Two Months Later
Known as the Carnation City in the early 1900s, Wheat Ridge,
Colorado, had grown from a single stop along a Gold Rush travel
route to a full-size suburb just outside of Denver. After incorporation
years later, the small city in present day served as a prime suburban
location for young families with parents commuting into downtown
Denver, all against a perfect backdrop of the great Rocky Mountains.
The mountains towering in the distance were covered in white
snow. At night, they faded into darkness and were replaced by
another version of Wheat Ridge visible only under the bright glow of
thousands of city streetlamps. Currently, they highlighted a curtain
of fresh snowflakes, twirling quietly to the ground and marking the
third official snowfall of the season, and enough to blanket the
sounds of the late evening traffic.
The very same blanketing that helped muffle the sound of a large
window sliding open just minutes after eleven p.m., beneath a cold
dark sky now. Most of the small town was either close to or had
already turned in for the night.
The thick double-paned window made no discernible noise as it
slid open along a white vinyl frame. Now open, gloved hands
appeared on the sill from inside, struggling to support a raised foot
and the larger body behind it.
The exit wasn’t smooth. Rather clumsy actually, considering it
was the ground floor. When the figure reached the snow-covered
earth, he briefly stumbled backward to regain his balance, leaving a
wild scattering of footprints in the snow.
A large, dark blue duffel bag was then pulled out and dropped
with a soft thud before the window was carefully closed again from
the outside. The figure hefted the duffel bag back over his shoulder
and scanned the street before ambling across the soft crunching
blanket of snow and disappearing into the darkness.
2
For those who thought all government offices looked the same,
the National Transportation Safety Board in Denver stood as a
glaring exception. Located downtown, the single-story brown
building looked more like a medical group than the regional office of
a well-known government agency.
Officially separated from the Department of Transportation
agency by Congress in 1975, the NTSB was run by a five-member
board and tasked with investigating and reporting on all civilian
transportation accidents in the United States. They also provided
recommendations for systems or process improvements where
necessary in an ongoing mission to improve public safety throughout
the nation.
Something far easier said than done.
Like any other government agency, the NTSB was not immune
from scandal or controversy, leaving Assistant Director Kevin
Wilkinsen thankful not to have been caught in the Federal Aviation
Administration’s public relations nightmare over Boeing’s 737 MAX
airliner accidents, including the painful revelations over the FAA’s
own negligence in the matter.
He knew several of the directors caught up in the scandal, and it
wasn’t something Wilkinsen would wish on his worst enemy.
The short and slightly overweight Wilkinsen hung up the phone
and returned a pair of black-framed glasses to his nose, continuing
through the report in front of him—one of several to be included in
his weekly briefing to headquarters in D.C.
“Come in!” he barked, barely looking up at the knock on his door.
The door swung inward and one of his agents stepped in, along
with a wave of loud chatter from those seated at the dozens of
desks outside. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes.” Wilkinsen nodded and motioned him to close the door.
Joseph Rickards was taller than his boss by almost a foot. Twelve
years younger, in his forties, he wore a somber expression under a
full head of hair.
“Need a limited investigation. Small aircraft about forty miles
south of here. Block and a half from an elementary school. Take
Gutierrez and get it cordoned off as quickly as you can.”
Silence filled the room, leaving the assistant director to glance up
at Rickards when he didn’t respond.
“Problem?”
“You sure you want me?”
Wilkinsen’s reply was sarcastic. “It’s a small aircraft. I think you
can handle it.” After a pause, he asked, “Can you?”
Rickards nodded. “Yeah.”
“Good.” Wilkinsen motioned him out and returned to his papers,
adding his signature to the first report. When the door closed, he
stopped and looked up again, watching through the glass as
Rickards crossed the open area.
Finally, he sighed. The situation was beginning to feel hopeless.
***
Outside, Rickards retrieved a few things from his desk and
glanced up to see Dana Gutierrez staring at him.
“I take it he already told you?”
The younger woman nodded and passed him a folder.
“You ready, then?”
“Yes,” Dana said, promptly rising from the desk and slinging a
pack over her shoulder.
It took the agents over an hour—in complete silence—to reach
the site through Denver’s morning traffic. The crash site was a field
just beyond a new housing development where they spotted several
patrol cars positioned between the wreckage and nearby school. The
blackened pile still smoldered slightly, leaving a thin trail of smoke
ascending like a black snake, twisting upward before finally
dispersing into the frigid mountain breeze overhead.
Exiting the car, the two immediately detected the all-too-familiar
odor–a combination of fuel, charred metal and burnt bodies. It was
a sickly stench no investigator ever got used to, no matter how long
at the job.
Together, they plodded through foot-high snow until reaching the
first pieces on the ground. There they were met by an approaching
deputy sheriff.
“You guys NTSB?”
Rickards nodded and presented his badge, as did Gutierrez. Their
gazes scanned the pieces scattered around the bulk of the mangled
wreckage.
“What do you have so far?”
The deputy turned and looked at the wreckage with them as he
spoke, his breath visible in the morning air. “Still piecing things
together, but we think it happened early this morning. Maybe two or
three o’clock. Nobody heard the impact, but everyone noticed it on
their way to work. We’re checking Flight Service to see if anyone
filed a flight plan.”
