Swinging Gates

By K.L. Dempsey

The story line begins with a commercial helicopter departing on its final flight of the evening from Midway Airport located on the Southwest Side of Chicago. Its destination is O'Hare International Airport just eleven miles away. Inside the Sikorsky aircraft are two senior pilots flying local businessmen to their various connecting flights. The weather that evening was a typical summer night with few clouds and clear visibility, allowing the aircraft to fly under visual flight rules. Instead of reaching its scheduled destination, the helicopter encounters a catastrophic event, causing it to suddenly begin to spin out of control and crash into a nearby cemetery just shortly after taking off. Everyone on board was killed despite a heroic effort of skillful flying by the copilot. Although the event immediately caused several areas of concern for the company and several questions about future safe operations, the FAA ruled that the accident was simply the result of a structural failure, which caused the tail section rotor blade to separate from the main body of the aircraft.

The reader barely gets a chance to breathe as the story line moves rapidly from the time period of July 27, 1960, to the current day when a newly elected congressman with presidential aspirations has encouraged a new investigation into the circumstances of that fatal day, the reason being that it was his uncle who had been the helicopter captain. That opportunity quickly arrives when the congressman visits the location where the helicopter had crashed and, while he is there, meets a private investigator who was visiting the grave of his departed relative. Then hired by the congressman to look into the past event, the detective soon learns that there's much more to this story than just an aircraft mishap. Within a short period of time, he discovers that the helicopter was carrying the briefcase that had originally belonged to the passenger who had been denied passage on the flight even though he had been holding a confirmed ticket. That briefcase destined for Tombstone, Arizona, was never located, nor was it ever explained as to why the helicopter had left the departure gate with one empty seat.

Swinging Gates is an edge-of-your-seat, nail-biting, page-turner of a novel that takes you to the dark side of Washington, DC, where the reader soon begins to get the feeling that the people that now work at the White House and those back in Illinois are failing to tell the complete story. Swinging Gates is a complex political thriller, one that has the reader turning the pages to find out what is really going on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887935270

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Swinging Gates

K.L. Dempsey

Copyright © 2023 K.L. Dempsey

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead; historical events; or organizations is purely coincidental.

ISBN 979-8-88793-521-8 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88793-527-0 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

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

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Epilogue

About the Author

Also by K. L. Dempsey

The Unholy Vengeance

The Vanishing Pharmacist

Beneath the Earth

Secrets of Eden's Dam

Death before Its Time

Evidence of Failure

Dark Tomb

Swinging Gates

For all the grandchildren

Chapter 1

Samuel Millbrae had taken the shuttle flight many times before on what was often referred to as the Silver Triangle between Midway Airport, Meigs Field, and O'Hare International Airport. The Sikorsky chopper piloted by a two-man crew was as reliable as any helicopter built and was used by several companies throughout the United States for shuttling passengers from one airport to another. Still, its appearance in looking like an oversized grasshopper with its whirling blades could give pause to even an experienced passenger as it lifted into the sky for its eleven-minute, seventeen-mile flight to O'Hare International. It was always the closest thing to the sensation of actually flying an airplane that one could get while actually not having your hands on the controls.

Today Samuel Millbrae had an uneasy feeling as he walked down the Midway Airport concourse on his way to the gate where the ten-passenger bucket of bolts (the nickname given to the Sikorsky) waited for the arrival of its last passenger of the evening. He had flown this particular helicopter flight on its daily schedule so often he could almost predict the names of which crew members would be piloting it. Now he began to pick up his pace knowing that the gate agents for Tri-City Helicopter would not delay his departure, even if it was for the mayor of Chicago, should Sky King Pete Schultz have his hands on the helicopter controls. Schultz, Tri-City's chief pilot, took his job seriously; besides, he would have to fly the empty helicopter back to Midway in preparation for tomorrow's morning flight. Yes, thought Millbrae, there would not be any delay if Schultz was the captain tonight.

