Con Trails/200 Sky Obscured: ...Someone Robbed Another Bank

By Salvatore A. Joseph

This novel is a "Cops and Robbers" story with a twist of Vietnam mixed in.

Detective First Class Salvatore A. Joseph retired after twenty-five years of police service. He chased armed felons most of his career. He took up flying along the way and worked his way up from co-pilot to captain on several different jets.

Today, he is a captain on two popular business airplanes: the Hawker Siddeley 800-XP Mid-Size Jet and the large cabin Challenger-601-3A series. He knows what he is talking about when it comes to hijackers and jet airplanes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477232682

Salvatore A. Joseph

Detective First Class Salvatore A. Joseph retired after twenty-five years of police service. He chased armed felons-- armed robbers for most of his career. He took up flying along the way and worked his way up from a small plane pilot to co-pilot on a Lear Jet. Eventually, Sal made Captain on several different jets. Today, he is a captain on two popular business airplanes: the Hawker Siddeley 800-XP Mid-Size Jet and the large cabin Challenger-601-3A series. He knows what he is talking about when it comes to hijackers and jet airplanes.

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© 2012 by Salvatore A. Joseph. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Cover Images and photo on pages ix and 354 by Salvatore A. Joseph.

Photo of John F. Kennedy on page 42 by J. Kelley.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/14/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-3269-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-3267-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-3268-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012911477

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

About The Author

Author’s Notes

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction set in the fourth largest city in the United States. The parties, the characters in this novel are fictional. However, there just may be an occasional reference to a real person or place.

The bank robberies, the bank robbers, the Police Detectives, the street cops, and FBI Agents trying to figure out who the bad guys are merely made up . . . or are they?

This book is dedicated to U.S.A.F. Major Morgan J. Donohue and all the other American POWs (Prisoners of War) that were and still are consumed by the jungles of the Vietnam War. He and several other crew members bailed out alive on December 13, 1968 never to be heard from again.

Somewhere along the way—about 1969 the families of the missing soldiers created the POW/MIA bracelet as a way of drawing public attention to the plight of these men . . .

MIA%20bracelet.jpg

. . . a nice new bracelet

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I am very grateful to many people, but mainly my wife, Cactus Jack Jenkins, author of A Season of Reckoning, and not to be left out, my editor, Secret Agent 008, Ronda . . .

There is no hunting like the hunting

of man and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it never care for anything else thereafter.

Ernest Hemingway

This quote, these few words above, are printed on the back of our Detective’s business cards, the very ones handed out to witnesses, complainants, and to the relatives of the criminals who are hunted.

Some who read it simply laugh it off as a novelty. To others, who have been able to get to know our Detective First Class either as a friend or foe, it is a serious statement . . . a very serious statement, a way of life. If you are a bad guy, you can run all you want, but he will find you . . . he likes the hunt and will hunt you down.

PROLOGUE

It is well known by veteran robbery detectives from large metropolitan areas like Houston, Dallas, Chicago, or Los Angeles that many professional bank robbers have or try to keep a full time job. By doing this, the thieves—the bad guys—can accomplish two key things. First they are off the police radar merely because they have a full time occupation. Most Street Cops will not even give them a second look if the guy is busting his ass forty, fifty hours a week, getting his hands dirty, going to work every day.

Everyone around him in his neighborhood believes the employment is the real reason he can afford the new shiny Corvette and fancy water ski boat sitting in his driveway. Simply interview his neighbors and they can offer up the perfect alibi. Yes sir Mr. Officer, I watch him leave and go to work every day. He is a good neighbor and a good worker, blah, blah, blah. Secondly, he only has to pull one or two robberies a year.

For instance, said criminals may be cross country truck drivers or maybe high-end welders making fifty to eighty bucks an hour. However, should times get a little tough, say losing at cards or if they pick up a new designer drug habit, these types of professional hijackers will merely decide to knock over a bank. The target, as a rule is a small out of the way branch bank, but still a bank with only a few, never more than two employees inside.