Rickards frowned. “In the middle of the night?”
“Maybe they were passing through from somewhere else.”
He looked up at a sky of muted gray clouds. “Not through this
weather. Unless they were stupid.”
Dana stepped forward. “We can take care of that. What else do
you have?”
The deputy motioned forward and continued walking. “Only got a
partial of the serial number, but it should be enough. We’re running
it right now. Four-seater and two bodies. Both completely burned.
Probably going to take some forensics.”
“Which means a lot of fuel.”
“So probably took off from somewhere close,” Dana finished.
“Likely traveling south.” She looked at Rickards. “Only a few major
destinations between us and New Mexico.”
“We’ll check those, too.”
The three reached the main pile of burnt aircraft, where two more
deputies were examining pieces, careful not to accidentally touch or
move anything.
“We’re not sure what kind of aircraft—”
“It’s a Cessna 182. Turbo,” Rickards said. “Max range with two
people in this weather, a thousand miles, give or take. Baggage?”
The deputy nodded. “Over there.”
A chime sounded, and one of the other deputies several yards
away pulled out his phone. “Looks like we have an ID on the plane.
And the pilot.” He looked at his superior. “It is a 182.”
He stepped over a few pieces on the ground and approached,
handing his phone to the senior deputy. He, along with Rickards and
Gutierrez, squinted to see the tiny screen in the daylight.
After a moment of reading, Rickards and Gutierrez glanced at
each other in surprise.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
3
They all turned when the sound of a distant vehicle rumbled to a
stop behind them, a nondescript white Dodge van. A man and
woman climbed out on either side. Both dressed in dark blue
uniforms and moved back to open the vehicle’s rear doors.
“Coroner.”
Rickards reached for the phone in the deputy’s hand and read the
message again, more carefully this time. He then passed it to Dana,
who read while Rickards wrote some things down on a palm-sized
notepad.
“Pilot’s name was Jim Huston,” Gutierrez said. She peered closer
at the screen. “Says the guy was eighty-six years old. What the hell
is an eighty-six-year-old doing flying a plane?”
Rickards shook his head, watching the technicians approach
toting a heavy duffel bag. “Don’t know. But something tells me he
hasn’t flown in a long time.”
***
Contrary to large commercial crashes requiring a major
investigation with multiple teams, small private aircraft accidents
required only a “limited” investigation, along with a limited amount
of data collection and analysis, until a reasonable conclusion was
formed–unless something unusual stood out to the investigators.
In the case of the Cessna 182, rough weather and poor judgment
were both likely culprits. Why someone would take a plane out in
the middle of the night like that made no sense. It indicated both
people on board were exercising not only poor, but possibly
compromised, judgment. It was not a huge leap for Rickards, given
that the pilot was just a few years shy of ninety, which left him
wondering if some forms of medication may have been involved.
He watched Gutierrez circle the smoldering wreckage, recording a
detailed video on her phone, before he turned back to take several
more pictures of the remaining fuselage. Large sections of its thin,
white-painted aluminum skin were torn and ripped from beneath the
frame.
The coroner’s technicians had already extracted and bagged the
remains, leaving him and Gutierrez to finish some documentation
before the NTSB cleanup crew arrived.
If Rickards had to guess, rime ice, a form of ice created by
supercooled vapor or droplets quickly freezing on hard surfaces, had
played a part in what had gone wrong. An occurrence not entirely
common, but deadly for small and medium-sized aircraft in unusually
cold conditions. Most pilots were aware of the risks and avoided
situations prone to creating it, making this particular crash even
more puzzling.
Rickards scanned for more pieces and spotted a dark blue duffel
bag crumpled on the ground, ripped and soaked from the moist
snow beneath it. He walked over to it and took a picture before
unzipping the pack and pulling out several pieces of clothing,
followed by a bundle of documents, a vinyl case of personal items, a
smaller black case containing bottles of pills and several books.
Finally, to Rickards’ surprise, he removed a thick stack of cash, which
fell out when he unfolded the documents.
He was examining the bills when Gutierrez approached behind
him.
“Smugglers?”
Rickards looked around and shook his head. “Not unless we find a
hell of a lot more.”
“How much is there?”
He flipped through several hundreds and fifties. “I don’t know.
Maybe ten grand.”
“Maybe on their way to buy something?”
“Like what?”
Gutierrez shrugged. “I don’t know. A car? Lot of these old guys
like to pay for things in cash.”
“Maybe.” Rickards shrugged, then stood up and examined the
rest of the papers. Without looking up, he handed something to her.
“What’s this?” Gutierrez asked, flipping the small item over to
reveal the front cover of a passport.
“It’s our passenger.”
4
Formerly known as the Tri-County Airport, the newly designated
Erie Municipal Airport was north of Denver and situated less than
forty miles from the crash site.
Rickards and Gutierrez arrived to find it home to dozens of small
private airplanes, all carefully covered and winterized to protect
them from the elements. The airport itself was little more than a
cluster of individual buildings and hangars. A single fuel tank and
pump sat nearby, covered in a thin white layer of snow.
