Civilian Report and Recording #20161220-SF - No Funny Stuff
RECORD #20161220 San Francisco
TYPE: Civilian Report
INCLUDES:
Anna Victoria, San Francisco Record-Keeping Assistant, designation Diadem
Harmony Matthews, civilian flight attendant employed at Alaska Airlines
Unknown male entity, identified as D. B. Cooper — RECORDING BEGINS — Victoria: Test, test. 1, 2, 3. Okay, mic’s on. Would you mind stating your name and occupation? Matthews: Sure. Harmony Matthews, flight attendant for Alaska Airlines for thirteen years. Victoria: Thank you. Report given on December 20th, 2016. Time is 7:04 PM local, San Francisco International Airport, California. For the recording, please state what you are reporting. Matthews: A strange passenger on the flight down from Portland, and my interactions with him. (Keyboard clacks, someone shifts in their seat) Victoria: Okay. You can start. (Matthews breaths in and out deeply) Matthews: Alright. I’m a flight attendant, and like I said, I’ve been doing this for thirteen years now. I’ve encountered my fair share of weird passengers, rude passengers, dangerous passengers, you name it. Screaming Karens and their kids, drunk frat boys throwing up on themselves, even a drug smuggler strapped with meth. But this guy wasn’t weird or rude or really anything like them. He was… strange, I suppose. No other way to put it. Just strange. Victoria: Would you mind describing him? Matthews: Sure. I didn’t pay him much mind at first, since he looked so ordinary. Black suit, black jacket, kinda rumpled but decently put together. Smelled like a smoker, but I didn’t catch him with a cigarette once, and neither did the alarms. Brown skin, lighter than mine but darker than white. Middle-brown, y’know? I thought he could be Mexican-American or Native American or something, just another businessman going home for the holidays. Dark hair too, maybe black, maybe brown. Dark eyes too. Real dark. Shaved clean, not even any stubble. Sat in the very back of economy. On the surface, he wasn’t any different than any other passenger. But for some reason, he just seemed out of place. Just a little bit off, not quite like the other passengers. At the time, I thought it was just the smoker smell or how he was kinda rumpled. I wouldn’t have remembered him as anything but a kinda weird passenger if he didn’t ask me that question. (Matthews breathes in deeply) Victoria: Take your time. (Pause of three seconds, then another deep breath) Matthews: … okay. I’m okay. I was serving drinks after we had started cruising, and he got a 7-Up, still in the can. Made some comment about not drinking anything strong this time and having learned his lesson. He smiled at me, and I smiled back. Just thought it was a joke. But then he asked me the question after I had returned to the back of the plane. He gestured to get my attention, and he was holding a safety brochure upright on the fold-down tray, and I turned to him. I expected a question about the life vests, or the oxygen masks. Not… sigh. Not what he asked. “Miss, what do you think of this?” He asked me. He moved the safety brochure from where it was standing on the tray, and showed me… well, it looked like a bomb. It looked like it was made of dynamite and wires and batteries and stuff, all fit into a black briefcase. It looked dangerous. I tried not to react, but I must’ve made a face, and he saw that. He smiled at me then, kinda sadly, and reached out a hand to pat my arm. “Oh, don’t worry, miss,” he told me ”It’s not really here. I haven’t even touched it for 45 years myself. No funny stuff on this plane. Just wanted to make sure it still worked.” He put the safety brochure back up for a second before dropping it again, and the bomb was just… gone. No dynamite, no wires, no nothing. Just a briefcase with some papers and a laptop. I was just stood there goggling at him when I noticed that no-one was sitting next to him on either side. He was in the middle seat. I straightened with as good a smile I could manage, nodding and trying not to attract attention as I looked around the cabin. Everyone else had someone sitting next to them, since it was a packed flight. But this man in a rumpled suit had no-one next to him. I decided to ask him his name, as if that would explain why he was alone. “I’m sorry, sir, but I didn’t catch your name.” He smiled again, less sadly and more… knowing, I guess? Like he was in on some joke. He also showed his teeth that time. They were very white. “Daniel Beckett Cooper. But just Dan is fine, miss.” I nodded again, saying something about how I was glad to have been of assistance, and