Millbrae passed the last concession stand wishing that he had enough time to stop and pick up a large coffee but knew that was not possible tonight as he now heard the sound of the Sikorsky in the distance winding up its blades on the helicopter pad. At the end of the concourse, he could make out the gate agent yelling and waving his hands, pleading for him to hurry. Millbrae started to race the last fifty yards trying to ignore the briefcase slapping against his right leg, which contained the documents waiting for their delivery in Tombstone, Arizona. It had now been over six months that he had been making this trip twice, sometimes three times a week, visiting the most popular tourist attractions in the entire West while carrying a briefcase that he was not allowed to open except with the provided key at the other end of his trip. He was puzzled but encouraged not to ask questions of those on the other end, and he didn't, choosing instead to protect his $500,000 bonus from the Tombstone Restoration Committee by not pressing his luck in those areas that didn't concern him. Now reaching the gate, he hurriedly gave his ticket to the neatly dressed agent that he had seen only once before.

You are Mr. Samuel Millbrae? asked the gate agent, appearing overly nervous.

Yes, and I see that my helicopter is about to take off. Is there a problem?

Sir, my name is Agent John Reynolds, and we're trying to clear up a small difficulty so I'm going to have to ask you to be patient while we attempt to settle this matter.

What difficulty are we talking about? I just gave you my ticket, and I need to get on that helicopter. I'm scheduled to take the last flight out of O'Hare tonight on American for Tombstone, and people are waiting for me at the other end so I can't miss this connection.

The captain is talking to the other passengers right now, Mr. Millbrae, so it shouldn't be much longer.

Talking to them about what, Agent Reynolds?

With regret, our helicopter is overbooked, and Captain Schultz is trying to get one passenger to give up his seat to make room for you. Overbooking happens to all airlines, but when you only have ten seats to work with, it gets more difficult to correct. When this error happens, we attempt to put the person who agrees to give up their seat in a five-star hotel with all expenses paid, plus free meals and no charge for any future helicopter ticket or connecting airline.

Well, I don't care what you have to do, but I expect to be on that helicopter, so don't let me see it take off without me. If that happens, it would not be good for either you or me.

Reynolds, evaluating the clear threat, stepped back now, taking a deep breath. Please take a seat in the lounge area, Mr. Millbrae. I'm going to go out to the helicopter pad and talk with the captain and see if he's been able to clear up this difficulty. I'll be back in just a few minutes, said Reynolds.

From inside the gate area, Millbrae could see that the captain was talking to each of the boarded passengers, but appearing to have no luck since none of the passengers had walked off the helicopter. After several more minutes, the captain turned away from the aircraft and walked toward the entrance door of the gate area to meet the anxious waiting John Reynolds.

Reynolds, I'm Captain Pete Schultz, and we've not actually met before other than to sign off on required paperwork. Tonight we've got problems, but it's necessary to roll because I'm behind schedule fifteen minutes already with connecting passengers on board that need to pick up their Seattle, Washington, flights. You tell your passenger in the lounge area that he won't be traveling with us tonight and we're sorry, but that's how it is. If he gives you crap, I'll talk to him.

Captain, he's a regular. Actually, he's one of our club members and travels with us three times weekly and has said that he has people waiting for him tonight in Tombstone, Arizona. He's not going to be happy, and he's already warned me about his not making this flight.

Well, frankly, John, I don't give a good goddamn if he's fought at the OK Corral with Wyatt Earp. There is no room, so unless he knows how to fly this bird, we are leaving in the next two minutes. Just do your job, Reynolds, and let's get this sucker in the sky or you might be out of a job!

Turning away from the captain, Reynolds opened the lounge area door and approached the passenger who had been watching them both through the large glass window. Before he could speak, Millbrae beat him to it.

Well, it would appear that your Captain Hard-ass sent you in to do his dirty work, didn't he?

Let's just say that no one wants to give up their seat and that there's not much we can do about that, I'm afraid, said Reynolds.

Millbrae weighed his options. Well, actually, there is, my friend, but it will take a little more work and another five-minute delay. Maybe my idea will even save your company from a lawsuit if you can pull this off. You have something called expedited small package service, do you not?

It's called Tri-City small package service, sir.