These bandits are good at what they do—plan it all out incredibly well and figure out all the angles. This type of bank robber sort of views this as an extension of their lot in life . . . their job, their profession. If life deals them a bad hand, they will adjust the rules of the game—the game of life that is.

These villains do a good job of setting up the situation for the heist. They take the time to recon the area, to look things over and pick out the right mark, a small out of the way branch bank with only a few people. Typically women inside will always do. Where are the escape routes? How many ways out of the immediate area exist? Is there a freeway or two nearby, one close enough to offer a high speed escape path?

Furthermore, in today’s high speed internet world, anyone with a computer and a few minutes can obtain legions of information. Nowadays, with only a few strokes of a keyboard you can find out the staffing levels of any area police department. What day and time of day is the local police force significantly reduced? Perhaps on a busy Friday or Saturday night . . . unquestionably staffing is high. This is open public information in today’s high-tech world. Budgets are tight and police departments are under staffed. Therefore, since this data is on the internet for public consumption to anyone, even a bank robber can ascertain in a flash what days are best . . . a weekday is when the least number of officers are on the duty.

Still further, if you break down the staffing numbers, you can deduce the basic fact that the first part of the week, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday mornings across the country, have the fewest number of patrol officers on the streets. If you are actually selective and wait for a rainy cloudy day, you further stack the deal in your favor. With rather crummy weather and low ceilings of less than one thousand feet, you do not have to worry about being chased down by the police helicopters or even those pesky eye witness news choppers. Unless you are the U. S. Coast Guard, most civilian choppers are not equipped and therefore cannot fly with hard IMC—Instrument Metrological Conditions consisting of ceilings of less than one thousand feet and fog.

What is more important is how these types of bank robbers don’t cowboy their way in blasting away with guns. They are discrete, cool, and by and large use nothing more than a simple hand written note to get what they want from the teller. Believe it or not, according to court records, more banks are robbed with a piece of paper, a plain and simple hand written note, rather than with guns.

Another key reason for using only a brief note is in case he gets caught. If he does get caught, said criminal will get a better deal or sentence from the court system since no weapon was ever used or displayed. Just like their clients know, defense attorneys understand how juries always give out harsher sentences if a real weapon is used or displayed.

According to some recent FBI statistics, this type of crook, this kind of part-time bank robber can as a rule hit six to seven times, over several years, before he may get caught. As long as he’s frugal, not too greedy, with a quick in and out in less than two or three minutes and only hits once or twice a year, he almost never gets caught . . . OK, they never get caught. Their cases are filed away in the dead case file drawer with hundreds or thousands of others.

Bank robberies in the United States go all the way back to the old West—check out the famous criminals like Jesse James and his band of outlaws. Other famous Wild West bank robbers were the Bart Brothers and the Dalton Gang. Once the first town was built and the first bank was built, it became a mark . . . a target someone had to knock off . . . to rob—almost like a challenge to all the bad guys. Simply build a wall around a box full of money and tell all the local folks how safe the bank is and to keep their money inside . . . and guess what?

By far, this becomes a challenge to all the bad guys outside. To all the thieves and hoodlums out on the street, this is a dare, a quest to some punk crook, like a lab rat trying to figure out which way through the maze will lead to the cheese. He can either pull a basic breaking and entering, a burglary into the bank during the still of the night to steal the loot or just walk in the front door with a gun and holler out, This is a stick-up, no one move!

Obviously crime pays or

there’d be no crime.

G. Gordon Liddy

Chapter 1

Current Weather or current METAR: KLEX

1203KT 1/4SM—RA OVC02 20/19 A29.89 or in plain language:

Winds are 120 degrees at 3KTS, only ¼ SM (Statute Mile) of visibility, light rain, overcast sky at only 200 feet above the ground, temperature is 20C, dew point 19, and the area altimeter setting is 29.89

Lexington, Kentucky

A cool mist greets the early morning fog which has settled into the area of the upper Midwest across Kentucky and Tennessee. The outside visibility can’t be more than a few hundred feet in some spots and no more than a quarter mile at its best. The morning dew sticks to the front windows of this particular small local branch bank which just opened at 10 a.m. local time. Inside the lobby area is a tall man in a US Army full dress uniform including the standard issue hat, standing at a bank teller’s window conducting some type of transaction. He sports a big bushy mustache, a goatee and mirrored sunglasses . . . a good disguise, a clever disguise.