According to the sign, it was closed during the peak winter
months, and both agents had to squeeze through an opening near
the gate–a feat easier for Gutierrez than Rickards.
Once through, Gutierrez answered her phone as they plodded
forward toward the airport’s small administration building.
After a short exchange, she ended the call. “The guy who runs
this place is evidently out of town.”
“For how long?”
“Till March.”
Rickards rolled his eyes and continued forward, reaching the
structure to find the door and windows covered from the inside.
Outside the building, next to the entrance, hung a glass cabinet,
enclosing a cork board covered with dozens of flyers and
notifications.
Together, they turned and looked out at the tiny runway.
“No tracks.”
“Covered up by now. When did the snow start falling last night?”
“After midnight, I think.”
Rickards nodded. “Which means they probably took off before
that. And still in the dark. Otherwise, the crash would have
happened early enough for people to see it.”
“So, they take off in the freezing cold and in the middle of the
night?”
After a few minutes, Rickards sighed and stepped out from
beneath the building’s overhang. Snow crunching with each step, he
walked out several feet and did a full 360-degree scan, his glance
stopping again on the administration building.
Then something caught his eye.
An old, dull yellow light illuminated the wall just below the roof’s
ledge. And below that, a large round dial with big numbers. An
outdoor thermometer, its red arm pointing at forty-four degrees
Fahrenheit.
Rickards studied it curiously before withdrawing his phone from
his coat pocket. He scrolled past several icons and tapped the
weather app.
He stared at his phone for several seconds, then looked back up
at the wall. He gave a sidelong glance at Gutierrez and walked
forward again. Stopping under the light, he reached up and tapped
the plastic face of the thermometer. When nothing happened, he hit
it again, harder. This time the pointer suddenly jumped from forty
four to twenty-three degrees.
“Oh Christ.”
5
“Looks like Jim Huston has no next of kin. Didn’t have any
children and wife died a few years ago,” Gutierrez said, reading from
her phone. Both agents were back in the warm car with the engine
running. The younger read while Rickards stared ahead, watching
fresh snowflakes dot the windshield.
“Says he was a pilot in Korea, then a commercial pilot here in
Boulder until being forced to retire. After that, he was a part-time
flight instructor around here for the last twelve years. Lived in
Arvada with his wife, who retired as a schoolteacher.”
“What about the passenger?”
“Gerald Reed. Ninety-one years old. Last known residence is a
nursing home over in Wheat Ridge. Also a Korean War vet. And also
a widower. Lived and worked in or around Denver his whole life.
Looks as if he lost his wife several years back. Katherine Reed.”
“What was the pilot’s instrument currency?”
Gutierrez scrolled with her finger. “Last flight was eight years ago.
Not current at all.” She turned to her left. “So, what do you think?”
It took Rickards a minute to respond. “I think…we have a couple
old geezers taking a trip under conditions the pilot thought were
better than they were.”
“Why would an eighty-six-year-old man still have a plane?”
“Because he was a pilot his whole life. And their plane is the last
thing they give up.”
“Even if he’s too old to fly it?”
Rickards shrugged. “Could have been renting it to the school as a
trainer.”
“Okay,” she said, following Rickards’ gaze out the front window.
“So how far do you want to take this? It’s obviously a case of
negligence. How deep do you want to dig before writing it up? I’ve
got other cases waiting.” The young woman’s voice trailed off with
her last sentence, forgetting she had other cases, but Rickards
didn’t.
If it bothered Rickards, it didn’t show. Instead, he continued
quietly staring out the window.
After a few minutes of waiting, Gutierrez raised her hands.
“Hello?”
Rickards was still going over the facts in his mind. There were
only two reasons he could think of why two old men would have
done what they did. The first was simple stupidity. The second was
desperation.
6
To Rickards, the entrance looked more like a small hotel than a
nursing home. With a large circular driveway snaking under four
giant gray pillars, the name overhead engraved in dark lettering was
all that gave the building away.
Until they walked in.
When the double glass doors slid open, Rickards and Gutierrez
were hit by a wave of warm air mixed with the distinct smell
common in many nursing homes–a stench most identified as urine,
but that was, in fact, something known as nonenal, a smell related
to a chemical change in body odor in elderly humans. The clinical
explanation in no way helped allay Rickards’ distaste for the smell,
and only partially distracted him from the short African American
woman who quickly rose to her feet upon seeing them enter.
Dressed in a charcoal pantsuit and white blouse, the woman
straightened her clothes and exited the glass office with a forlorn
expression. “Are you the investigators?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Gutierrez answered. She closed the distance and
shook the woman’s hand before turning to Rickards. “This is my
colleague Joe Rickards.”
The woman nodded and shook again, clearly troubled. “The
sheriff’s deputies just left. I can’t begin to tell you how upset we are
to hear about Gerald. What a horrible tragedy.”
“We couldn’t agree more,” replied Gutierrez.
The woman shook her head. “We were afraid something might
have happened.”
“What do you mean?”
“Gerald’s been missing since last night. We filed a police report
early this morning when we discovered he was gone. But we never
dreamed…” She put a hand to her mouth. “We just never could have
imagined…”
“I know.” Dana Gutierrez laid a reassuring hand on the woman’s
shoulder. “It’s a shock.” She looked at her badge. “Ms. Cannon, is
it?”
