Carrie didn’t want to have to explain the whole situation or the rationale for her thought process, so she just simply said, “I’m trying to determine if that company might have been involved in any illegal activities.”
“I see.” There was a pause as Kleister cleared his throat. “What kind of illegal activities?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Carrie replied. “But there was no information in the NTSB report indicating what kind of cargo might have been on board at the time of the crash.”
“Again, that is not a part of our investigation unless it was determined to have contributed to the accident. If there
was
any cargo, I can assure you that nothing carried was against FAA regulations. Nor were there any illegal substances found at the site.”
“I see,” Carrie sighed. “I don’t suppose there was anything about the accident that you can remember as odd or out of the ordinary? Anything at all?”
“No, ma’am, I’m afraid I don’t,” he sniffed. “Our job is to investigate the cause of the accident and to report the facts that we are able to determine from that investigation. We’re not allowed to publish any suppositions about what might have happened or why, only facts that we can prove through scientific investigation.”
“I understand,” Carrie replied. “I certainly appreciate your time. If you do remember anything or you have the time to retrieve those records, I would really appreciate it if you would call me.”
“Sure, I can do that.”
“Thanks,” Carrie replied. She waited while he found a pen and then gave him her cell phone number along with a final plea for assistance.
After she hung up, Carrie sat there for a while, thinking. She had hoped to get more information than that. Now she had to try to figure out where to go next.
She decided to try the direct approach. She flipped through the ever-growing stack of pages she had printed out until she found the pages from NorCorp’s website. She picked up the phone and dialed the number for the corporate headquarters. When the receptionist answered, she requested the human resources department.
Carrie spent several frustrating hours trying to get information regarding the plane crash from NorCorp, but no matter whom she talked to or what approach she tried, the answer was always the same: They were not allowed to give out that information over the phone. It was as if the entire company had been trained very specifically in regards to nondisclosure. But Carrie was determined. She was on to something. She just
knew
it. And with every call that ended abruptly or with someone hanging up on her, she became more and more certain of it. This had become her own personal David and Goliath, and she wasn’t going to stop until she got what she wanted.
She continued to play the corporate runaround game, trying person after person, prodding and poking, digging for bits and pieces of information like a forty-niner panning for flecks of gold, until the NorCorp offices on the East Coast closed for the day. Even then, she continued until after she got her fourth voice mail in a row when she finally conceded that she wasn’t going to get what she wanted today. For now, she was forced to wait and hope that Charlie came up with something in the meantime.
But tomorrow, she would begin again.