Good, so here's what I want you to tell your captain. I'm going to call my contact in Tombstone and inform him that he should expect delivery of a Tri-City small package service box at the Arizona airport with my briefcase in it. Then I want you to have Captain Schultz hand-deliver it to the American Airlines Tombstone flight captain at O'Hare. They then can transfer it to their arriving gate in Tombstone where it will be picked up upon arrival. I realize this will take some extra work but, in the end, will cost much less money than any lawsuit. Now go and see if your captain can see this as a path moving forward. If it all goes well and it should, I'll write a good letter to your CEOs, and some of you might even win that ‘feather in your cap' award for good service that we all read about, he said. Otherwise, the newspapers will be reporting things you don't want. He turned from the agent and sat back down in the lounge area.

Millbrae now watched through the gatehouse window the exchange between the gate agent and Schultz and could tell that the captain welcomed his plan with the same feeling that one has upon learning that his basement was full of salamanders. Still, he took the package and, within seconds, lifted the helicopter off the pad, and it soon disappeared from sight.

It was a very dark night with a nip in the fresh air as Millbrae pulled out of the airport grounds. When he reached the end of the street, he looked to his right where a half mile away he then looked up into the sky and watched the arrival of a United Airlines 727 on final approach. His eyes invariably moved to the lights of the nearby Ford City shopping center just a few blocks away, remembering that it had not been too long ago that a United Airlines aircraft had missed its final approach while slamming into a local neighborhood apartment building. The memory of that event ran through him, but he shook it off and continued his drive home while still worrying about the package and his briefcase.

*****

Captain Schultz glanced over at his copilot and listened to him finishing his radio transmission to the O'Hare traffic control center. Then turning to face him, Schultz said, Bud, we'll be arriving at the gate in another seven minutes, he commented while still watching the hundreds of cars below who were leaving a Neil Diamond concert. Maybe you'd give me a break and handle the landing, offered Schultz.

Smiling over at the captain, knowing of his reputation for never usually sharing the takeoff or landings, he put his hand around the control stick while continuing their conversation. Diamond is getting a little long in the tooth but still packs them in, doesn't he? remarked Bud Adams.

He does, but so do the Rolling Stones. Schultz was about to continue his conversation when a sudden ping startled him.

What in the hell was that, Captain? questioned Adams, now looking around the aircraft cabin.

Maybe just some type of bird strike, offered Schultz.

I can't remember the last time that we've even seen a seagull, let alone any Canadians around here, said Adams. Suddenly, before he could continue the conversation, he felt a strong vibration running up and down his hand. Then the control handle started to shake, followed by the helicopter doing a zigzag movement while continuing to backfire and sputter until it just flat out stopped in the air, followed by a slow but continuous plummet toward the ground.

Jesus Christ, what's happening? yelled Schultz as the helicopter continued its now rapid decent toward a large cemetery below.

Pull it up, Bud, pull it up! shouted Schultz, now feeling the aircraft beginning to spin out of control. Mother of God, pull it up! he repeated a third time.

We're not going to make it, skipper! Bud screamed frantically, still trying to control the inevitable as the helicopter during its final moments flew past several houses, then over a large fence, missing several tombstones, before finally hitting a concrete burial vault.

Chapter 2

Chapel Hill Cemetery

Several decades after the event of 1960

Congressman-Elect Cody Horn stood on the cemetery bridge and watched the sun flash against the calm waves of the lagoon. He had done this often over the years, enjoying the peaceful mornings that came with the solitude that only standing among the dead could bring. He watched the seagulls pecking at the ground for yesterday's crumbs left behind by the visitors who had prayed for their loved ones. He needed to leave knowing that there would soon be a storm. He felt it in the air, but storm or not, the woman waiting would expect him to be on time. He started to leave when he turned one last time and focused on the crypt, wondering once again what his uncle might have been thinking just before his helicopter had crashed, killing all nine—or was it ten?—passengers as it hit the resting place of former Illinois congressman Samuel Goldman and his wife Fanny Goldman. He had heard the story repeated countless times about how the pilot had been a hero in taking the helicopter a full mile off course to avoid crashing the doom aircraft into the nearby populated residential area. People on the ground, supported by State Trooper Henry Glass, had reported that prior to the crash, the crippled helicopter had flown over the Chapel Hill Cemetery fence backfiring out of control and on fire just prior to hitting the crypt. There were countless stories, and he had read them all, including that of the seven-year-old kid, but nothing was more intriguing than the missing briefcase of a passenger that had been denied a seat. Now, as he started to move down the wooded planks on the bridge, he thought of that day as he often did, still wondering what was on the mind of his uncle in those last moments.