“You can call me Kelly. I’m the assistant director. Ms. Macdonald is
not here.”
“We’re sorry to bother you. We’re just trying to get some answers
as to what happened here.” Gutierrez glanced back at Rickards, who
was scanning the lobby. Well lit, it was filled with several brightly
colored chairs, and tastefully painted pictures on the wall.
“How well did you know Mr. Reed?”
“Very well,” Kelly answered. “He’s been here for almost twenty
years. One of our older residents. And very active. Everyone knew
him.”
“How did he disappear? Don’t homes like yours always lock their
doors at night?”
“He was a low-risk resident.”
“Low risk?”
Kelly took a deep breath. “We have a number of elderly patients
who try to escape. But he wasn’t one of them.”
Rickards turned around. “Escape?”
She nodded. “Not in the sense of what you might consider an
escape.”
“Escape to me means trying to get out of a place where you don’t
want to be.”
“Of course. Forgive me. Escape was not the right word,” she said
apologetically. “You have to understand that many of our residents
suffer from mental…challenges. Things like Alzheimer’s or memory
related diseases, while others might struggle with accurate recall or
mental anxiety. So, it’s not uncommon that some patients feel a
sense of anxiety or confusion and experience symptoms of panic.
Sometimes it’s because they haven’t taken their medication, other
times it’s just part of…the disease itself. That’s why we have the bus
stop outside now.”
Gutierrez smiled and began to ask another question when she
abruptly stopped. “Wait, what?”
Kelly Cannon looked back and forth between them. “Pardon?”
“You said something about a bus stop.”
“Oh, yes. Outside. In front.”
“What does a bus stop have to do with Alzheimer’s?” Gutierrez
asked.
This time the woman grinned. “Sorry. It’s new. Most people don’t
know about it yet. It’s a type of safety measure.”
Rickards raised an eyebrow. “A safe bus?”
“It’s not a real bus stop.”
This time Rickards stepped back and looked out through the
double doors, spotting the small sign. He pointed to it. “That one?”
“Yes,” she said, smiling. “Nothing actually ever stops there.”
“Buses don’t stop here?”
“No.”
The agents looked at each other. “Why would you put in a bus
stop if they don’t stop here?”
Kelly walked forward and looked outside with them. “It’s to keep
the patients here. All nursing homes have the same problem.
Patients who become disoriented and frightened and try to flee. But
they don’t know where they’re going. It’s more of an emotional
trigger, still connected to old memories of having a home. We used
to have to call the police once or twice a week to help find them.
Often, they’d be found aimlessly wandering miles away. But since we
put the bus stop in, we haven’t had to call them once.”
“Why?”
“Because what the patients are usually experiencing is fear, and
short-term memory is often the part most affected with age. But
long-term memories are still intact. And many have memory
association of waiting for a bus and going home. So now if someone
manages to get out, that’s where we find them. Waiting for a bus.
Then one of us goes out and sits with them long enough for the
anxiety to pass and then coax them back inside.”
Neither agent spoke. They simply stared at her, fascinated.
“It’s a gentler and far less frightening way to bring them back
than in a patrol car.”
“Who…in the world thought of that?”
“It started in Germany several years ago. Now a lot of homes are
starting to do it. What can I say? It works.”
Rickards shrugged at Gutierrez. “Wow.”
The assistant director’s smile faded, replaced again by her frown.
“But Gerald didn’t have that problem. His mind was as sharp as a
tack. No mental health issues at all.”
“So he didn’t just wander out?”
“No,” she said. “He snuck out.”
Rickards stepped forward, stopping next to Gutierrez. “Snuck
out?”
“Yes. When no one was looking.”
“How?”
“Through his room’s window.”
“He climbed through his window?”
“Yes.”
“What time was that?”
“We’re not sure,” Kelly answered. “But we found his room empty
and window unlocked in the morning. After a complete search of the
grounds, we called the police.”
“And you didn’t know where he was until…”
“Until the deputies showed up to tell us about the crash.”
Rickards glanced over Kelly’s shoulder. “Anyone else working
today?”
“Yes. My staff is out double-checking the grounds. Including all
the windows.”
“Ms. Cannon,” Rickards asked, “do you have any idea why Mr.
Reed—Gerald—would do that?”
“I have no idea. No one does. He seemed fine. Happy. Especially
lately.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that lately, he seemed quite chipper. Almost jubilant.”
Gutierrez glanced at Rickards. “Jubilant? About what?”
“I don’t know. I assumed it was because of the letter.”
“Letter?”
“The letter he got a couple weeks ago. We assumed it was just
some old letter from a distant relative. Lost in transit for a long time,
but they finally tracked Gerald down. They had a man from the post
office deliver it personally. I think it was a fun PR thing for them to
do.”
Rickards’ expression didn’t change. “Who was the letter from?”
“I don’t know who it was from or what it said. He wouldn’t tell
anyone. But it was clear he was very moved. Most of us figured it
was a letter from an old friend. Perhaps one who had since passed
away. Maybe an old girlfriend? I really don’t know.”
