Guidance to Death

CHAPTER 1

1996

January 10

Saturday, 3:00 a.m.

The weather was perfect: heavy clouds down to eight hundred feet, and a driving cold rain. Salvatore Sassavitte had been waiting for this day for over a month. An opportunity like this may not present itself for another month or more. The thing had to be done now. The longer it dragged on, the more likely he was to do something extremely careless.

The tie he was wearing bit into his throat. He loosened it slightly. A dark, ghostly image of himself reflected in the windshield of the van. He had never worn a suit to work before. This was the first time, and he promised himself it would be the last.

He double-checked his tools and stowed them in his black attaché case. He stepped quietly out of his van, slipped on his black wool overcoat, and walked briskly across the executive parking lot toward the secure area with his attaché case in hand.

The guard on the gate, sleepy from a long shift in his overheated guard house, nodded indifferently as Salvatore flashed a company identification card and airport ramp pass. The guard would not remember it. To him, Salvatore was probably just another Washington lawyer. They came and went through this gate at all hours of the day and night, and at three o’clock on a cold January morning, nobody cared.

He walked across the wet, icy ramp to the silent jet, opened the cabin door, lowered the entry stairs, and stepped into its snug, carpeted interior. He would have to work fast. The plane would be departing in a few hours, and the task ahead of him was not an easy one. Mustn’t fumble the precision tools in the dark, cold cockpit, he said to himself. Sal had researched it thoroughly and rehearsed the procedures until he was sure he had accounted for every eventuality. No room for mistakes or complications. He blew into his cupped hands for warmth, then opened the attaché case. He turned on his small flashlight and placed it in his mouth, pointing the shaft of light at the instrument panel, and started working.

After an hour and a half of work, he retightened the last fastener on the integrated guidance system. Then he hurriedly closed the plane up, careful to leave no trace. He then walked back, past another dozing guard and out of the gate. Once he was in his van, he drove to a small public park near the north end of the longest runway.

Sal kept the engine running with the defroster on full heat. He wanted to have a clear view of the runway when the time came. He sat with his feet up against the dash, sipping a blend of coffee and brandy from a thermos. He switched on his portable multi-band radio and tuned it to the airport’s ground control frequency. He tried to fight the urge to sleep, but at some point, his eyelids closed, and he was out.

He was startled awake by the sharp, clear sound of his radio. It was 7:30, and a pilot was calling for a departure clearance under instrument flight rules. It was a voice he recognized. He had listened to that voice a few times at company parties. It was a good voice, belonging to an average guy like himself, a guy who was just trying to make a living doing what he liked best. That’s too bad, Sal muttered to himself, but there’s no other way. Sacrifices have to be made if you want to advance in this world.

The clearance came through loud and clear. Sal picked up his binoculars and scanned the ramp until he saw the jet’s red and green navigation lights moving slowly toward him, rocking on its nose wheel, strobe lights flashing. He watched as the jet moved down the long taxiway to the end of the runway. He could hear the faint whine of the engines as the pilot ran his final cockpit checks. Sal switched to the tower frequency and heard the voice from the tower, Cleared for takeoff.

The jet moved into position on Runway 19 and accelerated down the centerline of the black runway, leaving two swirling trails of dark exhaust behind. He followed the plane as it climbed out of a cloud of hot steam created by the jet blast on the wet runway. He continued to watch as the jet was swallowed up, with surprising quickness, by the black-gray layer of stratus cloud hovering several hundred feet above Reagan National Airport and the city of Washington, DC. He hurriedly switched to the jet’s assigned departure control frequency.

Citation 99 Alpha are you receiving me? the controller’s voice demanded.

Affirmative, answered the pilot, betraying no alarm.

Citation 99 Alpha, radar shows you at seven thousand feet.

Standby, answered the pilot calmly.

Citation 99 Alpha, can you climb and maintain flight level 180?

Standby, answered the pilot, still professionally calm.

A few seconds passed.

Citation 99 Alpha, we’ve lost you on radar. Are you receiving me? Can you read me?

No answer. The controller tried again.

Citation 99 Alpha, are you receiving me? Are you receiving me? If you are receiving me, squawk ident.

Sal switched off the radio, put the van in gear, and drove out of the small park onto a nearly deserted George Washington Parkway. He smiled as he drove home. He and his wife were leaving for the Virgin Islands in a couple of hours, leaving a freezing capital and its crime-infested streets forever.

Kevin Oakes was driving the last leg of his paper route and running slightly later than usual. Several blocks away, he noticed a car parked in front of the Campbell house, his most difficult customer. If Mr. Campbell wasn’t complaining about the price of the paper, he complained about its contents, and he never forgot to remind Kevin of the days he had been late. Mr. Campbell even showed him a calendar where he had marked it all down and had even refused to pay for several copies, claiming that he did not have time to read them until late in the afternoon, after work, when the news was old and useless.