I returned to my seat in the back. I think it was then that I registered his name. (Matthews breathes in deeply and exhales before continuing slowly) Daniel Beckett Cooper. Dan Beckett Cooper. D. B. Cooper. The Missing Hijacker, the Jumper, the Unknown Air Pirate, the man who jumped out of a 727 with $200,000 and a parachute and a bomb, never to be seen again. Victoria: Would you mind elaborating on how you came to that conclusion? Matthews: Yes, of course. I grew up in Portland, lived in Oregon my whole life and never left until I became a flight attendant. And one of my first memories was the news of Brian Ingram’s discovery of $5,800 on Tina Bar, of the revival of the legend that jumped from Northwest Orient Flight 305. Friends would say how someone they knew had seen D. B. Cooper, walking by the Columbia River and dragging his parachute along, or sitting with his briefcase in Portland International, or standing at the edge of the forest and smoking a cigarette. I thought he was just another cryptid, like the Jersey Devil or Mothman. But there he was, sipping his 7-Up and typing on his laptop, not a day older than that FBI sketch showed him as. I tried not to look at him, or his briefcase that held a disappearing bomb. For the whole rest of the flight, I did not look at him. Even when he ordered another drink, I did not meet his eyes, his dark, dark eyes. (Slight rustling; Matthew shook her head) Sigh. Of course, since he was in the back, he deplaned last. I swear he made sure I saw the backpack he took out of the overhead, except it wasn’t a backpack. It was a parachute bag. How I know that, I cannot say, but it was a parachute bag. I swear it. It was black as his suit and jacket, black as his eyes. He walked out of the plane like every other passenger, with no indication that his briefcase held a bomb or that his backpack held $194,200 in twenty dollar bills. … That’s it. I met D. B. Cooper on a flight down from Portland, he showed me his bomb-case, and he disappeared into the crowds of San Francisco International. (Keyboard clacks) Victoria: Thank you, Matthews. Is there anything else you’d like to add? (Pause of around six seconds) Matthews: Yes, actually. He didn’t have a tie on. (Chairs scrape, a door closes) (Victoria sits heavily down) Victoria: Sigh. Cooper, south of Portland, briefcase and parachute and all. Great. — RECORDING ENDS —
Harmony Matthews, civilian flight attendant employed at Alaska Airlines
Unknown male entity, identified as D. B. Cooper — RECORDING BEGINS — Victoria: Test, test. 1, 2, 3. Okay, mic’s on. Would you mind stating your name and occupation? Matthews: Sure. Harmony Matthews, flight attendant for Alaska Airlines for thirteen years. Victoria: Thank you. Report given on December 20th, 2016. Time is 7:04 PM local, San Francisco International Airport, California. For the recording, please state what you are reporting. Matthews: A strange passenger on the flight down from Portland, and my interactions with him. (Keyboard clacks, someone shifts in their seat) Victoria: Okay. You can start. (Matthews breaths in and out deeply) Matthews: Alright. I’m a flight attendant, and like I said, I’ve been doing this for thirteen years now. I’ve encountered my fair share of weird passengers, rude passengers, dangerous passengers, you name it. Screaming Karens and their kids, drunk frat boys throwing up on themselves, even a drug smuggler strapped with meth. But this guy wasn’t weird or rude or really anything like them. He was… strange, I suppose. No other way to put it. Just strange. Victoria: Would you mind describing him? Matthews: Sure. I didn’t pay him much mind at first, since he looked so ordinary. Black suit, black jacket, kinda rumpled but decently put together. Smelled like a smoker, but I didn’t catch him with a cigarette once, and neither did the alarms. Brown skin, lighter than mine but darker than white. Middle-brown, y’know? I thought he could be Mexican-American or Native American or something, just another businessman going home for the holidays. Dark hair too, maybe black, maybe brown. Dark eyes too. Real dark. Shaved clean, not even any stubble. Sat in the very back of economy. On the surface, he wasn’t any different than any other passenger. But for some reason, he just seemed out of place. Just a little bit off, not quite like the other passengers. At the time, I thought it was just the smoker smell or how he was kinda rumpled. I wouldn’t have remembered him as anything but a kinda weird passenger if he didn’t ask me that question. (Matthews breathes in deeply) Victoria: Take your time. (Pause of three