Fatal Voyage tb-4

by Reichs, Kathy

  “I'll try to reconstruct this as best I can.”

  I tested a green bean. It was perfect, sweet and greasy after hours of cooking with sugar and bacon fat. God bless Dixie. I had several more.

  “Though he denied it in his interview with the NTSB, Bowman was outside his house that day. And he was launching things into the sky.”

  I halted for a bite of pot roast. It was equal to the beans.

  “But not rockets.”

  The men waited while I forked another piece of meat, swallowed. Chewing was hardly necessary.

  “This is really good.”

  “What was he launching?”

  “Doves.”

  Ryan's fork stopped in midair.

  “As in birds?”

  I nodded. “It seems the reverend relies on special effects to keep the faithful interested.”

  “Sleight of hand?”

  “He prefers to think of it as theater for the Lord. Anyway, he says he was experimenting the afternoon Air TransSouth 228 went down.”

  Ryan urged me on with a gesture of his fork.

  “Bowman was working up a sermon on the Ten Commandments. He planned to wave a clay model of the tablets, and finish with a replay of Moses destroying the originals in anger over the Hebrew people's abandonment of their faith. As a finale, he'd dash the mock-ups to the ground, and admonish the congregation to repent. When they begged forgiveness, he'd hit a couple of levers and a flock of doves would rise up in a cloud of smoke. He thought it would be effective.”

  “Mind-blowing,” said Ryan.

  “So that's his tell-all tabloid confession? He was in the backyard playing with pigeons and smoke?” said McMahon.

  “That's his story.”

  “Does he do this type of thing regularly?”

  “He likes spectacle.”

  “And he lied when questioned because he couldn't risk his parishioners finding out they were being duped?”

  “So he says. But then the Almighty tapped him on the shoulder, and he began to fear the loss of his soul.”

  “Or fear a bump in federal prison.” Ryan's scorn had increased.

  I finished my green beans.

  “It actually makes sense,” McMahon said. “The other witnesses, including Claiborne, stated they saw something shoot into the sky. Knowing the reliably unreliable nature of eyewitnesses, pigeons and smoke would tally.”

  “Doves,” I corrected. “They're more papal.”

  “The NTSB has pretty much ruled out the rocket theory, anyway,” McMahon went on.

  “Oh?”

  “For a number of reasons.”

  “Give me one.”

  “There's not been a single trace of a missile found anywhere within a five-mile radius of the wreckage field.”

  McMahon spread mashed potatoes on a forkful of meat loaf.

  “And there's no twinning.”

  “What's twinning?”

  “Basically, it involves cracking in the crystalline structure of metals such as copper, iron, or steel. Twinning requires forces greater than eight thousand meters per second. Typically, that means a military explosive. Things like RDC or C4.”

  “And twinning is absent?”

  “So far.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The usual components of pipe bombs, things like gunpowder, gelignites, and low-strength dynamite, aren't powerful enough. They only reach forces of one thousand meters per second. That doesn't create enough shock to produce twinning, but it's plenty of force to cause havoc on an aircraft. So lack of twinning doesn't rule out a detonation.” He emptied the fork. “And there's plenty of evidence of an explosion.”

  At that moment Ryan's cell phone rang. He listened, and replied in clipped French. Though I understood his words, they made little sense without the benefit of the Quebec end of the conversation.

  “So the NTSB isn't much further ahead than it was last week. Something blew inside the rear of the plane, but they have no idea what or why.”

  “That's about it,” McMahon agreed. “Though the rich husband has been ruled out as a suspect. Turns out the guy was a candidate for priesthood. Made a quarter-million-dollar donation to the Humane Society last year when they found his lost cat.”

  “And the Sri Lankan kid?”

  “The uncle is still broadcasting in Sri Lanka, and there have been no threats, notes, public statements, nothing from anyone over there. That angle looks like a dead end, but we're still checking.”

  “Has the investigation been handed over to the FBI?”

  “Not officially. But until terrorism is ruled out, we're not going away.”

  Ryan ended his phone conversation and fumbled for a cigarette. His face was fixed in an expression I couldn't read. Remembering my Danielle blunder, I didn't ask.

  McMahon had no such compunction.

  “What's happened?”

  After a pause, “Pepper Petricelli's wife is missing.”

  “She took off?”

  “Maybe.”

  Ryan lit up, then scanned the table for an ashtray. Finding none, he jammed the match into his sweet potato pudding. There was an awkward silence before he continued.

