He smiled and turned for his van; then he stopped. The south wind carried an unmistakable smell. It was burnt jet fuel.
Griffin drove west on College Avenue, north on I-94, and then merged onto westbound I-894, a bypass freeway that skirted downtown Milwaukee. At 3:00 a.m., the only other vehicle she saw was a lone county sheriff’s cruiser tucked underneath an overpass bridge at 27th Street. The deputy was pointing a radar gun. She checked her speed and then lowered the windows. Awake for twenty-one hours, she needed fresh air. She opened her cell phone and dialed the station’s tip line. She hadn’t checked it all day. There was one message — Monday, May 18, at 5:59 a.m. The caller’s voice was young, male, and distinctly foreign.
“Behold, America, Delta Flight 771. Allah has sent a devastating wind.”
Chapter 23
Griffin slammed on the brakes. The Volkswagen skidded sideways for fifty feet and came to rest facing the wrong way. She floored the accelerator and sped toward the freeway entrance ramp she’d passed a few moments earlier.
The sheriff’s lights flashed on immediately.
She drove up the ramp, turned south on 27th Street, and headed east on Layton Avenue at seventy miles per hour. She ran two red lights.
A Milwaukee police squad joined the pursuit and quickly closed to within a few feet of her bumper.
The Volkswagen squealed onto South 5th Street and into the Marriott’s parking lot, screeching to a stop at the main entrance.
Griffin lost her cap as she flew through the lobby toward a man in a suit talking on a cell phone next to the restricted room blocks. He had a badge ID clipped to his belt.
“Please help me. I’m with local Fox News.”
One officer literally swept Griffin into the air and pinned her against the elevator doors. Another quickly snapped on handcuffs.
Bystanders watched with mild amusement as this obviously intoxicated female with a bandage on her head was escorted outside. They probably thought she was involved in some domestic dispute.
Griffin yelled over her shoulder. “I need Tom Ross.”
“Wait, bring her back here,” Jack Riley ordered from across the lobby, abruptly ending his phone call. The officers complied. “What did you say?”
“Please, do you know Tom Ross? It’s an emergency.”
“About what?” Riley asked suspiciously.
“Material evidence related to that plane crash. I’ll only speak to him.”
Riley conferred with the officers.
The handcuffs came off.
Riley escorted Griffin down the first-floor corridor and through a set of closed doors. The sign on a hallway stanchion said: FBI Command Center.
“What is this?” Walter Ford growled from across a huge table.
“She says she’s a reporter,” Riley answered.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“What time did that plane take off?” Griffin blurted.
“Get her out of here,” Ford ordered angrily. “This isn’t a press conference.”
“The exact time.”
Surprised by the woman’s boldness, Riley held up his hand at Ford.
“Yes, ma’am. Anything you say. The wheels left the ground at exactly six-oh-one. Now, what else would you like to know?”
Ross entered the room. Griffin embraced him tightly.
“Tom, what’s going on?” Riley demanded. “Do you know this woman?”
“Neela, what are you doing?” Ross whispered. “If this is about a story for your station, you can’t—”
She placed a finger to her lips and leaned across the table for the speakerphone. She dialed the tip line’s access number and turned up the volume.
The message played out.
Maintaining his demeanor, Riley put his arm on Ford’s shoulder and walked him to the far end of the room. He bent next to his ear. “Walter, I don’t want to tell you your job, but we need to contact Fox’s communication carrier right away. I’ve got a hunch. Once that’s started, I’ll give you a few minutes to inform your chain of command before I call the Secretary. This is going to boil over very quickly. We need to stay calm and do the right things.”
“What about her?” Ford peered at Griffin.
“She doesn’t leave this room for the foreseeable future. Agreed?”
Ford nodded once and promptly lifted a phone.
Riley approached Griffin. “Ma’am, do you know which telephone carrier operates that tip line?”
“Sprint… er, wait. We just switched. I think it’s AT&T now.”
After several conversations and a flurry of orders, Ford returned to his seat and positioned two telephones in the center of the table. He dialed the residence number for Rand Harrington, the acting Deputy Secretary of National Cyber Security.
After a private conversation, Ford placed Harrington on speaker.
“Rand, we’re all here. The reporter’s name is Neela Griffin. She’s with Milwaukee’s Fox news station.”
“Good morning, ma’am,” Harrington’s voice said. “This is an official investigation under the authority of the Department of Homeland Security. I need to inform you that you are not here as a suspect or person of interest but as a holder of potential significant evidentiary material related to a terror threat against the United States of America. You will not need an attorney present during this discussion because, again, you’re not a suspect. However, we do need to ask you some questions. You may, at our discretion, be detained in order to provide us with that information so determined by Homeland Security. If you do not voluntarily cooperate, you may be held under abeyance detention in accordance with the authority granted to the DHS under the Patriot Act of 2001, as amended. We may or may not record this conversation. Do you understand?”
Griffin turned to Ross. He squeezed her arm and nodded reassuringly.
“I understand.”
“Ma’am, you claim to have a voice communication message about an airline incident currently under investigation. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Why would anyone call you?”
“They didn’t. I work for WITI Channel 6 News here in Milwaukee. We operate a crime tip line that anyone may call to leave messages on. It’s available 24/7.”
“We’re confirming the call timing,” Riley added.
“Who else has access to the messages on this tip line?” Harrington asked Griffin.
“Our voice and data support people at the station, but usually it’s just me.”
“Very well,” Harrington said calmly. “Walter, I want you to contact Mitchell’s departure control. I want two independent statements on the exact time that aircraft left the ground.”
“We already have that,” Riley spoke up.
“Re-verify it,” Harrington shot back. “It was probably a cell phone, so let’s get a trace started with AT&T’s mobile switch people. If memory serves, that area has two wireless switches, a primary in the suburb of New Berlin and a backup on Milwaukee’s north side. I want the subscriber identity and the origination and termination time slots confirmed. We should be able to compare them with the tower log.”
“Sir, that’s in progress too,” Riley gently informed him.
“We need to play your message for Mr. Harrington,” Ford said to Griffin.
She dialed the number. It played out on a second speaker.
There was extended silence.
“Has anyone else heard this?” Harrington’s voice finally spoke.
“Just this room,” Ford answered.
“Walter, pick up, please.”
Griffin quietly rose from her seat and headed for the door.
An agent casually blocked her path.
“I’d like to take my medication and make a phone call,” Griffin said to Riley. “Is that all right?”