I perused a few other Web sites along with some investigative articles from magazines and newspapers. The earlier articles, I noticed, the ones written within six months of the crash, raised a lot of questions that weren’t resolved in the articles written later, even by the reporters who had initially raised the questions.
I sensed Harry looking at me, and I raised my eyes to his.
He asked me, “Are you going to eat that?”
I handed the sausage across the low wall separating us, got off the Internet, and shut down my computer.
I put my jacket on and said, “I’m late for my sensitivity class.”
He chuckled.
I walked to Kate’s workstation, and she looked up from her computer, then exited from whatever she was reading, which must have been something I wasn’t cleared to read, or an e-mail from her boyfriend.
I said to her, “I’ve got to meet someone.”
Most wives would ask, “Who?” but in this business, we don’t ask that question, and she asked, “How long?”
“Less than an hour. If you’re free, I’ll meet you for lunch at Ecco. One o’clock.”
She smiled. “It’s a date. I’ll make a reservation.”
Public displays of affection are not encouraged here in the Ministry of Love, so I saluted her and left.
I exited the building and bought the Daily News at a newsstand and walked the few blocks north into Chinatown.
A lot of cops as well as FBI agents had meets in Chinatown. Why? Because it was easier to spot people who might be following you around, unless of course those people were Chinese. Also, it was cheap. I had no idea where the CIA had their off-site meetings, but I suspected the Yale Club. In any case, I seemed not to have been followed from 26 Fed.
I walked past, then doubled back into this little Chinese restaurant called Dim Sum Go, which the NYPD had affectionately renamed One Hung Low, and took a seat in an empty booth in the rear, facing the door.
The restaurant looked like it might once have been the hallway of the tenement in which it was housed. This was a strictly local place, devoid of even the most clueless tourists or uptown trendoids looking for an urban dining adventure. More important, it was probably the only Chinese restaurant in New York that served coffee, thanks to the NYPD clientele. Donuts next.
It was not yet noon, and the place was fairly empty, except for a few locals drinking what smelled like So Long tea out of bowls and chattering away in Cantonese, though the couple at the next booth was speaking Mandarin.
I’m making this up.
There was an exquisitely beautiful young Chinese woman waiting tables, and I watched her moving around as if she were floating on air.
She floated toward me, we smiled, and she floated away to be replaced by an old crone wearing bedroom slippers. God, I think, plays cruel jokes on married men. I ordered coffee.
The old lady shuffled off, and I read the sports section of the Daily News. The Yankees had beaten the Phillies last night four to one in the twelfth inning. Tino Martinez singled in a run and Jorge Posada hit a two-run homer in the twelfth. Meanwhile, I’m being dragged all over Long Island by Kate. I should have turned on the game—but who thought it would go into extra innings?
They were prepping the day’s mystery dishes in the kitchen, and I thought I heard a cat, a dog, and a duck, followed by chopping sounds, then silence. Smelled good, though.
I read the paper, sipped my coffee, and waited for Dick Kearns.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Dick Kearns came through the door, spotted me, and we shook hands as he slid into the booth facing me.
I said, “Thanks for coming.”
“No problem. But I need to be Midtown at one.”
Dick was about sixty, had all his hair and teeth, was always a sharp dresser, and today was no exception.
I asked him, “You see the Yankees game last night?”
“Yeah. Great game. You see it?”
“I was working.” I asked him, “How’s Mo?”
“She’s good. She used to bitch about my hours on homicide, then about my hours with the ATTF. Now that I’m working at home, she has something new to bitch about. She told me, ‘I said for better or worse, Dick, but I never said for lunch.’”
I smiled.
He asked, “How’s married life treating you?”
“Great. It helps that we’re in the same business. And I get free legal advice.”
He smiled and said, “You could do worse. She’s a doll.”
“I thank God every day.”
“Speaking of legal advice, you hear from Robin?”
“Now and then. She flies past my balcony on her broom and waves.”
He laughed.
The prelims out of the way, I changed the subject and asked him, “You enjoy what you do?”
He thought a moment, then replied, “No heavy lifting. I miss the people I worked with, but basically I make my own hours, and the pay is good. Sometimes, though, it gets slow. You know, we should be doing more background checks on more people. You get these bozos at airport security, for instance, and they have an important job, but they get paid shit, and half of them are potential security risks.”
I replied, “Spoken like a true civilian contract agent who’s looking for more hours to bill.”
He smiled and said, “I bill by the case, not the hour. And seriously, things have to tighten up in this country.”
I informed him, “We’re living in a country that has been blessed by a lot of good luck and two oceans.”
“I got news for you. The luck is running out, and the oceans don’t mean shit anymore.”
“You may be right.”
The little old lady came over, and Dick ordered coffee and an ashtray.
He lit a cigarette and said, “So, what can I do for you? You looking to get into this kind of work? I can put you in touch with the right guy.”
We both knew that I didn’t ask him to meet me on short notice to talk about a job, but it was a good story if it ever came up later. I replied, “Yeah. Sounds like something I’d like to do.”