  “A crackhead named André Metraux was busted for possession yesterday in Montreal. Being unenthused about a long separation from his pharmaceuticals, Metraux offered to flip for consideration.”

  Ryan drew deeply, then blew smoke through both nostrils.

  “Metraux swears he saw Pepper Petricelli at a steak house in Plattsburgh, New York, last Saturday night.”

  “That's impossible,” I burst out. “Petricelli is dead. . . .” My voice trailed off on the last word.

  Ryan's eyes did a long sweep of the diner, then came back to rest on mine. In them I saw pure agony.

  “Four passengers remain unidentified, including Bertrand and Petricelli.”

  “They don't think— Oh, my God, what do they think?”

  Ryan and McMahon exchanged glances. My heartbeat quickened.

  “What is it you're not telling me?”

  “Don't go schizoid. We're not keeping things from you. You've had a rough day, and we thought it could wait until tomorrow.”

  I felt anger coalesce like fog inside my chest.

  “Tell me,” I said evenly.

  “Tyrell attended the briefing today to present an updated trauma chart.”

  I felt miserable at being excluded, and lashed out. “There's a news story.”

  “He says he has remains that don't fit anyone on the manifest.”

  I stared at him, too surprised to speak.

  “Only four passengers remain missing. All were in the left rear of the plane. Their seats were pretty much pulverized, so it's to be expected the occupants did not fare well.”

  Ryan drew on his cigarette again, exhaled.

  “Twenty-two A and B were occupied by male students. Bertrand and Petricelli were behind them in row twenty-three. Tyrell claims to have tissue fitting none of the eighty-four passengers already identified, and none of these four.”

  “Such as?”

  “A shoulder fragment with a large tattoo.”

  “Someone could have gotten a tattoo right before the flight.”

  “A portion of jaw with elaborate bridgework.”

  “Fingerprints,” McMahon added.

  I took a moment to digest this.

  “What does it mean?”

  “It could mean a lot of things.”

  McMahon caught Cynthia's eye and signaled for the check.

  “Maybe the biker boys got a stand-in and Petricelli really was enjoying a porterhouse in New York last weekend.” Ryan's voice was tempered steel.

  “What are you implying?”

  “If Petricelli wasn't on that plane it means one of two things. Either Bertrand was persuaded by greed or force to make a career change . . .”

  Ryan took one last pull and added his butt to the sweet potatoes.

  “. . . or Bertrand was murdered.”

  * * * />
  Back in my room, I treated myself to a long hot bubble bath, followed by a talcum powder chaser. Only slightly relaxed, but smelling of honeysuckle and lilac, I propped myself in bed, raised my knees to my chest, pulled up the blankets, and turned on my phone. I'd missed seventeen calls. Finding no familiar numbers, I dumped the messages and made a call I'd been putting off.

  Though fall break had ended and university classes had resumed the day before, I'd requested continued leave after finding the decomp stain at the courtyard house. I hadn't actually said it, but neither had I corrected my chair's assumption that I was still involved in victim processing. In a sense, I was.

  But today's media delirium had made me apprehensive. Taking a deep breath, I scrolled to Mike Perrigio's number and hit “dial.” I was about to click off after seven rings, when a woman picked up. I asked for Mike. There was a long pause. I could hear a lot of racket in the background, a child crying.

  When Mike came on, he was brusque, almost cold. My classes were covered. Keep checking in. Dial tone.

  I was still staring at the phone when it rang again.

  The voice was totally unexpected.

  Larke Tyrell asked how I was. He'd heard I was back in Bryson City. Could I meet with him the next day? Zero-nine-hundred at the family assistance center? Good, good. Take care.

  Again, I sat staring at the little black handset, not knowing whether to feel crushed or buoyed. My boss at the university obviously knew of the news coverage. That had to be bad. But Larke Tyrell wanted to talk. Had the chief ME come around to my position? Had this other errant tissue persuaded him that the great foot controversy did not involve crash remains?

  I reached for the chain on the bedside lamp. Lying in a silence filled with crickets, I felt that my issues were at last being resolved. I was confident of vindication, and never questioned the venue or purpose of the morning's meeting.

  That was a mistake.

  THE FIRST THING I NOTICED ON OPENING MY EYES WAS A SHEET OF paper wedged against the braided rug.

  The clock said seven-twenty. Throwing back the covers, I retrieved the paper and scanned the contents. It was a fax containing six names.

  Shivering in panties and T-shirt, I checked the header information: Sender: Office of the Attorney General, State of Delaware. Recipient: Special Agent Byron McMahon. Subject: H&F, LLP.

