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  LADY JUSTICE

  AND THE CAT

  A WALT WILLIAMS

  MYSTERY/COMEDY NOVEL

  ROBERT THORNHILL

  Lady Justice and the Cat

  Copyright March, 2017 by Robert Thornhill

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way, by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, incidents and entities included in the story are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events and entities is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America

  Fiction, Humorous

  Fiction, Mystery & Detective, General

  LADY JUSTICE AND THE CAT

  PROLOGUE

  On November 24th, 1971, D.B. Cooper boarded a Boeing 727 in Portland, Oregon after purchasing a one way ticket on Flight 305 to Seattle.

  Comfortably seated in the rear of the passenger cabin, he lit a cigarette and ordered a bourbon and soda.

  Flight 305 was approximately one-third full when it took off on schedule at 2:50 pm, PST. Cooper handed a note to Florence Schaffner, the flight attendant situated nearest to him in a jump seat attached to the aft stair door. The note was printed in neat, all-capital letters with a felt-tip pen. Its exact wording is unknown, as Cooper later reclaimed it, but Schaffner recalled that it indicated he had a bomb in his briefcase, and wanted her to sit with him. Schaffner did as requested, then quietly asked to see the bomb. Cooper cracked open his briefcase long enough for her to glimpse eight red cylinders attached to wires coated with red insulation, and a large cylindrical battery. After closing the briefcase, he dictated his demands: $200,000 in "negotiable American currency,” four parachutes (two primary and two reserve), and a fuel truck standing by in Seattle to refuel the aircraft upon arrival. Schaffner conveyed Cooper's instructions to the pilots in the cockpit. When she returned, he was wearing dark sunglasses.

  The pilot, William Scott, contacted Seattle-Tacoma Airport air traffic control, which in turn informed local and federal authorities. The 36 other passengers were told that their arrival in Seattle would be delayed because of a "minor mechanical difficulty." Northwest Orient's president, Donald Nytro, authorized payment of the ransom and ordered all employees to cooperate fully with the hijacker. The aircraft circled Puget Sound for approximately two hours to allow Seattle police and the FBI time to assemble Cooper's parachutes and ransom money, and to mobilize emergency personnel.

  FBI agents assembled the ransom money from several Seattle-area banks, 10,000 unmarked 20-dollar bills, most with serial numbers beginning with the letter "L" indicating issuance by the Federal Reserve Bank of San Francisco, and most from the 1963A or 1969 series, and made a microfilm photograph of each of them.

  At 5:24 pm Cooper was informed that his demands had been met, and at 5:39 pm the aircraft landed at Seattle-Tacoma Airport. Cooper instructed Scott to taxi the jet to an isolated, brightly lit section of the tarmac and extinguish lights in the cabin to deter police snipers. Northwest Orient's Seattle operations manager, Al Lee, approached the aircraft in street clothes (to avoid the possibility that Cooper might mistake his airline uniform for that of a police officer) and delivered the cash-filled knapsack and parachutes via the aft stairs. Once the delivery was completed, Cooper permitted all passengers, Schaffner, and senior flight attendant Alice Hancock to leave the plane.

  At approximately 7:40 pm, the 727 took off with only Cooper, pilot Scott, flight attendant Tina Mucklow, co-pilot Bill Rataczak, and flight engineer H. E. Anderson aboard. Two F-106 fighter aircraft scrambled from nearby McChord Air Force Base followed behind the airliner, one above it and one below, out of Cooper's view.

  After takeoff, Cooper told Mucklow to join the rest of the crew in the cockpit and remain there with the door closed. As she complied, Mucklow observed Cooper tying something around his waist. At approximately 8:00 pm a warning light flashed in the cockpit, indicating that the aft air stair apparatus had been activated. The crew's offer of assistance via the aircraft's intercom system was curtly refused. The crew soon noticed a subjective change of air pressure, indicating that the aft door was open.

  At approximately 8:13 pm, the aircraft's tail section sustained a sudden upward movement, significant enough to require trimming to bring the plane back to level flight. At approximately 10:15 pm Scott and Rataczak landed the 727, with the aft air stair still deployed, at Reno Airport. FBI agents, state troopers, sheriff's deputies, and Reno police surrounded the jet, as it had not yet been determined with certainty that Cooper was no longer aboard, but an armed search quickly confirmed that he was gone.

  In the days that followed, the FBI, along with Army soldiers, Air Force personnel, National Guard troops, and civilian citizens, launched a search program that was arguably the most extensive and intensive in US history.

  In July of 2016, after 45 years, the FBI officially suspended active investigation of the case.

  D.B. Copper was never seen again. His body was never found. The bulk of the $200,000 was never recovered.

  Or was it?

  FBI composite drawing of D.B. Cooper

  CHAPTER 1

  KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI – PRESENT DAY

  Jake Whitfield and Marcus Brody stared at the modest bungalow on Brookside Boulevard.

  “You sure this is the right place?” Marcus asked.

  “Positive!” Jake replied. “I checked the mail in the box. Byron Forsythe. This is our guy.”

  “And you’re sure he found the cash that Cooper guy had with him when he bailed out of the jet?”

