CRIMESPREE: You have a unique resume from everything we’ve been able to derive through open-source material. You played football at the Air Force Academy. You’re a decorated fighter pilot. Then you became a government assassin. So, my first question is–
CORDELL LOGAN: –Whoa, whoa, whoa. Let me top right there.
CRIMESPREE: Excuse me?
CL: I was led to believe this would be an easy interview. Softball questions. Why do I feel like I’m about to be grilled by the Senate Intelligence Committee?
CRIMESPREE: I’m not sure I understand what you mean.
CL: I mean, c’mon, assassin? It’s a pretty loaded word, don’t you think?
CRIMESPREE: So, you’re saying you weren’t one?
CL: An assassin is a straight-up criminal. You say “assassin” and I’m immediately thinking John Wilkes Booth or Lee Harvey Oswald. First of all, those guys always have middle names. I don’t. And, second of all, whatever I did for Uncle Sugar I did in the name of national security. Truth, justice, and the American way. There was nothing criminal about it as far as the White House and Pentagon were concerned.
CRIMESPREE: Understood. But just to confirm the information that’s floating around out there on the Internet. You were assigned to a top-secret unit code-named Alpha. The unit’s mission was to kill suspected terrorists around the globe. I’ve also read that you began dabbling in Buddhism after the unit was disbanded, mainly to help you assuage your violent past.
CL: Assuage. Such a great word. I don’t even know what it means.
CRIMESPREE: It means—
CL: –Relax, dude. I know what it means. If you did your homework, then you know I studied humanities at the Academy amid a vast sea of geeks majoring in aeronautical engineering. Look, I’m not about to confirm or deny anything. But just so you do understand, without getting too far down in the weeds, I flew combat missions during Operation Desert Storm. Several fun-filled years later, I failed an otherwise routine Air Force flight physical and was grounded. The cartilage in my knee from an old football injury had deteriorated to the point that despite my protests, command staff felt I could no longer be trusted to execute high-G maneuvers in a $20 million warplane without breaking said plane. There was talk of retiring me medically and putting me out to pasture, but my eyes still tested 20-15 back then. Plus I was a pretty fair marksman, if I do say so myself, so the Pentagon in its infinite wisdom figured it could still get some use out of me. I was subsequently transferred to an interservice group that I’m not at liberty to discuss because most of our operations remain classified.
CRIMESPREE: In other words, you could tell me, but then you’d have to kill me.
CL: You’ve obviously been reading too many mystery thrillers.
CRIMESPREE: So, just to be clear, if you’re no longer working for the government, what are you doing these days?
CL: I’m a flight instructor. I teach garden-variety civilians how to become pilots in an old, single-engine Cessna 172 that I named the Ruptured Duck.
CRIMESPREE: Weird name. Why the Ruptured Duck?
CL: It goes back to World War Two. Servicemen were issued a little gold pin with an eagle on it that they wore to show they’d been honorably discharged. Some people thought the eagle looked like a duck, so they started calling it the “Ruptured Duck.”
CRIMESPREE: The duck part I get, but why “ruptured?”
CL: You know what? Let’s just move on, OK? I’d be here all day trying to explain it to you.
CRIMESPREE: Fair enough. So, you’re a flight instructor, living where?
CL: I live in the enchanting, upscale, seaside community of Rancho Bonita—”California’s Monaco,” as my ultra-rich neighbors like to call it. Swimming pools and movie stars.
CRIMESPREE: You have a swimming pool?
CL: Absolutely. And a trust fund. And a yacht.
CRIMESPREE: You’re obviously kidding.
CL: Obviously. I live with the world’s dumbest cat in a converted, two-car, detached garage. It’s all I can afford. My landlady, Mrs. Schmulowitz, is a 90-year-old retired gym teacher from Brooklyn who makes the best brisket in the world. It’s the only thing the cat will eat. There’s a lot to be said for that.
CRIMESPREE: What’s your cat’s name?
CL: Kiddiot. But he’s not my cat. People don’t own cats. We’re all simply guests in their realm.
CRIMESPREE: Maybe you can tell us about the first murder you investigated.
CL: As a civilian, you mean?
CRIMESPREE: Well, considering you’re not going to tell us anything about your government work, then yes, as a civilian.
CL: There’s not much to tell.
CRIMESPREE: Are you serious? Not much to tell? I read that you hadn’t seen your ex-wife, Savannah, in a long time. Then, one day, she shows up unannounced and begs you to help the cops identify whoever shot and killed the guy she dumped you for—the same guy who happened to be your former team leader at Alpha. How is that “not much to tell?”
CL: The killer was brought to justice. That’s all I’m prepared to say.
CRIMESPREE: Because the memory is too painful? That’s it, isn’t it? You’re still in love with Savannah, aren’t you?
CL: (clears his throat) Next question.
CRIMESPREE: I also read that you had a friend who passed away not long ago under suspicious circumstances, and that you got involved in the investigation of his death.
CL: Chocks Hostetler. My old wingman in Desert Storm. Helluva pilot. He saved my life after I got shot down in Iraq.
CRIMESPREE: Can you tell us what happened to him, how he died?
CL: He got pushed out of an aircraft one night and crashed through the roof of a double-wide trailer up in Santa Isabella. Nearly killed the two old folks living inside.
CRIMESPREE: Yikes. Talk about a way to go.
CL: Tell me about it.
CRIMESPREE: So, who killed him?
CL: You’ll just have to read the book. It’s called Deep Fury. Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but I do need to take off. I’ve got a student waiting for me up at the airport and it’s a beautiful day to go cloud dancing.
CRIMESPREE: Copy that. Hey, thanks for taking the time to talk with us today.
CL: My pleasure. Remember to keep your airspeed up and your nose down, especially in the turns. Blue skies.
The son of a street cop, David was born in Georgia, grew up in Denver, and spent nearly two decades as an investigative journalist, mostly with The Los Angeles Times. He served as The Times’ lead police reporter, reported from Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, and Iraq during Operation Desert Storm, was named as an individual finalist for the Pulitzer Prize’s Gold Medal for Public Service, the highest award in American journalism, and shared in a Pulitzer for team coverage of the 1992 Rodney King riots.
David later worked as an investigator and associate field producer for CBS News before selling a screenplay to 20th Century Fox. He subsequently spent more than 10 years writing movies in Hollywood while also moonlighting within the federal intelligence community as an independent contractor, principally with the CIA and Defense Intelligence Agency.
Since then, David has written extensively for national magazines, including Air & Space Smithsonian, where was a contributing editor, and the Atlantic, where his expose, “The Wrong Man,” was honored by the American Society of Magazine Editors as one of the year’s best feature stories. You can find links to some examples of his journalistic work below.
David holds a Master of Liberal Arts degree from Harvard University and currently serves as a creative writing instructor at Harvard’s Extension School. He has also served as a special assistant professor of journalism at Colorado State University, where he earned his bachelor’s degree and is a member of CSU’s Media Hall of Fame. In 2018, he was honored as the university’s College of Liberal Arts Distinguished Alumnus.
When not teaching, writing, or flying his airplane, you can find him at home in the hills above Santa Barbara, California, playing catch and tug-of-war with his Australian shepherd, Oz, and working on the next Cordell Logan mystery.