Rickards stared at the woman, then reached into his coat and
pulled out an oversized plastic baggie. He opened it and reached in
to retrieve the documents he’d recovered from the crash site. He
unfolded them and searched through one at a time. Then shrugged
at Gutierrez.
No letter.
“Ms. Cannon, is there anyone he would have told about the
letter? Or shown it to? Friends or maybe family?”
“I don’t know. I’d have to check. He was very good friends with
Mr. Draper, but unfortunately, we lost him a couple months ago.”
“What about next of kin?”
She nodded and walked back around the long desk, stopping at a
keyboard and monitor. “He has a granddaughter in the area who we
were just about to contact. Would you like me to call her?”
Rickards glanced at Gutierrez. “How about an address?”
7
“Anthropologists may differ in many subfields, but one commonly
held belief is called…” The professor turned and looked back at her
students. “Anyone?”
When no one answered, she turned back around to write on a
giant blackboard. “Human Universalism! The belief that all people
today are fully and equally human. This posits that people from all
societies of the world are inherently equal, and that all cultures have
value.”
The professor turned again and smiled at her class. “No matter
how much you might personally disagree. And no matter what you
may think politically.”
The class laughed.
“What I’m talking about is the belief that every human has the
same physiology, dexterity, brain size and capacity for complex
thought as anyone else. Which makes anthropology truly fascinating.
“Because,” she said, pacing back and forth in front of her lectern,
“if all anthropologists can agree on that, the true question then
becomes: What then makes us all so different?
“But agreeing on that is something easier said than done. After
all, not even some of history’s greatest scientific minds could accept
that premise. Even Charles Darwin, the father of evolution, a
naturalist and biologist and arguably one of the most open minds of
his century, could not accept the idea that all humans were equally
capable.”
One student raised his hand. “Well, but isn’t he right to an
extent? I mean, indigenous people all over the world are still living in
huts. Or riding animals instead of driving.” He smiled humorously
and held up his phone. “And they don’t use these.”
Behind him, the class laughed.
Their female professor revealed an attractive smile and stared at
him but said nothing. Instead, she allowed the laughter to fade and
moved back to the lectern, where her computer was resting. She
typed briefly on the keyboard and a picture suddenly appeared on
the giant screen above her. A young, native African woman, with her
dark head wrapped in a bright headdress, was sitting on a log, her
feet bare. In her hand was a small phone with tiny wires running up
to each of her ears.
The classroom fell silent and the professor shrugged. “She seems
to be doing all right with one.”
The student grinned back.
“There’s a difference between inventing a tool and using a tool.
We can all learn. Can’t we?” She stepped forward with a piece of
chalk still in her hand. “Are there people who are smarter than
others? Of course. But on average, when adjusted for certain
cultural biases, there is no indication that one society is significantly
smarter than the others. In other words, we all have similar
cognitive abilities, even if we don’t all have the same means to apply
them.”
The professor’s steady green eyes traveled across the faces of her
students before stopping on two faces she did not recognize. They
sat in the top row near the door. One was older than the other, and
clearly neither was part of her class, but they remained listening
intently.
She continued. “So, if we can accept that as a species we are
equally capable, then anthropology, at its core, is the attempt to
understand how we grew to be so different.” She glanced at her
watch. “Which is what we will be discussing next week.” She
returned her chalk to the blackboard. “You have your assignments.
Ember, Ember and Peregrine. Read and be ready to discuss.”
There was a rumble through the large room as dozens of laptop
screens were closed at once and chairs slid back. Students began
talking and standing up, dropping their belongings into backpacks.
At the front, the professor walked back to her own computer and
killed the display overhead. She closed several programs before
carrying her laptop to the table and setting it back down, noting the
two she’d spotted above making their way down the carpeted steps
past the students.
When they reached the bottom, they climbed three steps onto
the raised floor. “Dr. Reed?”
The professor, in her early thirties with shoulder-length, dirty
blonde hair, smiled. “The good news is you’ve only missed two
classes.”
Gutierrez’s face became serious. “Uh, we’re not students.”
“Really?”
She relaxed and smiled when she sensed the professor’s humor.
“What can I do for you two?”
“Doctor, my name is Dana Gutierrez, and this is Joe Rickards.
We’re from the National Transportation Safety Board.”
The woman paused and looked up. “That’s a first. Don’t think I’ve
had one of you in here before.” She opened her leather bag and slid
in her computer. “Call me Angela. You two looking for help with an
investigation?”
“You could say that,” said Rickards.
She glanced at him, noting his lightly colored flannel shirt and tie.
A little casual compared to the government employees she’d seen.
“What kind of help are you looking for?”
“Doctor,” Gutierrez said and corrected herself. “Sorry, Angela. I
presume we’re the first to come talk to you today.”
“Yes,” she replied. “Why?”
The younger agent took a deep breath. “It’s… about your
grandfather.”
Angela Reed froze. “What?”
Dana Gutierrez gave a slight wince. “I think you’d better sit
down.”
8
Angela Reed’s face lost all color. She stared at both agents, her
expression suddenly nervous.
“Did something happen?”