Kevin did not feel like a confrontation this morning. He’d sooner give up the route entirely and find another job where he did not have to deal with people. He saw Mr. Campbell leave his house, carrying what appeared to be hunting gear, and walk toward his pickup truck. He would wait until Mr. Campbell drove away before going on.

Kevin was reaching over his seat for another paper when he heard the sound: a tearing high-pitched scream racing toward ultrasonic. A moment of unnatural silence followed, then a short final explosion. Something huge crashed through the roof of the Campbell house, raining down a shower of jagged debris.

A car parked across the street from the Campbell house exploded and burst into flames. Then something hit the hood of his car, splattering a bloody fluid over the windshield, and slowly slid over his hood, like a ruptured jellyfish, onto the ground.

His first thought was that Washington had been attacked, possibly by Russians, in a sneak attack like Pearl Harbor. It meant that he wouldn’t have to deliver the rest of his papers. People were running out of their houses toward the burning car. Everyone seemed to be shouting. Someone said that it was an airplane crash. He quickly got out of his car thinking that he would make a run for it but then realized that he would be safer inside the car. He jumped back into the car and, grabbing his cell phone, and hurriedly dialed 911.

CHAPTER 2

February 10

Saturday, 8:00 a.m.

It was one of those Saturday mornings that Frank Adams preferred to stay in bed longer than usual. The thermometer outside his window was dead on freezing, and rain fell in gray waves, coating everything, including the thermometer, in a thick icy glaze. The phone rang. He rolled over, thinking he wouldn’t answer. It would stop ringing after a while. It did. Then the phone rang once more. He threw the covers off him, wrapped a blanket over his shoulders, walked over to the thermostat, and slowly turned it up to a comfortable seventy degrees. The phone was still ringing. He picked up the handset and considered letting it drop back down.

Uh, Mr. Adams? Is this Mr. Frank Adams? The voice was female and had a note of desperation in it.

Yes.

I’m sorry to call you like this, she said. I know it’s Saturday morning—

I’m glad to know that you are aware of it, Frank said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice.

I want to employ you, Mr. Adams, and Monday morning might be too late. Can I meet you somewhere?

What sort of employment? And who are you?

I don’t want to discuss it over the phone.

Of course, but it might save us both some time and trouble if you know that I don’t work as a security guard, and I definitely don’t do surveillance work.

I’m aware of your specialties, Mr. Adams. Where can we meet?

My office, in about two hours?

Fine.

The phone went dead on the other end, and Frank Adams, Accident Investigative Consultant, carefully lowered the phone’s handset back into its cradle. Getting consulting work in his specialty had not always been this easy, especially when he first started out in this business. He did a few surveillance jobs back then to pay the rent for his office and apartment. His early retirement from the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) was just enough to keep him going.

He had enjoyed his work at NTSB and really did not want to retire at fifty-five years of age. He had put in thirty good years and was convinced that his work had saved lives.

NTSB was not, strictly speaking, a regulatory agency. Nevertheless, the principal responsibility of NTSB was to determine the probable cause of an aircraft accident and make regulatory recommendations to the FAA based on their findings. Industries subject to regulation learned many decades ago that they could alter the course of regulation through influence and pressure. Elected officials always needed money and friends. Industry officials often courted or befriended government employees who were sympathetic to industry.

Regulated industry also realized that it was much more efficient, less visible to the public, and cheaper to prevent or change proposed regulation before it got to the regulatory agency.

Frank had tolerated this regulator capture for years. However, on the last accident he worked on, his safety recommendations were again declined as not beneficial to public safety and cost prohibitive to the airline.

That was it for Frank. He put in for early retirement and as soon as the paperwork cleared and he had obtained the proper licensing, he opened an office as a private accident investigator.

Accident investigation work did not come easily, and the bills had to be paid so, he found work as a security guard for a couple of weeks in a department store until he saw an elderly woman of faded grandeur clumsily shoplifting lacy underwear. He went immediately to the staff locker room, tore off his oversized rent a cop suit, got back into his comfortable corduroy jacket, and left.

After that he found other unpleasant jobs to make ends meet. However, in the last few months, his business had improved. In addition to the recently acquired mortgage on his District apartment building, he could now afford his small office on K Street NW, and a part-time secretary. He was still driving a ten-year-old Chevy, though.

When the seemingly polar air in his apartment gradually reached the temperature underneath his blanket, he emerged from his cocoon. He took a quick shower, slipped on his bath robe, and wiped the condensation off the medicine cabinet mirror. Since his two-day stubble was wet and soft from the shower, he decided not to use shaving cream. He had never liked the messy, troublesome soap from the beginning of his adolescence. He took out his razor and for a moment did something that he had not done in twenty years: he looked carefully at his face in the mirror. His dark hair was showing sprinkles of grey. His hazel eyes, though still clear, were accented by small crow’s feet at the corners. His previously small nose looked slightly larger, and small, red veins were beginning to show in his cheeks. He remembered his doctor warning him about this if he continued to drink whiskey at his current rate.