Because it is right after 10 am, he happens to be the first and only customer to pass through the door this morning. This is a quaint little bank in a quiet and peaceful town.

Being number one, the first customer in the doors today was not an accident. This was planned out and by choice. Behind the teller we can plainly see the name of the bank, First Union Bank, Westside Branch, Lexington, Kentucky. These two people are having some sort of conversation . . . or so it seems.

In a soft voice the man speaks, Come on, come on, come oonnn! Please, hurry up, hurry up . . . good girl. Ms. Smith, the lone teller, sniffling, almost crying, pleads, I’m trying . . . I’m scared, damn it!

This tall man, Tom, speaks in a soothing voice, It’ll be all right. Please do as I say and no one will get . . . he catches himself, making sure not to say the wrong word, some threatening word or phrase.

The clerk, Ms. Smith, generally an extremely calm lady, fumbles the money a bit, but somehow starts to hand over the lots of wrapped cash. As the last bundle of the cash is exchanged, Tom says, OK, now this is good.

He caresses her hands in his and in doing the deed—in a flash—produces a strip of duct tape and a small green 4x4 little gift box; he soothingly tapes her hands around the top of the box and down to the counter top.

Next in a peaceful soft voice he continues. Now, now . . . if you stay calm and keep this little box pinned down to the counter for the next five minutes you can lift up your hands . . . looking out through his sunglasses . . . if you want to, he said.

Spinning smartly on his heels, he turns back . . . smiles, completes his turn, and exits the bank where he simply vanishes, almost absorbed into the thick, incredibly thick fog filled morning air.

* * * * *

Later in the afternoon, in the middle of downtown Las Vegas, a group of people are having a splendid time at a casino known as Binion’s Horseshoe. The casino is in the heart of downtown across the street from the Golden Nugget Hotel and Casino. Both casinos are located on world famous Freemont Street. Freemont Street is four covered blocks of beautiful lights. Some twelve million tiny bulbs are switched on and off by computer software creating the most fabulous light show on the planet. Some folks are playing slot machines while others try their hands at video poker or real life poker. Still others, many others, are playing a fun little game called craps, A.K.A. dice.

Two red spinning dice fly through the air as the sound of a raging dice game comes up to full volume. All around the area you can hear yelling, cheering, and hollering, as 25 or so people are crammed around one of the ten felt covered craps tables having a wonderful time. The overhead music is by crooner Dean Martin singing something about . . .

"How lucky can one guy can be

I kissed her and she kissed me

Like the fellow once said,

Ain’t that a kick in the head?"

People are winning and winning big this evening. Looking around the table are hundreds and even thousands of dollars in play on the pass line; people are betting the six, the eight, nine, and ten. This day, this particular game, the House doesn’t have the edge. The gamers on the outside of the rail are being shined on by a lady—Lady Luck.

If you look closely, you can almost tell who it is—Mr. Tom smoking a big cigar . . . he’s rolling the bones without his army officer’s disguise. At a bit over six feet tall, he still has a mustache, but the stache is a carefully trimmed one, not the big bushy Italian looping ends kind of facial hair. His left hand is resting on the wooden chip rail, and the rail is full of green, black, and red chips. Here and there are several sets of yellow and purple ones mixed in; they represent 500 and 1,000 dollars each. The green ones are 25 dollar chips, the black ones are worth 100, and the red represent 5 American dollars.

The next morning, in Binion’s coffee shop, two men are seated on the upper level by the counter and the fresh baked pie carousel. Tom is sitting in a booth talking to someone, another man, but it is hard to tell who the other person is. They both have on long sleeve white dress shirts and simple black ties.

John, his partner in crime, asks, Well . . . How did you do?