The ride to his office was less than fifteen minutes from the cemetery. Now pulling up to the building, he noticed the woman parked on the other side of the street. The press parking pass attached to her windshield was the dead giveaway that she was the reporter who had called for the appointment to talk about a downed helicopter from decades ago. Getting out of his car, he walked to the front door and let himself in, knowing his office hour sign indicated that he had another fifteen minutes before he had to let the reporter in. He left the Closed sign up as he worked himself back to his office and turned on the lights. Looking at his desk, he saw the file remaining in the same place it had been the last two days. It contained the name of a seven-year-old boy who had reported watching the doomed helicopter coming over the cemetery fence and those passengers who escaped the burning coffin while it consumed the remainder of the passengers. The problem was no one believed the kid's story, including the state police who had spent hours listening to his report. Cody Horn glanced at his watch and knew that it was time to meet the woman.

Presley Steiner looked at the office from across the street and had seen the man's hand moving the sign, indicating that the office was now open. She had been a reporter for going on ten years, but the idea of interviewing this man brought with it a nervousness that she had never felt before. She had done her homework, but there was something about a man whose hero was Thomas A. Uzzell that put her on her guard. Then there was this thing about him being a congressman, or at least a congressman-elect until the next thirty days when it would be official. She hated politicians, all of them, regardless of party. She knew that the chance of her getting any truthful answer from him was doubtful, but she had to give it a try because something told her that there was a story to the event that had happened years ago. Getting out of her Lexus, she crossed the main street watching with interest the young woman that had just entered the front door. She wondered if that well-dressed woman was Steiner's intern or possibly his gatekeeper. Male politicians always seem to surround themselves with arm candy, not the Aunt Minnie type she thought, expecting the usual greeting, questioning her long and hard as to if she had an appointment. Well, she would try and be on her best behavior because as the boss had said several times, Get the story, not the kiss-off, Presley. Reaching back, she brushed her auburn hair back from her forehead and opened the door to the office. She quickly glanced around at the large twenty-foot by thirty-five-foot room and noticed a partitioned corner cubicle, which she concluded was used to greet the arriving guests. Clearly Congressman Horn spared no expense in making both his gatekeeper and visitors feel the warmth of his office by providing the beauty of fresh flowers throughout the room. Presley watched as the only door in the room opened and a young 24–26 well-manicured woman walked through it while placing a leather notebook on her oak desk then looking at her. You must be Ms. Presley Steiner, she said in a deep Southern drawl. My name is Gretchen Waters, Congressman Horn's administrative assistant. He's been expecting you, but it might be a few minutes because he's on a call with his minority whip in Washington, DC, who's working on finding him suitable office space when he officially takes his place next month. Make yourself comfortable and I'll bring you some coffee or juice while you wait. It shouldn't be long since he's been expecting you.

Don't worry about the refreshments as I'm fine. You have a lovely office, Ms. Waters. Have you been with the congressman long?

About two years, right out of law school, to be honest.

You're his administrative assistant and a lawyer at the same time. Now that is a story in its own right, said Presley, shocked at the revelation.

It was the congressman's requirement for the job, but he makes certain that my salary is suitably compensated, said Waters, giving Steiner a smile.

Presley started to move toward the leather chair in the corner of the office when her eyes focused on a wall photo. The picture seemed so out of place to her and reminded her of pictures back in the early 1800s. She was about to ask Waters for an explanation when the sound of the intercom startled her.

It's Congressman Horn, Ms. Steiner. He'll see you now, so let's move to his office location before he gets another request that needs his attention. Please follow me through the door behind my desk. His office and mine are somewhat adjoining, which makes it easier for us to communicate.

Will you be joining him in Washington? asked Presley as they were walking.