After shaving he dressed, put on a tie and jacket along with polished dress shoes, and decided, if time permitted, he would grab breakfast in the lobby coffee shop of his office building before meeting his prospective client.

There wasn’t time. The battery in his Chevrolet had died peacefully during the night. After calling for a tow, he skipped and slipped on untreated patches of ice to the nearest subway station. The train was fifteen minutes late and smelled of overheated electrical equipment when it arrived. The car was empty except for a few stone-faced passengers who were unhappily on their way to Saturday jobs.

Walking the three blocks to his office was a glacial nightmare. Despite the occasional scatterings of sand and salt crystals, each step had to be carefully planned. Everything and everyone seemed to be moving at half speed, except for the motorized traffic roaring along as usual, heedless of the slick, black ice, dodging other vehicles and pedestrians with reckless agility.

A woman was waiting outside his office door. She was tall, in her early forties, and tastefully dressed. Frank detected the aroma of old money in her understated elegance.

Mr. Adams?

Yes.

The woman smiled hesitantly. Frank inserted his key card. Metal clicked and buzzers buzzed. He opened the door and motioned for her to go in.

The office was as cold as his apartment. His office was a rather simple affair. It had a carpeted reception area, a small conference room, and an even smaller private office. The expensive mahogany and leather furniture belied his tight budget. He’d picked it all up second hand from an attorney who was selling out before going to Club Fed for embezzlement. He turned up the thermostat, took off his coat and sat behind his desk, waving her to a chair in front of him. She drew her camel hair coat tighter around her neck and body.

It should warm up quickly, Frank said weakly. What can I do for you, Miss . . .?

Before I tell you my name, I want to explain the situation. I’m speaking to you in total confidence, Mr. Adams.

Of course, Frank said.

She paused, searching his face with her eyes, then resumed dispassionately as someone describing a familiar story.You remember that airplane accident in Oxon Hill about a month ago?

Yes, I think there were three fatalities in that accident?

Yes. My husband Charles; Mark Asbury, another executive for the company; and the pilot, of course.

I am very sorry to hear it. Frank said. She looked tearful for a moment, and her bottom lip quivered slightly. Then she said, Yes, My husband. . .

Frank waited for the woman to regain her composure.

Yes. They were headed somewhere. Charles said it was for business, but he didn’t say where they were going or what the business was. It was the first time he did that, she said, looking down at her hands. He always told me everything.

It was a company plane? Frank asked.

Yes. She said. Charles was very proud of it.

So, what would you like me to do for you? Frank asked carefully.

I want you to investigate the accident.

Wouldn’t you rather wait for the determination of the National Transportation Safety Board before taking this step?

They won’t find anything. There wasn’t much left of the plane or anyone on board.

You would be amazed at what the NTSB can do, Frank said. But what do you think I can do?

My lawyer said you’re one of the best in your field and that you sometimes work as a consultant for the Safety Board in this type of case.

They haven’t called me on this one.

That’s what I mean. It probably looks like just another general aviation accident to them, but I don’t think that it was. I believe my husband was murdered. I want you to—

Why do you suspect that? Frank interjected.

Mostly intuition based on how he was acting before he left . . . that sort of thing. She looked down at her hands again, wringing them in her lap.

Frank’s second impression of her was that she was educated, wealthy, and able to control her emotions. This is no neurotic nutjob widow, he thought.

Just how was he acting? Frank asked.

Tense, nervous. He would leave, sometimes suddenly, and wouldn’t return for hours. In one sense, it was the way he usually acted when there was something important on his mind. But this was different. She fidgeted with her small handbag. You know, she said, looking up at Frank, I think I will have a cup of coffee, if you don’t mind.

Sure, Frank said. He got up from his desk and walked over to a small rectangular table where a large metal coffee pot was set up and ready to serve. He poured a large cup of coffee into a mug. Cream and sugar? he asked.

She shook her head. Just black, please.

Frank handed her the cup of steaming hot coffee. She slowly took a couple of sips and closed her eyes. God! That’s good! she said. Anyway, before my husband’s death, he seemed secretive and edgy. There were several phone calls that he took behind closed doors, but I could hear the strain in his voice. And when I asked him about it, he just ignored me.

How would you characterize your marriage? Mrs. . . . ?

The woman shrugged. I might as well tell you. My name is Helen Rawlson and my husband is, or was, Charles Rawlson. He was CEO at Amertex electronics. The company designs, tests and manufactures electronic flight instruments—something they call integrated guidance systems and avionics—that sort of thing. It’s highly competitive and cutting-edge stuff as they say.

It’s my father’s company, and— Her voice grew stronger. If you’re trying to ask me if my husband was having an affair, the answer is no. There was a twinge of alarm in her voice. Oh, he did have an occasional flirtation, but it never amounted to anything. Men like my husband often have women throwing themselves at them. But he was loyal, considerate, and wouldn’t deliberately do anything to hurt anyone. I know my husband, she firmly asserted—or was it indignantly, Frank wondered.

My specialty is aircraft accident investigation, not murder, Mrs. Rawlson.

"I only want