Gutierrez nodded solemnly. “I’m afraid so.”
“Is…is he…”
Gutierrez shook her head.
Angela brought both hands to her mouth. “Oh no.”
“I’m sorry,” she offered, with Rickards standing quietly behind her.
Tears immediately welled. The woman closed her eyes in a vain
attempt to hold them back but couldn’t. Instead, streams streaked
down each cheek. “Oh my God. I can’t—” Her mouth trembled and
she stopped.
“I’m truly sorry,” Gutierrez said again, glancing at the older agent.
“We’re both very sorry.” Rickards nodded in agreement.
“It’s not that,” Angela said, half stuttering. “I just…I haven’t…”
She closed her eyes and squinted hard, forcing more tears to stream
down her face. “Damn it.”
For a full minute, she stared straight ahead, blinking, until finally
composing herself and peering back up. “I…haven’t…seen him in a
while. We…” She inhaled. “I just haven’t been to the home lately and
—” After stopping in mid-sentence, she struggled, then looked at
both of them with an odd expression.
“Where did you say you were from?”
“The NTSB.”
Angela’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you notifying me?”
It was a good question. Astute. Even overcome by grief. This kind
of notification normally came in the form of a call from the nursing
home. Or a visit from a police officer. Not agents from the National
Transportation Safety Board.
She wiped her eyes with both hands and blinked. “What
happened?”
“We’re afraid your grandfather was in an accident.”
“An accident?”
“An airplane accident.”
Angela’s expression turned to shock. “What?!”
Gutierrez nodded. “A small private aircraft.”
“That’s impossible.” A quick glimpse of hope returned to her face.
“You must have the wrong person.”
“Why is that?”
“Because my grandfather hated to fly. And there’s no way he
would get into a small plane!”
Dana Gutierrez glanced at Rickards, who was listening quietly.
“I’m afraid it is him. I’m truly sorry.”
“No.” Angela Reed shook her head defiantly. “In a small plane
crash? Not possible.”
Rickards quietly handed the plastic bag of papers to Gutierrez,
who then passed them to Angela. “We found some of his things.”
She opened the documents and read, then shook her head again.
“These are just travel documents. There could be other reasons why
—”
Next came the passport.
Angela Reed halted again, examining the small book.
“There was more,” Rickards said. “Including several bottles of
medication, which we traced back to his doctors. Then his dentist.
And from there, a copy of his dental records. The coroner just
confirmed his identity.”
The pain returned to Angela’s face, along with another wave of
tears. She continued shaking her head, not wanting to believe it.
“But…what on earth was he doing in an airplane?”
“Actually, we were hoping you could tell us.”
It was a rhetorical statement. There was clearly no way the
woman knew why her grandfather was aboard that Cessna.
“Do you know a Jim Huston?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Wait. Don’t tell me he was the pilot!”
“As a matter of fact…”
“This is impossible. I don’t think he’s flown in years.”
“Yes, we know.”
“Why would they both…?” She blinked incredulously. “It doesn’t
make any sense.”
Gutierrez nodded sympathetically. “If it helps, that’s more or less
what we were thinking.”
She stared at both agents. “What…exactly happened?”
“It was a small crash,” Rickards said. “Just outside of Denver. Late
last night.”
“Last night?”
“Yes.”
Angela Reed rolled her eyes. “At night, with Uncle Jim, in a small
plane. That’s just impossible. He wouldn’t have done any of those.
Let alone all three.”
“You’re sure about that.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” she said. “I think I know my own grandfather.
The man raised me!”
“Is there anyone else in the family we should notify?”
“No. It was just me. And my grandmother, but she died several
years ago.”
“Were you close to your grandfather, Ms. Reed?”
Angela’s gaze looked painfully at Gutierrez. “I used to be. But we
haven’t talked much lately.”
“Why is that?”
“We had a falling out.”
“Over…”
She shook her head. “It’s a long story.”
“When was the last time you talked to him?” asked Rickards.
“A little less than two years, probably.”
“Any idea at all why he would try to fly somewhere in the middle
of the night in bad weather?”
She scoffed. “I’m telling you he wouldn’t have climbed into a
small plane in the middle of the afternoon in perfect weather. He
was scared to death of those things.”
Rickards frowned. Things were making less and less sense. “Dr.
Reed, do you know anything about a letter your grandfather
received recently?”
“What kind of letter?”
“The assistant director at the home, a Ms. Cannon, said your
grandfather received a letter a couple weeks ago–one that appears
to have excited him.”
“What does excited mean?”
“We don’t know. But Ms. Cannon said there was a noticeable
change in his mood.”
Angela shook her head. “What did the letter say?”
“We don’t know. Apparently, no one does. He didn’t share its
contents with anyone.”
Angela folded her arms. “No one at all?”
“We couldn’t find anyone who knew anything.”
Reed’s face seemed to harden slightly. She remained quiet, her
lips pursed, until she finally looked around the empty classroom.
“Did he…suffer?”
“No.”
“But they knew they were going to crash. At some point.”
Gutierrez shrugged. “It’s hard to tell. Often in bad weather, things
happen very quickly.”
Angela nodded.