  “Look, all I know is what my cousin, Larry, told me. Apparently, Forsythe had done a ton of research and knew the flight path that Cooper’s jet had taken and the approximate spot where he jumped. He chartered Larry’s plane and had him follow that flight plan exactly. Then the guy bailed out just like Cooper had done wearing nothing but his chute and a back pack. A week later, Forsythe shows up and loads his backpack and a canvas bag into his car. After all that research and a week in the wilderness, I doubt Forsythe was out there picking up pinecones.”

  “So you think the money was in that canvas bag?”

  “I think it’s worth a look. Don’t you?”

  “So what’s our play? If this guy can jump out of a plane and spend a week in the woods, he’s no pussycat. Hell, he might even be Special Forces or some shit like that. You think we can take him?”

  “We’ve got two things on our side,” Jake replied. “Surprise and this!” he said, holding up a .22 revolver.

  “Well, okay then. What now?”

  “It’s getting dark,” Jake replied. “You stay here. I’m going to take a peek in the window.”

  A few minutes later, he returned. “Forsythe is in his bedroom. Looks like he’s writing in some kind of journal. We can go in the back, and if we’re real quiet, we can get the drop on him.”

  Marcus nodded and they circled to the rear of the house. They paused, and hearing nothing, Jake quietly picked the lock and they slipped inside.

  Byron Forsythe was so thoroughly engrossed in his writing, he did not hear their approach until it was too late.

  “Just put your hands in the air and no one gets hurt,” Jake growled.

  Forsythe turned in his swivel chair and found himself looking down the barrel of a .22.

  “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “It don’t matter who we are, and I think you probably know what we
want.”

  “Actually, I don’t. Please enlighten me.”

  “Let’s not play games, Forsythe. We know about your little trip into the woods and the canvas bag you brought home. That’s what we’re here for.”

  “Why in the world would you want that?” Forsythe replied, playing dumb. “I’m a geologist. It was full of rocks and other specimens I had collected.”

  “Cut the bullshit! We know you were on the same flight plan as that Cooper guy and jumped right where he did. You found the loot that people have been looking over the past forty-six years. Now where is it?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh really? Maybe this will jog your memory.”

  Jake fired a round into Forsythe’s leg.

  “Jesus, Jake!” Marcus wailed as Forsythe shrieked with pain and grabbed his bleeding leg. “Why’d you go and do that?”

  “Cause he’s lying. He has that cash and I want it!”

  Jake leveled the pistol at Forsythe’s head. “One more time! Where did you stash the dough?”

  “You’ll get nothing from me!” Forsythe replied gritting his teeth in pain. “Even if I told you, you’d still pull that trigger, so finish it or get out of my house!”

  “Your call,” Jake replied, and fired a shot into Forsythe’s temple.

  “Holy crap!” Marcus cried as Forsythe crumpled to the floor. “He’s dead! You killed him, Jake! No one was supposed to get hurt. Now what are we gonna do?”

  “We’re going to search this place from top to bottom. Maybe the money’s here. If not, we’ll look for something to tell us where it is. Now get busy!”

  After a thorough search, no money was found.

  “Oh just great!” Marcus wailed. “We went and killed a guy for nothing!”

  “Not really. All it means is that he didn’t stash it here. We’ve got his backpack, his computer, and that journal he was writing in. Maybe we’ll find something that will tell us where it is.”

  “Fine! Can we get out of here before someone sees us?”

  “Quit bellyaching. Nobody’s seen us.”

  At least, that’s what he thought.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Walt, are you ready? We’re supposed to be there in a half hour.”

  It was the voice of Maggie, my wife, urging me on.

  Maggie is a real estate agent with City Wide Realty and still very active at the ripe old age of seventy-two.

  I, too, was a realtor for thirty years, then traded my briefcase for a badge and was a cop with the Kansas City Police Department for five years. After taking a bullet in the kiester, I retired and opened my own P.I. business, Walt Williams Investigations.

  Today, I will be assuming the role of Maggie’s Little Helper.

  Because of her years of experience, her broker, Dave Richards, often gives Maggie listings that a lesser agent would find daunting. She has taken on properties owned by incarcerated drug lords, and houses that have stood vacant for months or years.

  She has assembled a team of professionals that can turn the most hideous home into a showplace.

  It was such a listing that we would be tackling today.

  The small bungalow on Brookside had been the scene of a grisly murder, a stigma that often dampens a buyer’s enthusiasm.

  The victim was Byron Forsythe, who had just returned from an out-of-town trip, and we were to meet his nephew, Reginald Forsythe, to get the property listed and on the market.

  “Ready when you are,” I replied, grabbing Maggie’s briefcase.

  “Thanks for coming with me,” she said, giving me a smooch.

  “Glad to do it. It’s not like I have clients lined up outside our door.”

  We pulled up in front of the house, taking a moment to check on the property’s curb appeal. While not exactly run down, it was apparent that Byron had not spent much time trimming, pruning and cutting.

  “I’ll get Frankie on the yard and he’ll have it looking like a park,” Maggie said, making an entry in her notebook.

