The Forest Hills area of Boston, USA, is one of the more prestigious addresses in that city. Property is expensive and houses are appropriately upmarket. David Spencer had lived in his current home for sixteen years, ever since he and Alison Hewitt had married. The house would normally have been well beyond the financial means of a young couple, the husband a middle ranking manager in the First National Bank of Boston, the wife an assistant librarian in the John F Kennedy Library and Museum, but Alison’s father was wealthy, wealthy enough to purchase the house on their behalf and make it over to them as a wedding gift.
At the time, David had been grateful for the largesse; his own parents had died when he was just nineteen, victims of an auto crash, but over the years the gift had become a source of resentment to him, a resentment he was careful to conceal from his wife and in-laws. His career at the bank had stalled after just one promotion since the marriage, whereas Alison had prospered at the library and now earned more than he did.
Their inability to have children was a further cause of resentment – whilst never resulting in recrimination at more than the lowest level, it was, nevertheless, there.
Things had come to a head when Alison’s father had died in the summer of the previous year, just eighteen months after his wife. Under the terms of his will, Alison inherited ten million dollars and promptly decided to quit her job and, as she put it, ‘enjoy a well-earned rest’. Leaving each day to go to the bank, whilst his wife idled her time away with friends in coffee shops, or on shopping sprees, increased David’s sense of belittlement.
It hadn’t taken long for the resentment, whilst still kept very much under wraps, to steer David towards a course of action that promised to make him independent of Alison’s money and, in his own eyes, restore his sense of self-worth.
His work in the bank had made him highly proficient in money management – money management not in the sense of paying the household bills, but in moving large amounts of clients’ money around financial institutions and, more importantly for his plan, from one bank to another. Although Alison had her own bank accounts, and believed them to be secure, she was unaware that her husband’s skills had enabled him to access those accounts. He took no immediate action, and the ability to access those accounts, lay dormant until he was ready to take action.
That action happened after a year or so of careful planning. First priority had been to establish an alternative identity for himself. This was not easy, but not impossible, and eventually a completely new persona had been created. David Reader, according to all relevant records, was a citizen of Los Angeles, with the appropriate Social Security number, passport, credit cards, an address, a Californian driver’s licence, and, most important of all, a bank account with the First Republic Bank in downtown LA. That account showed a healthy, but by no means very large, balance, because the majority of Alison’s money was destined for a quite different account, one in the Cayman Islands, where banks were highly secretive – secretive to the extent of making the average Swiss banker seem like a loose-lipped blabbermouth.
All was ready; late on the Monday evening; with Alison safely in bed and asleep, David made the necessary bank transfers. His wife was now a pauper, whilst he was a rich man. He had taken an extra precaution – Alison was in the habit of having a nightcap before retiring to bed – usually a scotch. That evening, David had poured it for her – and had added to the spirit a strong sleeping draught. He slipped from the house shortly after midnight and drove the eight and a half miles to Logan International Airport, carefully observing all speed limits and traffic signals – to be stopped for a traffic violation at this stage would ruin everything.
He left his car in the long-term park, then made his way to the Hilton Boston Logan Airport hotel with its convenient skybridge to the airport concourse. David Spencer left his car in the carpark; David Reader booked into the hotel, an hotel well accustomed to clients arriving at all hours of the day and night.
The next morning, the Tuesday, David booked in for his flight, having just a small carry-on bag, no major piece of luggage. Booking in proceeded smoothly and by 0730 he was settling back into his business class seat in the Boeing 767.
The aircraft, due to take off at 0745 was a little late, its wheels leaving terra firma at 0759. A disembodied voice came over the loudspeakers.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Welcome aboard America Airlines Flight 11 to Los Angeles International. The weather at our destination is fine and we expect to make up our slightly departure and arrive on time.”
David settled further into his seat, filtering out the rest of the message. It was Tuesday, the 11th of September, 2001.