That's a question that I best leave up to the congressman, she answered.

When Presley entered the next room, she was taken aback by how much the room failed to look like an office. Its light brown sofa faced a fireplace where a large green fern had been placed in the grate for the summer. A rocking chair with a soft cushion stood alone in a corner, giving the impression that it might well be the congressman's chair to release his unwanted tension. Two empty wineglasses were on the lone coffee table just in front of the sofa. It was hard not to miss the traces of lipstick on one of the glasses, and most definitely was not the shade worn by Waters.

Horn got up from his leather chair and walked over to Presley, who gently now held both her hands. Welcome, Ms. Steiner, it's wonderful to finally have the opportunity to meet after all these phone calls needed to set up this appointment, but that's my fault, not yours. This freshman congressman stuff has its days, and sometimes I wish that they never convinced me to run for this office, he said.

Well, according to my sources, Congressman Horn, you won't be working for the Congress lady from California for very long because the Republican Party already is planning your next move to the United States Senate, due to the poor health of our senior senator from Illinois.

Rumors are a terrible cross that we all have to carry in Washington, DC, and most of these rumors are always false as you well know, Ms. Presley. Anyway, we're not meeting today to cover my political career, so what can I do to help you with that helicopter crash that no one can remember anymore? asked Horn.

To start, might I ask you about Captain Pete Schultz, who was the captain of that fatal helicopter crash? He was your uncle according to my findings, said Steiner.

That's true, but you should then also know that he was not flying the helicopter that night. It happened to be his copilot, Bud Adams. To be clear, that's not to suggest that the outcome would have been any different should Captain Schultz have been at the controls. It's just that I wanted to make certain that the facts are what they are, Ms. Presley, until I have a better idea of what you might be looking for.

Presley smiled at Horn's answer. Spoken like a true lawyer, Congressman. You must have dealt with a lot of reporters in your business life.

I have, of course, some which are honest while others will bend the truth to get a good story. In my world, I deal with each person without hesitation or apology to their feelings. It's how I work in my private and professional life. My administrative assistant likes to remind me that I have razor-sharp instincts and an uncanny intuition, which serves me well but can sometimes hurt feelings. Thus in being as careful as I can, please let me ask you a question, Ms. Presley. What brings you by my office this morning?

You really know how to put the shoe on a person's throat, Congressman. No foreplay, just right for the kill. Fair enough, so I'll get right to the point then. Our paper is reinvestigating that shuttle helicopter crash years ago in which several people were unfortunately killed. Wire services at the time indicated that it was an eleven-minute, seventeen-mile flight that never made it but instead ended up shattered and flaming amid the tombstones of a suburban cemetery. One of the crew members, the captain on that downed helicopter, happened to be your uncle, a very experienced pilot regardless if he was at the controls or not. Reports indicated that the flames were so hot that firefighters were unable to get near it for more than an hour. She paused to give Congressman Horn a chance to comment.

That's all old news, Ms. Presley. So once again, what brings you to my office this morning? You could have found that information in the archives of most good newspapers.

She took a deep breath before continuing. Yes, that is true, much like the FAA reporting that neither pilot was considered at fault for the accident that was concluded to be a result of the tail section apparently falling off during flight, said Presley.

Horn shrugged with feigned indifference and looked at his wristwatch, nursing a twinge of restlessness at the reporter's overview of the accident. Look, I'm pretty good at solving mysteries, but damn if I can find a story here if that's what you've come for. Please get to the point of your visit, or I'll have to excuse myself, he said. No attempt to be impolite, just a fact of my time schedule.

There was a seven-year-old boy who reported seeing the helicopter crash, and he reported strange unexplainable things that happened afterward, said Steiner.

Now you have my attention. What were those reported things? asked Horn.

Before getting into that, I'd like to talk about what happened before this unfortunate accident. You see, there was reported to have been a confrontation at the gate area, which involved your uncle, the gate agent, and a passenger that was scheduled for passage but never made it onto that flight. It reportedly was overbooked and the reason for the heated discussion at the gate area.

That happens all the time, as you well know, so why would that concern you? asked Horn.