His coffee came. He sipped, smoked, and gave me a quick description of his work so I could sound intelligent if someone asked me about it while I was attached to a polygraph machine.
Under the category of “What else did you talk about?” I said to him, “Let me get to the point. I need some information about TWA 800.”
He didn’t reply.
I continued, “I’m not on the case, and as you know, I never was. Kate, as you do know, was on the case, but she’s not talking to me. No one who’s in the ATTF is going to talk to me, and I don’t want to talk to them. You’re an old friend and a civilian, so I want you to talk to me.”
He stayed silent awhile, then replied, “I depend on the Federal government for my bread and butter.”
“Yeah, me, too. So, let’s talk ex-cop to ex-cop.”
“John, don’t do this to me. Or to yourself.”
“Let me worry about myself, Dick. As for you, you know I’d never give you up.”
“I know that. But . . . I signed a statement—”
“Fuck the statement. They closed the case. You can talk.”
He didn’t reply.
“Look, Dick, we go back a long way. Let’s make believe we never heard of the FBI or the Anti-Terrorist Task Force. I’m working a case on my own time, and I need your help.” Actually, I was on government time today, but it all balances out.
He stared into his coffee awhile, then asked, “What do you care about this case?”
“I went to the memorial service yesterday. I was very moved. Also, a guy introduced himself to me—Liam Griffith. You know him?”
He nodded.
“He asked too many questions about why I was there. So, I got curious.”
“That’s not a good reason to stick your nose into this. Look, this case has fucked up more people in more government agencies than you know. The veterans who got out alive don’t
want to go back there. Some FNGs—fucking new guys—like you, think they want to see what it’s all about. You don’t want to do that. Leave it alone.”
“I’ve already decided not to leave it alone. I’m at the next stage where I’m asking questions.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve got about a week before the guys on the twenty-eighth floor start asking you questions.”
“I understand that. Not a problem. But thanks for your concern. Okay, I just thought you’d give me a little help. I understand.” I glanced at my watch. “I need to meet Kate for lunch.”
He also glanced at his watch and lit another cigarette.
Neither of us spoke for a minute, then Dick said, “First, let me say this—I do not believe a missile was fired at that aircraft, and I do not believe there was an official cover-up or conspiracy. But what did happen is that the case got off on the wrong foot. It was politically charged from the beginning. People who hated Clinton wanted to believe that terrorists were responsible and that the administration was covering it up because they didn’t have the balls to admit to a security lapse or the balls to respond to an attack.”
“I know that. I wasn’t on the case, but I read the Post.”
He forced a smile and continued, “Beyond that, you had the FBI being totally arrogant—pushing around the NTSB people and even the Navy and the Coast Guard, and the local police, and that led to a lot of bad feelings and bruised egos, and that led to a lot of whispered rumors about cover-up, missing evidence, bad investigation techniques, and you name it. Then the CIA got involved, and I don’t have to tell you how many red flags that raised. Basically, this case was a round-robin fucking contest at every level. Add to that the victims’ families and the news media, and you’ve got a situation that gets people hurt and angry. Bottom line, though, everyone got their shit together, and the investigation reached the right conclusion.” He said, “It was an accident.”
“You think?”
“I do.”
“Then why is the case still too hot to even talk about five years later?”
“I just told you—everyone’s pissed at everyone else. Everyone is very defensive about the methods used to get to the conclusion. The only cover-up has to do with people covering their own asses and covering for a lot of mistakes.”
“So, in other words, no one had anything to hide—they just needed some time to get their stories straight.”
He smiled and replied, “Yeah, something like that.”
I asked, “Why were there so many CIA people on the case?”
He shrugged. “I guess because at first it looked like an attack from a foreign enemy. That’s the CIA’s job. Right?”
“Right. Why’d they make that stupid film?”
“I don’t know. I never understood that. Don’t read too much into that.”
“Okay. The problem, as I see it, aside from all the aforementioned government turf battles and screw-ups, is the eyewitnesses. I mean, without the eyewitnesses, everything that was reconstructed in the Calverton hangar and tested in the labs would be the final word on how that aircraft exploded and crashed. Right?”
Dick played with his spoon awhile, then said, “Right.”
“You interviewed witnesses. Right?”
“Right.”
“How many?”
“Ten.”
“How many saw the streak of light?”
“Six.”
“And you concluded . . . what?”
He looked at me and said, “I concluded that all six believed they saw something rise into the sky—a streak of light—and that this streak of light was traveling toward the vicinity of the aircraft, which subsequently exploded.”
“How does that fit into the accidental explosion of the center fuel tank?”
He replied, “Look, John, I’ve been through this a dozen times with the FBI and CIA guys, and a hundred times in my mind, and . . .” He smiled. “. . . about ten times with my wife. What do you want me to tell you? That the accidental explosion is bullshit? I’m not going to say that. I really think the evidence is there for the short circuit that touched off the fuel vapors.”
“Right. But if you back it up, what caused the short circuit?”
“A frayed wire.”