I’d rather not say, comes back the response.

Lost a little or all?

In a soft, almost ashamed voice, he says, Damn near.

Well OK, did you get any sleep?

Uh . . .

Well, huh? I was up close to $25,000, then the table went cold, I mean ice cold.

"Hell, I’ve never seen so many seven-outs in my life . . . I mean, it was like someone turned off the winner switch and turned on the loser one."

John answers, "That’s fine . . . We’ll be in Arkansas by midnight and you can set something up when we get off of the plane.

* * * * *

Forty-one days later, as the sun rises in the east, we see another damp dreary day. A light rain, in reality more of a thick mist, fills the morning air. In another town at another small branch bank once again, we witness a tall man, the same tall man as before, standing at a bank teller’s window in what appears to be a fireman’s dress uniform, complete with a hat, sunglasses, mustache—the entire disguise—conducting another transaction. Behind the teller, we can barely distinguish a clock indicating the current time, right after 10:00 am, and the name of the bank. On the wall is a sign, Citizens Bank & Trust, Ft. Smith, Arkansas.

Tom speaks softly, but in a firm voice, Come on, come on, little lady. Hurry up little one and no one . . . nothing will happen, I promise you.

As the Teller is handing over the cash, the sweet mid-thirties bleached blonde pleads, Don’t hurt me . . . please don’t hurt me and you can have all the money . . . I swear . . . it’s not mine it’s the bank’s.

Tom’s reply is simply a soothing There, there now.

He once again gently caresses the teller’s hands and tapes her shaking hands around the little 4x4 gift wrapped box; across the top and then down to the bank counter’s surface.

Tom, looking out from behind his sunglasses, offers, Now, now . . . please stay calm and keep this little box pinned down to that countertop for next five minutes then you will be all right.

With this said, he smiles, turns, and exits the bank whereby he once again seems to vanish into the thick street level cloud.

* * * * *

Later in the evening and off in a corner hotel bar, Tom and several other travelers sit drinking. Some are lounging around while others are at the bar drinking, chatting, relaxing. Tom has on a basic white dress shirt and tie. However at this time of day, the tie is loose around his neck. All around are several empty seats in the bar area. In view, mounted above the bar in front of the large mirror, way above the dozens of liquor bottles almost to the ceiling hang two wall mounted 42" plasma television sets turned on. The one on the left displays the first real sports channel, ESPN and the other one is on the late local news.

The folks in the bar can make out the end credits of a show, the lead-in for the 11 o’clock news. A female anchor on a split screen is talking about the daring daylight bank robbery that occurred earlier in the day. Tom is soon joined by his cohort John who has ditched his work clothes, his official dress uniform and has dressed down to shorts with a pullover polo golf shirt. He is off duty for real.

This ought to be good, John says, speaking under his breath.

Tom quips with a snicker, Now, now; let’s listen young man, uh . . . to what they’re going to say.

The evening news comes on and they sort of catch a glimpse of a black and white grainy photo of a surveillance snapshot photo flashed across the screen. This is their lead story tonight. As is typical of these bank surveillance photos, the quality is poor, which makes the print almost impossible to figure out who the man in the photograph is. Of course, much of the person’s features are obscured by the dark sunglasses, goatee, mustache and ever-present hat.

The lead female reporter starts talking, "Just after opening their doors this morning, a lone robber held up the Citizen Bank & Trust with a bomb and escaped with an undisclosed amount of money. The device was in actuality only a bomb threat; no real explosives were found by the Police Department’s bomb squad. Local detectives and the FBI are looking into this robbery and sources here indicated off the record . . . this may be the work of a serial bank robber who has hit in several different states since last year.

As is so typical of today’s news coverage, the side-kick talking head, man with perfect jet black hair sitting next to her reads his part from the teleprompter.

Yes, News Eleven has followed this story all day long and our sources are indicating now thus far that there have been at least eight robberies across the southern half of the United States of America. Sources also tell us here at News Eleven, again off the record, that the FBI’s crack, Bank Robbery Nation Wide Task Force is looking into these cases. Each one occurred in a different state, but the suspects always wear some sort of uniform and leave behind or use some type of a fake bomb in a small box to pull off the robbery.