  A young man, probably in his late twenties met us at the door.

  “Reginald Forsythe,” he said, extending his hand. “You can call me Reggie.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Maggie replied. “I’m Maggie Williams and this is my husband, Walt.”

  “So sorry for your loss,” I said, shaking his hand. “I understand Byron was your uncle.”

  “That’s right. I’m his only living heir and the executor of his estate. Please come in. I’d like to get through this paperwork as soon as possible. I have a plane to catch this afternoon.”

  “Of course,” Maggie replied. “I have everything filled out. We can take care of this first, then tour the house later.”

  “I appreciate that. Dealing with this mess wasn’t exactly in my schedule.”

  I was beginning to sense that Reggie and his uncle weren’t exactly bosom buddies. “Were you and your uncle close?”

  “Not really. He was never around. He fancied himself an Indiana Jones and was always taking off to some remote place looking for treasure. Look around. He obviously didn’t spend much time taking care of this place.”

  Reggie was right. While not filthy, it looked like the place had not seen a thorough cleaning in years.

  Reggie’s last statement piqued my interest. “Treasure hunter. Did he ever find anything significant?”

  “Not that I’ve ever heard of. Again, look around. This place doesn’t exactly reek of hidden treasures unearthed.”

  He had a point.

  I kept pressing. “I understand he had just recently returned when he was killed. Any idea where he had been?”

  “Ever heard of D.B. Cooper?”

  “Isn’t that the guy who jumped out of a jet with a bagful of money?”

  “That’s the one. $200,000 to be exact. Neither Cooper nor the money was ever found. One of the biggest mysteries in aviation history. People have been scouring the Washington wilderness for forty years but haven’t found Cooper or his bag of money. Uncle Byron couldn’t resist. The last I heard of him, he was heading to Reno, Nevada where Cooper’s jet had taken off. Then, just a few days ago, I received the call from the Kansas City police saying he had been shot.”

  “Any chance your uncle might have actually hit pay dirt this time? $200,000 in cash would be a pretty good motive for murder.”

  “What are you? A cop?”

  “I used to be. Just a P.I. now.”

  I was about to press further when Maggie interrupted. “I have your paperwork ready. Shall we go over it together?”

  “No, just show me where to sign and give me a copy of everything. I’ll review it on the plane.”

  After the last document was signed, Maggie asked, “There’s a lot of personal things in the house that will have to be removed before we can put it on the market. What would you like done with them?”

  “I really don’t care,” he replied. “I looked around, took a few old family photos and a couple of other things. As far as I’m concerned, just box everything up and give it to the Salvation Army.”

  He was about to leave when there was a knock on the door.

  An elderly woman stepped inside. “I hope I’m not interrupting. I’m Blanche Upton from next door.” She turned to Reggie. “You must be Byron’s nephew.”

  “Yes I am. I don’t mean to be rude, but I have a plane to catch. May I help you with something?”

  “Heaven’s no! I just came over to check on Clarence.”

  I saw the confused look on his face. “Who’s Clarence?”

  “Byron’s cat, of course. He’s had him for several years now. I come over and take care of him when your uncle is out of town.”

  “Cat? I haven’t seen any cat.”

  “He’s shy around strangers. He’s here somewhere. Claaaaaarence. Here kitty, kitty.”

  A moment later, a grey striped tabby cat came strolling into the room.

  “Here’s my good boy” Blanche gushed. “Come here Cla
rence.”

  The cat rubbed against her leg, purring softly.

  I saw Maggie’s look of concern. “Well, this is a new development. We’re going to clean out the house from top to bottom. Poor Clarence won’t be able to stay.”

  Byron turned to Mrs. Upton. “So you’ve been feeding and caring for Clarence for several years?”

  “Yes, I stop by at least once every day to give him some attention, clean out his litter box, and make sure he has plenty of food and water.”

  “That’s perfect. Now that Uncle Byron’s gone, you can take him home with you. You obviously care for each other.”

  Blanche shook her head. “No can do. I love the little guy, but my Pomeranian doesn’t.” She giggled. “They fight like cats and dogs.”

  “Well then, I guess that settles it,” Reggie said with a shrug. “Maggie, can I count on you to call animal control?”

  Clarence had turned his attention from Blanche to my wife, and was rubbing and nuzzling her leg.

  I saw the look on Maggie’s face and it sent cold chills up and down my spine.

  “Don’t worry about it, Reggie. I’ll take care of Clarence.”

  “Fine!” he replied. “Then I’m out of here. Nice to meet all of you.” He turned to Maggie. “I guess you’ll be in touch when we have an offer.”

  Maggie nodded and Reggie was gone.

  As soon as he was out the door, I turned to my wife. “Maggie! I hope you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.”

  She got that pleading look in her eye. “Walt, you know as well as I do, if we call animal control, they’ll pick him up, keep him for a few days, and if no one adopts him, they’ll put him to sleep. Is that what you really want?”

  I looked down and Clarence was at my feet. It was almost as if he actually understood what was being discussed and had practiced his ‘please take me’ expression. I could almost hear him say, “Pleeeese! I won’t be any trouble. I promise.”