My interest is the unexplainable reason as to what happened to his briefcase, which, unlike the overbooked passenger, did happen to make the flight. It never has been found, said Presley.

Now you have me confused since there is no mention of any briefcase in the helicopter records, said Horn.

I'm also confused, responded Presley. From what little we've been able to determine, the helicopter company had a small package service, and when they were unable to accommodate the customer, he had his briefcase put into one of those small package boxes and was to be hand-delivered by your uncle to the American Airlines captain of the air carrier at O'Hare and told it was to be taken to Tombstone, Arizona. Since the helicopter crashed, that handoff of course never took place. And to the best of our investigation, that briefcase was never found at the crash site.

Maybe it just burned and it's as simple as that, remarked Cody. Besides, it was just a briefcase.

I believe that the investigation by the Civil Aeronautics Board of officials had indicated a structural defect may have caused the helicopter crash. And then let's not forget that seven-year-old boy's report having seen people in the window of the helicopter and then he heard a small explosion and shortly afterward three or four people coming out of the aircraft—each on fire. The kid had told the police that one of the victims was in uniform and had run towards him but didn't make it, having collapsed with his arms around an upright tombstone. There's a lot of mystery to this situation, Congressman, besides the missing briefcase, she said.

Aircraft incidents always have mysteries, now don't they? Well, it may have to stay like that, Ms. Steiner, because in all probability most of the witnesses, if not all, are now probably deceased, although I can offer you a suggestion, he said while showing her his warm side.

That I would be most appreciative, she answered.

There is a source called GenDisasters. It's a genealogy site that compiles information on the historical disasters, events, and tragic accidents our ancestors endured as well as information about their life and death. Then remember, if you have not already done so, that that seven-year-old young boy would only be in his mid-sixties today and could be found with little investigating work should he still be alive.

Presley looked at him intently. She'd borne his hostility and male suspicion with dignity, and now he seemed to hold no grudge in wanting to help her. She thought that he might even like her a little, but then there was that lipstick on the glass. How much more time can you grant me, Congressman? she asked.

More, if you start calling me Cody.

All right then, Cody, would you have at least another thirty minutes? she asked.

We can easily work that out, so ask any questions that you wish, he said.

Let's start with an easy one at the beginning. Tell me about that wall photo that you have in Ms. Gretchen Waters's reception office, if you don't mind.

Interesting question, Presley, because it says everything about my mission statement in life. The man you see in the photo was a man of conscience and guts, Thomas A. Uzzell, a person of French Huguenot descent. To escape persecution in France of the adherents of his faith, he and his two brothers fled to America. The short version of this story is that he became a dedicated minister and told the residents that ‘come hell or high water' he was going to build his flock a new church, and he did. All that he wanted in return was for them to place on his tombstone the words ‘Here lies Tom A. Uzzell. He did his level best.' That's the reason for the photo and what I always will try to do for those that I serve: my level best.

Now I understand why those that support you want to move you up the ladder as fast as possible, she said, smiling.

That's more than kind, Presley, but sometimes it goes much deeper. Sometimes in Congress or the Senate, your friends on both sides of the aisle want to move you because they are tired of you constantly getting in their hair about issues that are only important to them, but not you.

Presley looked at her watch, hoping the time would slow down. Next question: Do you intend to take Ms. Waters with you to Washington?

I haven't told her yet, so this can't be quoted. Thus, I will trust in your ability to respect that shared information and not to print anything on that matter.

Certainly you have my word not to print anything on that subject until you talk to her.

Good, then my answer is no, she's not joining me, but not because of any lack of confidence on my part. It's because her husband deserves to have his wife around him more than me.

That seems to exclude her from any decision process, which, in this day and age, appears to be a little chauvinistic, wouldn't you agree, Cody?

One might look at it that way, but it would be unfair of you to put me in that bottle because caring for someone should count for something. Besides, she wants to start having a family, and at last count, that takes two people to pull that one off.

My time is up, but before I go, one last question if I might? asked Presley.

Go ahead, he said.