seconds, then another deep breath) Matthews: … okay. I’m okay. I was serving drinks after we had started cruising, and he got a 7-Up, still in the can. Made some comment about not drinking anything strong this time and having learned his lesson. He smiled at me, and I smiled back. Just thought it was a joke. But then he asked me the question after I had returned to the back of the plane. He gestured to get my attention, and he was holding a safety brochure upright on the fold-down tray, and I turned to him. I expected a question about the life vests, or the oxygen masks. Not… sigh. Not what he asked. “Miss, what do you think of this?” He asked me. He moved the safety brochure from where it was standing on the tray, and showed me… well, it looked like a bomb. It looked like it was made of dynamite and wires and batteries and stuff, all fit into a black briefcase. It looked dangerous. I tried not to react, but I must’ve made a face, and he saw that. He smiled at me then, kinda sadly, and reached out a hand to pat my arm. “Oh, don’t worry, miss,” he told me ”It’s not really here. I haven’t even touched it for 45 years myself. No funny stuff on this plane. Just wanted to make sure it still worked.” He put the safety brochure back up for a second before dropping it again, and the bomb was just… gone. No dynamite, no wires, no nothing. Just a briefcase with some papers and a laptop. I was just stood there goggling at him when I noticed that no-one was sitting next to him on either side. He was in the middle seat. I straightened with as good a smile I could manage, nodding and trying not to attract attention as I looked around the cabin. Everyone else had someone sitting next to them, since it was a packed flight. But this man in a rumpled suit had no-one next to him. I decided to ask him his name, as if that would explain why he was alone. “I’m sorry, sir, but I didn’t catch your name.” He smiled again, less sadly and more… knowing, I guess? Like he was in on some joke. He also showed his teeth that time. They were very white. “Daniel Beckett Cooper. But just Dan is fine, miss.” I nodded again, saying something about how I was glad to have been of assistance, and I returned to my seat in the back. I think it was then that I registered his name. (Matthews breathes in deeply and exhales before continuing slowly) Daniel Beckett Cooper. Dan Beckett Cooper. D. B. Cooper. The Missing Hijacker, the Jumper, the Unknown Air Pirate, the man who jumped out of a 727 with $200,000 and a parachute and a bomb, never to be seen again. Victoria: Would you mind elaborating on how you came to that conclusion? Matthews: Yes, of course. I grew up in Portland, lived in Oregon my whole life and never left until I became a flight attendant. And one of my first memories was the news of Brian Ingram’s discovery of $5,800 on Tina Bar, of the revival of the legend that jumped from Northwest Orient Flight 305. Friends would say how someone they knew had seen D. B. Cooper, walking by the Columbia River and dragging his parachute along, or sitting with his briefcase in Portland International, or standing at the edge of the forest and smoking a cigarette. I thought he was just another cryptid, like the Jersey Devil or Mothman. But there he was, sipping his 7-Up and typing on his laptop, not a day older than that FBI sketch showed him as. I tried not to look at him, or his briefcase that held a disappearing bomb. For the whole rest of the flight, I did not look at him. Even when he ordered another drink, I did not meet his eyes, his dark, dark eyes. (Slight rustling; Matthew shook her head) Sigh. Of course, since he was in the back, he deplaned last. I swear he made sure I saw the backpack he took out of the overhead, except it wasn’t a backpack. It was a parachute bag. How I know that, I cannot say, but it was a parachute bag. I swear it. It was black as his suit and jacket, black as his eyes. He walked out of the plane like every other passenger, with no indication that his briefcase held a bomb or that his backpack held $194,200 in twenty dollar bills. … That’s it. I met D. B. Cooper on a flight down from Portland, he showed me his bomb-case, and he disappeared into the crowds of San Francisco International. (Keyboard clacks) Victoria: Thank you, Matthews. Is there anything else you’d like to add? (Pause of around six seconds) Matthews: Yes, actually. He didn’t have a tie on. (Chairs scrape, a door closes) (Victoria sits heavily down) Victoria: Sigh. Cooper, south of Portland, briefcase and parachute and all. Great. — RECORDING ENDS —
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