Our female reporter continues, Yes, as far as we know, this is correct, Tim. Now it turns out that the fake bomb used in today’s robbery was nothing more than a small gift box with a lone business card inside. Authorities are not telling us at this time what was on the card or what the front of the card said. A source close to the investigation did confirm to us here in the newsroom that the card contain some sort of writing or group or series of numbers written . . . maybe typed on the card, but nothing more.

Still, my sources at the police department to anyone out there watching—if a bad guy, a bank hijacker tells a bank teller that he’s got a bomb inside of a box, the general rule is you need to take the threat serious. There is no way to tell a fake bomb from an actual bomb. Therefore, you have to believe the threat to be real.

In perfect sync with her, Mr. Male reporter, with the perfect hair adds, Yes Jane, consider the bomb a real one.

As you know, I certainly covered many bank robberies over the years and most of the time, the bombs are fakes, but again, when an armed mad-man tells you he placed a bomb in the box . . . what can you do? No one can tell the difference simply by looking at a wrapped up box. Turning to his right for camera two, he changes stories . . .Now, for our other top stories . . ."

* * * * *

Across the country some 742 nautical miles away in the heart of downtown Houston, at a discreet little cop bar named Fuzzy’s, a group of men gather, drinking and chatting about their day. Fuzzy’s is a cop bar in the middle of downtown Houston. There is no neon beer sign hanging outside to tell all who pass by that Fuzzy’s is right here. The owner does not need to advertise, nor does he want to. His special, extremely special breed of clients know exactly where the little bar is. On the right side of the sturdy steel front entrance door is simply a small 3x12 brass sign with a simple inscription: PRIVATE CLUB.

The tavern is housed on the first floor of a rather old ten story brown brick office building. The structure was built after the turn of the century. She stands in the shadows of the ever present tall fancy 50, 60, 70 story modern office towers or . . . skyscrapers. This edifice, this structure was built by men, real men, one brick and one floor at a time long before OSHA and the invention of safety lines. Today, more than half of the buildings along with half of the entire block are vacant or listed for rent. In today’s rough economy, a rather large portion of the entire downtown office space is vacant.

Anyone who enters the tavern notices right off that all the walls, the ceilings, the tables, everywhere—this is a cop bar. There is police stuff, police memorabilia everywhere. The walls, the tables, everything is covered with cop-stuff, red emergency light bars, police motorcycle helmets, a busted up right front fender from a marked police car, Dirty Harry posters, machine gun ads, and more. Hell, even cop stuff is painted on the floor, No Parking, Tow Away Zone, Handicap Parking Only! And the collection goes all the way to the ceiling. Attached way up to the ceiling tiles is part of a wrecked helicopter . . . it now belongs to Louis, the bar owner; it’s his wrecked police chopper hanging down from the rafters.

On one of the walls, is a rather new large flat screen 51" TV with the original Dirty Harry movie made back in 1971 running. The movie alone was one of the greatest recruiting tools for the nation’s police departments ever made. Data at the time indicated that more people applied to the local police departments after seeing that two hour piece of film, all by itself was an immense recruiting tool in the seventies.

Across part of the picture, you can spot that the closed caption settings are on and you can read the scene where Clint Eastwood as Inspector Callahan is holding his Smith and Wesson, model 29 blue steel .44 magnum in one hand and eating a hot dog with the other saying something about a .44 magnum, the greatest handgun in the world . . . do you feel lucky PUNK?  . . . as the letters scroll across the bottom half of the TV screen.

The clock on the wall behind the bar indicates early morning—2:00 am. A lone Vietnamese man, actually a native born South Vietnamese bar-back named Ha Tran, is cleaning up behind the large scuffed up wooded bar top. Today, he is a simple bar-back . . . a helper . . . a menial thankless job, but he is happy to be here in America . . . he is mighty happy to even be alive. Back in the sixties and seventies, he was a soldier, an