“Or maybe a kinetic missile passing through the air-conditioning units.”
“I won’t even go there.”
“Okay, then go back to your witnesses. What did they see?”
“I don’t know, and neither do they. But I think, based on a hundred years of detective work, that they saw something. Some light phenomenon in the sky. What was it? Damned if I know. Could have been a shooting star, or some kind of fireworks that some idiot fired from a boat. And what happened next is just a coincidence. They could have seen, as the CIA film said, burning fuel or the burning aircraft itself.”
I said to him, “Most, if not all, of the witnesses agreed on one thing—the CIA animation didn’t look like what they saw.”
“I see you’ve done some work since yesterday.” He leaned toward me and said, “Look, I think my interview techniques are very good . . . though the fucking CIA and fucking FBI put out some shit about bad interviewing techniques as the reason for these witnesses describing that streak of light. And they weren’t talking about themselves. So, it was like the NYPD’s fault that two hundred witnesses saw the same thing. Can you believe that shit?”
“Yes.”
He smiled. “Anyway, I got all I could out of those witnesses the first time around. By the second time around, they’d all been reading the papers and watching the news, so their stories went from, ‘Gee, it happened so fast, and I couldn’t be sure what I was seeing’ to, ‘Hey, I told you it was a guided missile’ followed by detailed descriptions of a reddish orange streak of fire and a white smoke plume, and zigging and zagging, and everything but the color of the fucking missile before it hit the aircraft.” He looked at me. “We’ve been there, John. We’ve done that. How many eyewitnesses have we had on the stand who totally forgot everything, or better yet, remembered all kinds of shit that never happened?”
“Point made.” But that made me think of something else. Too often we look at what’s in front of us and examine it to death. But sometimes, it’s what’s missing that can tell you something, like that dog that didn’t bark in the night. I said to Dick, “I always wondered why some kind of judicial inquest wasn’t held. You know, like a Justice Department court of inquiry with subpoena powers where all the eyewitnesses, government investigators, and forensic experts could be made to give sworn testimony, and where a panel of impartial judges could ask questions in open court. Why wasn’t that done?”
He shrugged. “How the hell do I know? Ask Janet Reno.”
I didn’t reply.
He said, “There were a few public hearings. Lots of press conferences.”
“But nothing judicial or congressional.”
He smirked. “You mean, like the Warren Commission? Shit, I still don’t know who killed JFK.”
“My ex-wife did. She talks in her sleep.”
“Yeah. I know.”
We shared a half-assed chuckle.
Dick chain-lit another cigarette and remarked, “I had to go to L.A. on business. You can’t smoke in restaurants or bars out there. You believe that? I mean, what the fuck is this country coming to? Assholes make laws, and people obey them. We’re all becoming sheep. Next is an anti-farting law. You know, like, ‘This is a fart-free establishment. Farting causes serious nose and throat ailments.’ I can see this warning sign with a guy in a circle bending over and a slash going through him. What’s next?”
I let him go on awhile, then asked, “Were you ever called to testify at one of these public hearings?”
“No. But—”
“Was any other interviewer or any eyewitness ever called to testify at a public hearing?”
“No, but—”
“Did the CIA interview any witnesses when they were making that tape?”
“No . . . but they said they did. Then a lot of eyewitnesses called them out on that, and the CIA then admitted that they used only written statements given by the eyewitnesses to make that animation.”
“Does that bother you?”
“From a professional standpoint . . . look, a lot of mistakes were made, which is why people like you are still nosing around and causing problems. Here’s my conclusion, which I really believe—it was a fucking accident. And here’s my advice to you—drop it.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not part of a cover-up or conspiracy, John. I ask you to drop it for two very good reasons. One, there was no crime, no conspiracy, no cover-up, and nothing for you to discover, except stupidity. Two, we’re old buds, and I don’t want to see you in trouble for no good reason. You want to get yourself into trouble? Do something worth the trouble. Kick Koenig in the balls.”
“I already did that this morning.”
Dick laughed, then looked at his watch again, and said, “Gotta go. Say hello to Kate.”
“Yeah. And hello to Mo.”
He started to slide out of the booth, and I said, “Oh, one more thing. Bayview Hotel. Beach blanket bimbo. Ring any bells?”
He looked at me and said, “I heard something. But I gotta tell you—there were more fucking rumors going around than even the press could handle. You probably heard the same rumor I did.”
“Tell me the rumor.”
“About this couple banging on the beach with a videotape going, and maybe they filmed the explosion. Some local cops passed it on to some of our guys. That’s all I heard.”
“Did you hear that this couple might have stayed at the Bayview Hotel?”
“Sounds familiar. I gotta go.”
He stood, and I said, “I need a name.”
“What name?”
“Any name. Someone like you who worked the case and is out of the clutches of the Feds. Someone who you think has some information I can use. Like maybe about that rumor. You remember how this works. You give me a name, I talk to the guy, and he gives me another name. And so on.”
He stayed silent awhile, then said, “You never did listen to good advice. Okay, here’s a name. Marie Gubitosi. You know her?”