He could barely see it, but it was there: color. Like a skilled archaeologist, he scraped further with his hand and stared at the red featherlike object. He used a pair of padded tongs to grip an exposed corner. Remarkably, whatever it was peeled away from the rubber intact. He laid it into his gloved palm.
There was a rigid, notched t-stem at one end that appeared to be made from some sort of hardened plastic. The other end was flexible. The curved, thin object was six inches long, with an intricate design of leaf-like filaments. It reminded him of an elongated ear or some type of insect wing.
He drew out an evidence bag from his jacket kit and placed the object inside.
Chapter 33
Patricia Creed lifted her briefcase onto the conference room table. She opened her laptop and reviewed her notes on Flight 771’s captain and first officer, including their licenses, ratings, experience, and any indicated limitations. She also completed a brief picture, using the best available witnesses and associates, of each man’s actions seventy-two hours prior to departure, including drug, alcohol, or prescription usage.
Both pilots checked out beautifully.
Creed checked her appointment calendar. She glanced through the doorway at a man pacing in the outer hall, and she waved him in.
Matt Driesen closed the door and took a seat.
Thin and fit in his mid-thirties, he wore a set of deep blue coveralls with a pair of airman’s wings sewn on his chest. The palms of his hands were clean. His fingers were lightly crackled in something black.
“Mr. Driesen, I’m Tricia Creed. I understand that you just had a company service anniversary. Congratulations.”
“Fifteen years,” he acknowledged warily. “I don’t even know why I’m here, ma’am. I worked my shift on the eighteenth, but I never went near that plane. I don’t want anyone blaming me for something I didn’t work on.”
“Matt, just relax. We’re not here to blame anyone.” She casually touched a button on a small tape recorder. “I’m with the NTSB, and I’m assisting the FBI’s investigation of the Delta 771 incident. We’re interviewing everyone who was on shift that day.
“I’m going to ask you some questions related to your work responsibilities. This is nothing more than a general interview. It’s routine, and I want you to feel comfortable. You won’t need any Union representation because this is just an investigative inquiry. You’re not being accused of anything.”
That was a complete — albeit legal — untruth by omission. NTSB interviews were evidentiary interrogations. Interviewers never advised subjects to have an attorney present even though statements were absolutely presentable, binding, and often damaging in court.
Driesen’s face was taut, but he managed a nod.
“What’s your official title and primary responsibility at Delta?” Creed asked.
“Technical Line Maintenance. I do everything from routine turnaround and overnight checks to nonroutine aircraft log entries. I can also handle complex in-service repairs. I do whatever it takes to keep an aircraft flying.”
“How long have you been assigned to aviation maintenance?”
“All fifteen years.”
“Have you ever received a warning for improper procedures on maintenance that you performed?”
“Never.”
“Ever receive a security reprimand?”
Driesen folded his arms. His leg started bouncing repeatedly. “I got my first one last month. I walked outside through one of our hangar exit doors and didn’t close it tight enough. The wind was blowing hard that day. One of those TSA guys was sitting in the parking lot over at UPS, eating his lunch. He saw the whole thing and wrote me up on the spot. It cost me one hundred fifty dollars.”
“How did that make you feel?”
“Take a wild guess,” he snapped. “Especially when he gave me this big lecture on how we all need to watch out for terrorists and everything. We started shouting at each other. The guy was a real jerk.”
“Did you feel the fine was justified?”
Driesen shifted uneasily and then looked over his shoulder. “Between you and me, most of those federal guys just walk around thinking that they’re better than everyone else. Just because they work for the government, they think they can stop you anytime and ask if you’ve seen anyone or anything suspicious. I guess it’s their job or something, but it’s a joke.
“And I’m not the only one who thinks that. They check some workers over and over, and forget about others. I mean, they’ll look to see if the person is wearing a badge but never real close. One of my buddies cut out the president’s face and taped it over his ID. He wore that for a whole month, and nobody ever noticed. They just get used to seeing the same people. But the worst thing is that no one checks us when we come in and out of the building at shift change.”
Creed sat forward. “Can you be more specific?”
“Sure, I can be really specific, but not while that’s on.” He nodded to the recorder. Creed clicked it off. “Over three hundred people work in this building on two shifts, mostly mechanics and their supervisors. Nobody ever checks us when we come in. I could bring a thermos full of gasoline in my lunch pail and stick it any place on any aircraft, and nobody would ever know. Nobody.
“I know these planes inside and out, and I have access to every inch of every system. Sometimes, during routine maintenance, I get into places that hardly anybody has ever been to or even knows about.
“One time, I accidentally left an extension drill next to the hydraulic pump shafts. If that drill rolled, we’d be talking serious damage to rotating parts with the potential for a complete loss of fluid and pressure. That plane left Milwaukee and was gone for a whole weekend. Needless to say, I didn’t get much sleep, because guess who was on it? The St. Louis Cardinals baseball team. Luckily, they were playing the Brewers again, and it came back around. I found my drill and got it out of there.
“But you see what I mean? That could easily have been a bomb. Nobody checks us for anything. It’s really scary to think that there might be mechanics or techs on other airlines all over the country or even the world who could hide something in a hundred different places.” Creed closed her folder and handed Matt a business card. “Thank you, Mr. Driesen. I think we’re finished. If you think of anything else that might be relevant, please call.”
Creed studied him as he left. She remembered what Jack Riley had said at that NTSB conference center presentation about critical thinking and raising a brief terrorism eyebrow. It certainly applied to this witness.
She found it fascinating that the FBI’s seventeen-year search for Theodore Kaczynski, a domestic terrorist-bomber who killed three people and injured twenty-three others, actually had a connection to Driesen. In that investigation, the FBI’s Behavioral Sciences Unit issued a psychological profile of the suspect, describing him as someone with above-average intelligence and connections to academia. The profile later said he was a technology-hater with a science degree. A third and final revision said that the infamous Unabomber was most likely a blue-collar airplane mechanic.
The first thing Agent Cheng noticed as he entered the unfamiliar bar was that at 11:00 a.m., every seat was filled. The second thing he noticed was the reason why.
The only bartender, twenty-eight-year-old Marianne Alby, had a model’s physique, and a dangerously short skirt. She always made good tips.
“I’ll need to see a membership card,” Marianne said matter-of-factly, setting two mugs on the rail and pulling a draft spigot. Cheng produced his ID. She glanced at it briefly, topping off the second mug. “What can I get for you, sir?”