Crawford had been up in Montreal with Sharon and the kids when his beeper had gone off. He’d been running nonstop for the last six hours, ever since the call had come in. They drove past a sign that said FREDERICK MUNICIPAL AIRPORT, and onto smooth, black pavement.Ĭrawford glanced at his watch. Green backed the car up and turned away from the runway. Green put the mike back on the dash and started the car. I was running late myself-just got here a couple minutes ago.

Strong jaw, creased trousers, a real no-nonsense air. Green was in his mid-twenties, slim, in good condition. Crawford extended his hand, and they shook. Fifty feet away, a man wearing a Stetson and a deputy’s badge was standing next to a black-and-white patrol car.Ĭrawford walked briskly across the packed earth of the runway, carrying his briefcase. He was ten seconds out of the air-conditioned Beechcraft and perspiring already. It was Saturday, August 10, 1991, just after 10 P.M. Sweat beaded on his brow, and he wiped it away. The plane’s lights, shining out into the darkness, weren’t bright enough for Crawford to read the words.

Someone had painted over Santa’s red-and-white cap and given him a big, pointed black hat something was written next to the hat. The letters were in red and green: underneath them was a smiling Santa Claus. The first thing Crawford saw when he stepped off the plane was a big white billboard.

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