motive: holding heavenly bodies in Bogotá and Cartagena and watching what the owners of those bodies
could do with them. The coke, the money, the nightlife, and the girls — always the girls.
I’m an American surgeon, here to help children. He would say it with a shy smile, looking down at his drink. And the girls crumbled before his eyes; leaning in, grateful, fawning,
buying it, cooing in English or Spanish. It didn’t matter. Within the hour, they would lead him out of the hotel lounge and to their rooms or apartments — rich European girls on holiday, local gold-diggers, sophisticated American businesswomen, Asian flight attendants on layover, ages ranging from 22 to 50. A citizen of the world like Doctor Leighton Wheeler believed in diversity.
The first year he flew to South America twice, and now he was on his fourth trip in the past 12 months. Surely Tammy suspected something, but his altruistic alibi provided cover for both of them. She took advantage of his absences with shopping outings with her girlfriends to Atlanta or New York. Both felt entitled.
Yes, the coke! How it felt when it entered his nostrils, the euphoric explosion of his senses. The girls fed it to him! They carried it in their purses and formed neat lines for him on their creamy thighs. And the guys at the airport loved to look at the plane, crawl around inside, talk flying. Señor Doctor, want a blow before you take off? And he would take a hit and fly hundreds of miles to the Caymans in what seemed like minutes, alert like he had never been before, feeling like he could fly on to Alaska if he had the fuel. Cocaine just didn’t seem to be a big deal south of the U.S. border.
One day a guy he had befriended during a previous trip was at the airport and asked if he could take a package of “product” with him back to Birmingham. “C’mon, man. No one is going to suspect you, Mister Save-the-Children Surgeon!”
The guy tossed a worn duffel bag in back with his other luggage and handed him a black zipped-up folder. Wheeler glanced inside and quickly closed it, but once he got airborne with the autopilot engaged, he laid the contents out on the seat next to him and counted: five hundred Ben Franklins and one typed note.
“Mike” met him at the FBO in Birmingham to park him and to service the aircraft, just like the note said. He smiled as he pulled the bags from the compartment, placed the duffel in his tractor, and helped Wheeler button up the airplane. Chatting away, he was a really friendly guy, one of the nicest guys Wheeler had ever met. When they were finished, Mike offered his hand, just as a golf partner would coming off the 18