I have visited the crash scene to get a feel for the event as any good reporter would have done. My guess is that over the years, you probably have also done this also if for no other reason than to pay respects to your uncle. When you did, didn't you feel that it was odd that there is not a single piece of evidence of this crash? Heck, over the last several decades, I've seen memorials established for everything including one's pets, yet for some strange reason, it's almost as if two pilots and ten passengers have vanished from history in that cemetery, she said.

I asked that very same question years ago, said Cody. At that time, it was called the Bohemian Jewish Cemetery, while now it's called the Non-Denomination Home Cemetery of Hillside. They told me simply that it was decided to do it that way to avoid morbid pleasure-seekers.

I would think that might have been true at the beginning or the first couple years, but not now. What I'm finding is that no matter who I talk to, there seems to be one perfect lie after another, and when that happens, my reporter instincts kick in because at the end of those lies usually is a story. There are secrets here, Cody, secrets that might destroy someone or something, and that's the reason why I have taken up your time today in hopes of finding the missing key that might unlock the door, she said.

But you didn't find the key would be my guess, responded Cody.

Pausing, she looked at the congressman. This man certainly knew what to say and wear for an interview. A blue Oxford shirt, no tie, crème-colored Dockers and Bass loafers bought from some Lord & Taylor's outlet store. Her guess was that he measured out at six-foot two, maybe 220 pounds. With wide-set blue eyes and a deep dimple set chin, which qualified him to be considered on a dangerous side should you push him too far. Yes, you're right, no key found today, but that's how this job often works, Congressman. You just learn to keep walking until you arrive at the right door. Her gaze moved from him until she once again found the glass with the lipstick on it.

Find something that interests you, Presley? asked Cody.

Caught, she thought. Not really, just wondering how your family is adjusting to the new pending move to Washington, DC?

Politics is not fascinating to everyone especially these days. It's something that kids see on TV and the media and often puts unnecessary pressure on them to behave in uncomfortable ways, especially in schools with their friends. It almost requires that as a parent or husband, you learn how to perfect one new lie every day. Fyodor Dostoyevsky once said, ‘Lying to one's self is more deeply ingrained, than lying to others.' I've chosen to do neither and actually don't have to worry about it with my kids or a wife. I have a twenty-two-year-old daughter who is currently studying law at Northwestern, so she will not have to relocate. If you're wondering, there once was a wife who has since remarried, so I'll be on my own when I arrive in Washington, DC. Her new husband is a well-known plastic surgeon with ample money, which will allow her to maintain her preferred lifestyle, so unless she reverts back to filling her days with social events and too many gin and tonics, she should remain happy. Ah, I see our time is up now, so please forgive me but I must get ready for my next meeting, he said, getting up and shaking Presley's hand.

Chapter 3

I know how your mind works, Presley. You're skeptical by nature. What I don't understand is why you tend to believe this guy John Reynolds over your own flesh and blood, said her sister.

It's not that I totally believe Reynolds, but rather that he does tell a compelling story about that last night, Sandra. Plus he's one of the few that still is alive, and that must count for something when one is trying to find out the truth of that helicopter crash. I'm a reporter for God's sake, and this could be the story of the last century.

What about that seven-year-old kid and what he told the police that night when the helicopter went down in the cemetery? asked Sandra.

I haven't been able to locate him, and most of my sources seem to feel that he's either dead or lives in another state. He's the diamond in the mine, so to speak, but he's disappeared. So now I have to work with what's in front of me, and that happens to be John Reynolds, said Presley.

As we've often discussed, the whole thing is just bull crap, Presley. This thing about passengers escaping and running through the cemetery on fire and falling on nearby tombstones was never verified by anyone. What was actually determined is that everyone was thought to have died on impact and nothing remained of that helicopter and that's all to the story. There is no ‘Who killed John F. Kennedy?' story. It simply is what it was, a helicopter that just had a structure failure and crashed, and nothing more, said Sandra.

What about the missing briefcase? asked Presley.

You mean the one that burned in the fire? asked Sandra.

There's no proof of that. The FAA and the National Transportation reported that there was little or no fire and that everyone probably died upon impact. In fact, it was also reported that a group of high school kids were sitting in a convertible outside a local restaurant when the helicopter went over them. They watched it crash in the cemetery and thought that the pilot knew he was in trouble and was trying his best to find a place to land the aircraft, only it didn't work out, said Presley.