The younger agent frowned and turned to find Rickards quiet
again. Motionless and stoic, as if studying Reed.
9
Rickards’ stoic expression was very similar to that of his boss,
Kevin Wilkinsen, now peering at the phone on his desk in a muted
stare. But there was no disdain in his eyes. None at all. Wilkinsen
had nothing but respect for the woman on the other end. His
reaction was to the message, not the messenger.
“He won’t talk.” The woman’s voice sounded through the speaker.
“At all?”
“He talks, yes. But not seriously. He’s still holding it in.”
“So, where does that leave us?”
“Nowhere good, I’m afraid. Some people are easier than others.
Some just want to get it out. But others, usually men, keep things
inside. Bottled up. Until…”
“Until what?”
“Until what he’s holding in finally forces its way out. Into real,
tangible problems. Manifesting in ways that may become not just his
problems, but your problems.”
Wilkinsen stared at the phone for a long moment. “So you’re
recommending what, then? Suspension?”
“What I really need is for him to open up. But you can’t force
that. You wouldn’t want to even if you could. But, either way, the
man is going to crack. They all do, eventually.”
“Well, I’m not going to fire him. The guy’s been through hell.”
“Yes. Almost literally.”
“Then what do I do?”
The psychiatrist on the other end of the phone pursed her lips,
contemplating. “One thing that’s clear is that he’s holding on to one
of the few crutches he has left, which is his job. It’s a common
reaction for people under this kind of stress. Focusing on something
else to avoid the pain. Rickards is no different. If anything, he’s
worse. And taking that crutch away could result in unpredictable
behavior.”
“Wonderful.” Wilkinsen frowned and turned to peer out his office
window. His gaze returned with a tired sigh. “Are you saying this
could turn violent?”
“That’s a question I would ask you. You’ve known him longer.”
Wilkinsen considered the question, and after a long silence, shook
his head. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.”
“He’s going to have to face it sooner or later,” the woman on the
phone said. “Allowing him to keep this crutch will only prolong
things.”
“But putting him on leave and removing that crutch could be just
as bad. Isn’t that true?”
“Possibly, yes.”
“So, I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.”
“Unless you think there’s a possibility of violence. Then I have a
legal mandate.”
“A leave of absence.”
“Yes, for starters.”
“But you don’t think he’s violent.”
“I haven’t spent enough time with him yet,” the doctor replied.
Wilkinsen shook his head. “So, according to the law, you’d have
to put him on leave to protect him, even though it could be the very
thing that sets him off.”
“It wouldn’t be to protect him,” she said. “It’s to protect everyone
else.”
10
Gutierrez peered at Rickards and spoke softly.
“What do you think?”
“About what?”
The younger agent raised her hands to her hips. “I feel bad for
the woman, but let’s be honest, this is getting beyond the scope of
our investigation. Regardless of what motivated these old men to get
in that plane, we have more than enough for the report. Pilot
negligence and unsafe weather conditions. Pretty cut and dry.”
Rickards glanced at Angela Reed, who was still sitting at the
table, emotionally dazed.
“Maybe that letter made the old man do something desperate,”
Gutierrez said. “Tried to visit a dying friend or family member. I don’t
know. But I don’t think it’s going to change the cause of the crash.
Besides,” she said, glancing at her phone, “Wilkinsen says he wants
us back.”
The younger agent glanced sympathetically at Angela and
continued in a hushed tone. “If you want to look into this more, be
my guest. I’ll tell him you’re wrapping up some loose ends. But it
sounds like we have most of what we need.”
***
After apologizing and excusing herself, Gutierrez left Rickards
quietly standing in front of Angela Reed, shifting uncomfortably.
The professor watched him for several minutes, wondering what
had happened. The man was clearly capable. Intelligent. But
something about him seemed off. Was he one of those quirky
detective types who were uncomfortable around other people? No,
his stance and demeanor appeared normal. Perhaps just irritated, or
something else.
“Your grandfather was headed south. Did he have any friends or
family downstate he may have needed to see?”
“Not anyone I can think of,” she said in a slow, bereaved tone.
“Most of his longtime friends were already gone. Jim–Mr. Huston-
was one of the last.”
“How well did they know each other?”
“Very well. Since the Korean War.”
Rickards thought a minute and was about to reply when he
suddenly stopped and looked back at the exit doors, frowning to
himself.
“Something wrong?” When he didn’t answer, Angela managed a
polite grin. “Was she your ride?”
“Actually…yes.”
“Didn’t that come up when you two were over there talking?”
“We don’t normally drive together.”
“How long have you been doing this for?”
Rickards frowned sarcastically.
Angela Reed sighed and stood up. “I can give you a ride. I need
to go to the nursing home anyway.”
“I’d like to accompany you, if that’s all right?”
“Fine.”
She gathered her things and retrieved keys from her purse to lock
the giant classroom, which was now eerily quiet.
***
The end-of-day traffic was already building, slowing cars on the
I25 freeway to a near crawl, made even worse by the road’s icy
conditions.
From the passenger seat of the red Subaru, Rickards could make
out several of Denver’s two hundred renowned city parks in sight of
the freeway, each covered by a pristine, untouched blanket of new
white snow. Absently, he touched the side window with the back of
his hand to feel the cold glass.
