***
It has been two weeks now since the bombing of 407, and we have not picked up any leads, I thought. I was still working on the case. My mind still pondered over the plane bombing trying to remember each and every detail. Was there something we missed? Finally the lab was able to lift a partial print from the locker key, just enough of a print to put a face and name to, Odell McHarris, last known address 502 South Needy Road, Birmingham, Alabama. After I pulled up his military record; I knew he was the man. We took off and called ahead to Birmingham to notify them of the situation. A few hours later we arrived. I didn’t want any mistakes on our part, I thought. This guy had been too hard to catch.
When we arrived we found an old white weather boarded house. It was surrounded by giant maples and oaks. There was no car at home. We waited a few minutes before we moved in. We didn’t want to be too quick or anxious. There was no room for error. Everything was still and quiet. Slowly, we worked our way around the house and got in position to move in. Still there was no sign of anyone. Maybe he isn’t at home, I thought.
But deep down inside I sensed something evil. I gave the motion to move in. Quickly, we stormed the house, busting down the door. One of the men yelled out that everything was clear. He wasn’t at home. We looked around at all his equipment, computers, maps, and charts of the Atlanta and Charleston airports. There was enough data to keep a dozen FBI agents busy for a long time. There were weather charts, data flight charts in and out of both airports for the last three years, flight plans, timers, voice activated machines, designs of planes, blueprints of planes, and blueprints of the airports. It went on and on. The phone was wired with micro fiber sensor adaptors which scrambled the phone calls making them untraceable, and a scrambler jig blocked and split the calls into thirty-seven different cities across the US. The calls could come from anywhere.
One of the agents radioed in, “Sir, we’re all clear around the grounds. There’s no one around.”
Agent Grant motioned for me to come over and look at some letters he had found. Evidently, at one time, he had studied to be a priest before he went to Vietnam. There were also some letters from the mental hospital stating his extremely high I.Q. He was a genius in mathematics and aerodynamics. Brilliant, the doctor went on to say. Then it dawned on me; he left his prints on the locker key on purpose to lead us here.
“Are you saying, Walker, that he led us here,” replied Grant.
“Right; everyone get out now, on the double, run!” I yelled.
Agents scattered in every direction. The house blew up, belching great balls of fire and black smoke. Several agents were injured with a few minor cuts and burns. Luckily, no one was killed. The countryside screamed with sirens, fire trucks, and ambulances as they raced to the scene. The old house burned quickly. Shortly, there was nothing standing but a pile of ashes. The next day we searched the cold ashes to see if there was anything left.
An agent cried out, “Walker, it’s a body.”
As I rushed over to him, sure enough it was, but whom? The body was taken to the medical examiner for an autopsy. A couple of days later the autopsy results came back. According to the dental and military medical records of the deceased, the victim was Odell McHarris, the bomber of Flight 407. He was hiding in a hidden room when we searched the house. That’s the reason we couldn’t find him. Finally, the long nightmare was coming to a close, I thought.
But, there was something that still bothered me. He could have easily blown up the house when we were all in there, but he didn’t. He waited until we were pretty much clear of it. That’s it, he wasn’t trying to kill us, I thought. He committed suicide to let us know he got away with blowing up a plane.
When I got back to my office I put away the files of Flight 407. Case closed! However, Grant came in and told me that the coroner had found something else. He had talked to Dr. Eugene Atwater, McHarris’s doctor at the VA Hospital. McHarris was dying with cancer. They had only given him a few months to live.
“What do you make of that,” asked Grant.
“Anyway you look at it,” I replied, “he would have gotten away with it. You want to get a bite of lunch?” I asked Grant.
“Sure,” he replied. “You buying aren’t you?”