Did you ever talk to the family of the pilots? asked Sandra.

Why? What could they provide since both pilots are dead? replied Presley.

Probably nothing, but I do remember reading from one of your reports on the subject that the copilot was actually the one flying the helicopter when it crashed. Records indicated that he had been with the company for less than a month while the captain had years of experience. That part seems so strange to me because in your report, you also indicated that the captain was not the type to turn his controls over to even a more senior person, let alone someone who has so little experience with the company.

Let's not forget that the copilot was a former marine pilot, so it's not like he was some type of neophyte, remarked Presley.

Your notes also indicated that the captain was referred to as ‘Sky King,' wasn't he? Usually that kind of reference is only given to one who commands authority. As indicated, it's hard to imagine him giving up control of anything, offered Sandra.

Well, in this case, he actually did. According to the transcripts, Bud Adams was flying the helicopter at the request of Schultz. The feeling, although unproven, was that Adams was going through his required check ride by Schultz in order to stay qualified. Schultz being the chief pilot had to eventually qualify all his pilots as part of his job, so he was just probably taking advantage of the opportunity of them flying together. Killing two birds with one stone was probably not that uncommon with Schultz, said Presley.

Well, you're probably right, which reminds me, I better be on my way and get dinner started before hubby gets home. You know, unlike your situation, there's a man waiting to be fed. That's what happens when you say ‘I do,' said Sandra. You should try it sometime or at least give it a look before they're all gone, she said, reaching the door.

Chapter 4

His boots crunched in the gravel as he covered the distance to the headstone in three long strides. He had entered the military section of the cemetery through the open small gate, stepping around several small white upright stones each with the name of some past veteran of past wars. It didn't take him long to find what he was looking for: Captain Peter Schultz, Born March 15, 1928, Died July 27, 1960. His eyes swept the cemetery grounds for any other visitors and, seeing none, found the cement sitting bench and sat down. It was a warm and cozy day, one with a light schedule on his calendar giving him the time to think uninterrupted by the constant ringing of phones and those who depended upon him to deal with their problems, large and small. These days were a gift that he knew would be changing soon when he entered the full responsibilities of being a newly elected congressman from Illinois. Today he only thought about his long ago-departed Uncle Peter Schultz. He had heard the many stories about his past life and wished that he had known him better, but that had never happened. His mother had told him that her brother had been a fearless man of strong convictions and that she had doubted the stories that suggested that he had allowed his copilot to be at the controls of that doomed helicopter in its final moments despite the findings of the National Transportation Board. No, Peter would have wrestled the controls from his copilot, and that's all to the story she would state over and over. Cody got up from the bench and walked closer to the white cement marker before he seen the metal plate resting six inches away from the small headstone. The inscription was faded with time, but he wiped the dirt from it and read what was reported to have been the apparent final words from Sky King Peter Schultz to the control tower: Something catastrophic has happened.

Never could figure it out either, came the voice from behind him.

Surprised to find now that he was not alone, he looked at the man. Sorry, I thought that I was the only one out here, said Cody.

"Sorry to spook you, but my grandfather is buried not far from here and I visited him several times a year. He was killed while serving on the Arizona during World War II. My name is Joel Schneider, and my office is only half a mile from here, so I visit quite often."

Glad to meet you, Joel. My name is Cody Horn, and my office is also nearby, so I get over here often as well.

You look very familiar, Mr. Horn. By chance, you're not Congressman Horn, are you?

Busted. It's a small world, Joel, so don't hold it against me. But yes, I'm one in the same. Now that you've smoked me out, what is it that you do, Mr. Schneider, if I might ask?

My line of work is basically research. Some might call it investigating, others private investigator, but I prefer just research. By the way, what is your take on what that plaque says about Captain Schultz and his last words, ‘Something catastrophic'?

Frankly I have no idea, said Cody. The man was not into hyperbole comments from what my parents have reported.

He was your relative? asked Schneider.

"My uncle, but I didn't know him that well due to our age difference and distance from each other. My parents always felt that he was a levelheaded,