With the radio off and surrounded by dozens of cars inching
alongside, Angela Reed remained quiet, clearly lost in thought. Or
grief. Or both.
Having to face families of victims was one of the worst parts of
Rickards’ job. Completely devastated, always grappling, not just with
the pain, but the emotional shock of not having the opportunity to
say goodbye.
As if it would have made it any better.
“How long have you been at the university?” It was an obligatory
question and one to which he already knew the answer.
“Twelve years.”
“Why anthropology?”
She opened her mouth to respond and thought it over before
simply saying, “It’s complicated.”
Rickards let it go and turned back to the window, watching the
cars outside whose bottom halves were all caked with a thin layer of
dirt and mud.
It didn’t matter. He had long ago lost the desire for small talk.
11
Her grandfather’s room had changed little in the time since
Angela had seen him. He’d shared it with another man, Frank, who
had already lost much of his memory and sadly was one of the
beneficiaries of the nursing home’s fake bus stop out front. He had
gotten worse since she’d seen him last. She fondly remembered how
her grandfather would patiently but constantly repeat himself to
Frank.
Now the old, scrawny man lay silently on his bed, keeping to
himself, lost in what few memories he still had left.
Outside, an occasional resident peeked in to sneak a look,
sometimes stopping to give their regards. Angela only recognized a
few of them.
“Looks like your grandfather loved history,” Rickards remarked,
noting the dozens of old books squeezed into a corner of the room.
Neatly packed like a Tetris game within a cheap bookcase, bulging
slightly at the sides.
“He’d taught at the community college since it was built,” Angela
said, glancing at the bookcase. “I guess I caught the bug from him.”
“You said you grew up with him?”
“Yes.” She returned her attention to some papers on his desk.
After a few moments, she handed Rickards a stack and moved to
a new pile. They were all bills and magazines. The man evidently
read a hell of a lot.
After a full hour, Angela had gone through every stack and every
drawer. Even the tiny dresser and closet housing his clothes. But
there was no sign–not just of the letter, but anything else hinting at
needing to leave. No notes, no messages. No indication at all of
what he had been planning.
Rickards noticed an elderly woman sneaking a brief look in before
disappearing again.
“Did he have belongings anywhere else?”
“They have a small storage area in the basement, but he rarely
used it.”
“Any other ideas?”
She remained quiet, thinking, tapping a card on the desk which
had fallen out of one of the magazines. Slowly a faint smirk
appeared on her face. “Maybe.”
Rickards stood expectantly waiting.
“Of all the people who have come by the room, there is one
person I haven’t seen.” Angela looked up at him. “His girlfriend.”
***
Lillian Porter looked to be in her mid-seventies and was still quite
attractive for her age. With straight dark hair sporting streaks of
gray, her demeanor struck Joe Rickards as almost regal. But what
surprised him most was an almost complete lack of excitement at
seeing Angela.
She was, however, rather polite, inviting them both into her small
room, despite her still red eyes.
“Nice to see you, Angela.”
“Thank you, Lillian. How are you?”
“Not too well, I’m afraid. It’s been a hard day for all of us here.
I’m sure you can imagine.”
“I can.” Angela nodded. “This is Joe Rickards. He works for the
National Transportation Safety Board. He’s investigating my
grandfather’s accident.”
Lillian smiled politely. “Mr. Rickards. I wish I had something to
offer you, but we don’t have much in the way of amenities in these
rooms.”
“That’s quite all right.”
The older woman looked back and forth between them. “Is there
something I can help you with?”
Angela’s grin held more than a trace of sarcasm. “I don’t know.
Perhaps you can tell us why he did it?”
Lillian’s eyes smiled politely, concealing her true reaction. She
then allowed her smile to fade into a frown. “I’m afraid I don’t know.
Gerald didn’t mention anything to me.”
“He didn’t tell you he was going to sneak out in the middle of the
night, into a snowstorm, and fly out of a tiny airport that was
closed?”
Next to her, Rickards remained silent, watching their cool
exchange.
“No,” Lillian replied. “He didn’t.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
The older woman shrugged. “I find it…disheartening.”
“Were you two still courting?” Her grandfather’s term.
“As a matter of fact, we were. And I cared about him. Deeply.”
Angela ignored the insinuation. “And he didn’t tell you he might
never see you again?”
“I’m sure he intended to return.”
The conversation was devolving. “Excuse me, Ms. Porter,”
Rickards interrupted. “Your assistant director, Ms. Cannon, told me
that Gerald appeared different lately. Would you know anything
about that?”
She smiled at him. “He seemed the same to me. I’m sure if
anyone would have noticed, it would have been me.”
“Of course. Ms. Cannon also mentioned something about a letter
he’d recently received.”
The woman thought for a moment and shook her head. “Not that
I’m aware of.”
There was a subtle shift in her expression. So faint that Angela
appeared to miss it. But Rickards didn’t. He had interviewed
thousands of people, more than enough to know when something
was not right. Or when someone was withholding something.
“When did you last see him?”
“Yesterday afternoon. At lunch.”
“I see. Do you think you were the last person to talk to hi