Page 82 of The Family Cross

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JOHN SAMPSON LEFT THE airport in the back of an ambulance with an incoherent Alejandro Rodriguez handcuffed to a gurney. I got out of the fire department’s way, called Willard Kane, and told him everything that had transpired so far that day.

“You’re all over the news,” Kane told me. “There’s video of you shooting the dancing guy with the Taser after Sampson called into dispatch and said he was unarmed.”

“He said he appeared unarmed, but Rodriguez is an ex–Special Forces operator,” I said firmly. “We could not see if he had a weapon hidden, sir. My best judgment, given the destruction and injury he had just caused, was that we should incapacitate him as quickly and humanely as possible.”

The chief paused, then said, “I would have done the same thing, Cross. Do we have a motive for blowing up a plane? And how the hell did he get clearance for a job like pumping airplane fuel at Dulles?”

“All questions to be answered, sir. But he apparently ingested a very large amount of psilocybin mushrooms before he showed up for work this morning.”

“Was he in his right mind?” Kane asked, sounding disgusted. “He won’t be able to claim insanity, will he?”

“He was hardly in his right mind, but I’ve never heard of a too-many-shrooms defense.”

“Make them run the hallucinogen tox screens in addition to the regular ones so we know what drugs were in his system. Did something trigger him?”

“I’m assuming it was us showing up at his work after he’d run from the homeless camp after lying to us about his whereabouts when the Audi was torched.”

Kane said, “You think he’s good for all four killings?”

“Things are sure leaning that way,” I said.

“What do you need in order to nail him cold?”

“We’re going to start with the avgas logs,” I said. “If we can find evidence of fuel going missing before the first murder and during times that Rodriguez was present, I think we’ve got him. Especially if we can find video of him leaving the grounds with fuel cans.”

“Keep me posted,” Kane said. “And I’m glad you’re both alive.”

“Thank you. We are as well, Chief,” I said and hung up.

I spent the next three hours with detectives from the Loudon County sheriff’s department and investigators from the FBI, the FAA, and the ATF, all of whom descended on the scene quickly.

I was pleased to see FBI agent Ned Mahoney. The senior crisis manager and I went way back—he and I were partners when I worked for the Bureau. Mahoney listened closely to my account while his agents gathered security footage from the airport’s multiple cameras. The video corroborated everything in my version of the narrative, from Hawk’s unconcerned reaction to our arrival to the opening of the bleeder valve on the avgas tank to the disengagement of the trailer linkage.

“It’s a miracle someone didn’t die,” Mahoney said, shaking his head after taking in the damage to the aircraft and the hangar.

“So far, the worst injury I heard about is a mechanic who took a piece of shrapnel to the thigh that cut his femoral artery. But the medics got to him quickly, and they’re saying he’s going to be okay.”

“Like I said, a miracle,” Mahoney replied. “You know we’re going to take over this part of your investigation.”

“Have at it,” I said. “As long as we are still lead on the murders.”

“Yep, those are still your cases,” he said. “But keep me informed, Alex. The connection between the motive for what happened here and those murders seems pretty clear. He saw you and John, realized you had him because of the jet fuel, and tried to go out in a blaze of drug-fueled glory.”

“That’s what I’m thinking too. But we’ll see what he tells Sampson at the hospital.”

“You on your way there?”

“Unless you need more from me right now.”

“I’ll need a formal statement eventually but not today. How’s the family?”

I got him caught up on what was going on with Nana Mama, ending on a positive note. “Language is not there yet, but she’s getting a little better every day,” I said.

“That little old lady is beyond tough.”

“She is that.”