phone directory, I found a number for the FAA District Office. To my surprise, an inspector, who I did not know, offered to mail me a copy of the Missing Aircraft Report, saving me a trip to the state capital. I was not so lucky with a call to Atlanta. A surly female of African American descent curtly informed me that only agency employees were allowed access to tower transcripts. Hanging up, I had some truly evil thoughts toward her. A quick call back to Paul Bradford, the Tower Chief in Meridian, was much more productive. He would have the transcript sent to him, and would inform me when it arrived.
There were three names Rose provided of men whom Hadley Welch dated after the death of her husband. One, a lawyer by the name of Charles Collinswood, lived in the nearby town of Union. Might as well start with him, I thought.
Attorney Collinswood agreed to meet with me tomorrow at nine a.m. He seemed quite surprised at hearing Hadley Welch's name, but had no reservations talking about her.
My next call was to a banker in Decatur, a man by the name of Peter Pushkin. Here I hit a snag. He in no way wanted to talk about his relationship with Hadley Welch. I convinced him to have lunch with me, promising the utmost discretion. He reluctantly agreed, but only if we met in Union. We set up a meeting at noon tomorrow in a little barbecue place that I knew called the Hot Spot.
Next, I tried the Naval Officer. A pleasant-sounding woman answered and informed me that her husband was in his woodworking shop, and for me to hold on for a moment.
"This is Raymond Spruance."
"Sir, my name is Jay Leicester, and I'm looking into the disappearance of Hadley Welch. I'd like to talk with you about her."
There was a pause. Then, “Who are you with? The police?"
"I'm an aviation consultant, hired by the daughter to find out what happened."
"Good God, man, that was twenty years ago. Why now?"
"Twenty-five years to be exact. The woman wants to know what happened to her mother. Don't worry, sir, I won't do anything to damage your career."
"Hell, son, I've been retired for fifteen years. There is nothing I can tell you about that woman's disappearance. But if you want to talk, please come to my home and I'll be happy to tell you about our brief romance."
He gave me the address, and we agreed to meet day after tomorrow at ten a.m. Looking out the window at the heavy rain, I thought that none of these men seemed, at least on the surface, likely to have anything to do with Hadley Welch going missing. My bet was that she lost control of her little airplane trying to return to the grass landing strip due to some unknown emergency and lay in a mangled pile somewhere nearby. Annie Sanders threw the only monkey wrench into that line of thought. I needed to talk to her again, and to Earl. These two people were friends. Approaching them would be tedious, at best.
B.W. came out of hiding as the line of thunderstorms moved eastward. He lay in front of the fire, looking at me as if he knew we were getting into something we didn't have any business sticking our nose into.
At three o'clock, I fed B.W. a can of tuna. He ate it with such relish it made me hungry. Instead, I opened a bottle of Merlot from a 'boutique' winery in Napa Valley, stoked the fire, and thought about how one would go about finding a twenty-five year old plane crash. If it were under water, a side scanning radar would be effective. Had the crash happened within the last week, heat-sensing radar like FLIR (Forward Looking Infrared Radar) could detect the site. I had read about ground penetrating radar, but that would necessitate pulling an instrument along the ground to detect something buried, and that just didn't make sense.
I needed a look at the letter Sunny Pfeiffer received, maybe send it to a crime lab for prints and DNA, if it hadn't been too contaminated. If we could find out who sent it and why, we would be in a lot better position to know how to proceed. The letter was
There were three names Rose provided of men whom Hadley Welch dated after the death of her husband. One, a lawyer by the name of Charles Collinswood, lived in the nearby town of Union. Might as well start with him, I thought.
Attorney Collinswood agreed to meet with me tomorrow at nine a.m. He seemed quite surprised at hearing Hadley Welch's name, but had no reservations talking about her.
My next call was to a banker in Decatur, a man by the name of Peter Pushkin. Here I hit a snag. He in no way wanted to talk about his relationship with Hadley Welch. I convinced him to have lunch with me, promising the utmost discretion. He reluctantly agreed, but only if we met in Union. We set up a meeting at noon tomorrow in a little barbecue place that I knew called the Hot Spot.
Next, I tried the Naval Officer. A pleasant-sounding woman answered and informed me that her husband was in his woodworking shop, and for me to hold on for a moment.
"This is Raymond Spruance."
"Sir, my name is Jay Leicester, and I'm looking into the disappearance of Hadley Welch. I'd like to talk with you about her."
There was a pause. Then, “Who are you with? The police?"
"I'm an aviation consultant, hired by the daughter to find out what happened."
"Good God, man, that was twenty years ago. Why now?"
"Twenty-five years to be exact. The woman wants to know what happened to her mother. Don't worry, sir, I won't do anything to damage your career."
"Hell, son, I've been retired for fifteen years. There is nothing I can tell you about that woman's disappearance. But if you want to talk, please come to my home and I'll be happy to tell you about our brief romance."
He gave me the address, and we agreed to meet day after tomorrow at ten a.m. Looking out the window at the heavy rain, I thought that none of these men seemed, at least on the surface, likely to have anything to do with Hadley Welch going missing. My bet was that she lost control of her little airplane trying to return to the grass landing strip due to some unknown emergency and lay in a mangled pile somewhere nearby. Annie Sanders threw the only monkey wrench into that line of thought. I needed to talk to her again, and to Earl. These two people were friends. Approaching them would be tedious, at best.
B.W. came out of hiding as the line of thunderstorms moved eastward. He lay in front of the fire, looking at me as if he knew we were getting into something we didn't have any business sticking our nose into.
At three o'clock, I fed B.W. a can of tuna. He ate it with such relish it made me hungry. Instead, I opened a bottle of Merlot from a 'boutique' winery in Napa Valley, stoked the fire, and thought about how one would go about finding a twenty-five year old plane crash. If it were under water, a side scanning radar would be effective. Had the crash happened within the last week, heat-sensing radar like FLIR (Forward Looking Infrared Radar) could detect the site. I had read about ground penetrating radar, but that would necessitate pulling an instrument along the ground to detect something buried, and that just didn't make sense.
I needed a look at the letter Sunny Pfeiffer received, maybe send it to a crime lab for prints and DNA, if it hadn't been too contaminated. If we could find out who sent it and why, we would be in a lot better position to know how to proceed. The letter was
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