  It was the list of H&F officers. McMahon must have forgotten to mention it the night before and had slipped it under my door. I read the names. Nothing clicked.

  Chilled through, I tucked the fax into the outer pocket of my computer case, ran on tiptoes into the bathroom, and hopped into the shower. Reaching for the shampoo, I suffered my first defeat of the day.

  Damn! I'd left my groceries in Luke Bowman's truck.

  Filling the empty shampoo container with water, I gave my hair a low-lather scrub. After blowing it dry and applying makeup, I slipped on khakis and a white cotton blouse, then checked my image.

  The woman in the mirror looked appropriately prim, but a bit too casual. I added a cardigan, buttoned at the top as Katy had instructed. Wouldn't want to look like a dork.

  I checked again. Stylish but professional. I hurried downstairs.

  Too tense for breakfast, I threw down coffee, fed Boyd the dregs from the Alpo bag, had a nervous tinkle, and collected my purse. I'd just crossed the front door threshold when I stopped short.

  I had no wheels.

  I was standing on the porch, looking good but feeling panicky, when the door flew open and a boy of about seventeen emerged. His hair was dyed blue and shaved to a single strip running from his forehead to the nape of his neck. His nose, eyebrows, and earlobes displayed more metal than a Harley shop.

  Ignoring me, the young man clumped down the stairs and disappeared around the house.

  Seconds later, Ryan appeared, blowing steam across the top of a mug.

  “What's up, buttercup?”

  “Who the hell was that kid?”

  “The studded Smurf?” He took an experimental sip. “Ruby's nephew, Eli.”

  “Nice look. Ryan, I hate to ask, but I have a meeting with Tyrell in twenty minutes and just realized I have no car.”

  He dug into a pocket and tossed me his keys.

  “Take mine. I'll ride with McMahon.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “You're not on the rental contract. Don't get arrested.”

  In the past, family assistance centers were established near accident sites in order to facilitate the transfer of records. This practice was abandoned once psychologists began to recognize the emotional impact on relatives of being in such proximity to the death scene.

  The FAC for Air TransSouth 228 was at a Sleep Inn in Bryson City. Ten rooms had been converted into offices by replacing beds and armoires with desks, chairs, telephones, and laptops. It was here that antemortem records had been collected, briefings had been held, and families had been informed of identifications.

  All that was finished now. With the exception of a single pair, the rooms that had once swarmed with grieving relatives, NTSB personnel, medical examiner interviewers, and Red Cross representatives had reverted to their original function.

  Security was also not what it had been. Pulling into the lot, I was surprised to see journalists chatting and drinking from Styrofoam cups, obviously awaiting a breaking story.

  So intent was I on a timely arrival, it never crossed my mind that the story was me.

  Then, a cameraman shouldered his minicam.

  “There she is.”

  Other cameras went up. Microphones shot out, and shutters clicked like gravel in a power mower.

  “Why did you move remains?”

  “Did you tamper with disaster victim packets?”

  “Dr. Brennan . . .”

  “Is it true that evidence is missing from cases you processed?”

  “Doctor . . .”

  Strobes flashed in my face. Microphones nudged my chin, my forehead, my chest. Bodies pressed against me, moved with me, like a tangle of seaweed clinging to my limbs.

  I kept my eyes straight, acknowledging no one. My heart hammered as I pushed forward, a swimmer struggling toward shore. The distance to the motel seemed oceanic, insurmountable.

  Then, I felt a strong hand on my arm, and I was in the lobby. A state trooper was locking the glass doors, glaring at the mob outside.

  “You all right, ma'am?”

  I didn't trust my voice to reply.

  “This way, please.”

  I followed to a bank of elevators. The trooper waited with hands clasped, feet spread as we ascended. I stood on rubbery legs, trying to recompose my thoughts.

  “How did the press find out about this?” I asked.

  “I wouldn't know that, ma'am.”

  On the second floor, the trooper walked to Room 201, squared his shoulders to the wall beside the door.

  “It's not locked.” He fixed his eyes on something that was not me.

  Drawing two steadying breaths, I turned the knob and entered.

  Seated behind a desk on the far side of the room was North Carolina's second in command. Of a zillion thoughts winging through my mind at that moment, this is the one I remember: Parker Davenport's color had improved since I'd seen him on the day of the crash.

  To the lieutenant governor's left sat Dr. Larke Tyrell, to his right, Earl Bliss. The ME looked at me and nodded. The DMORT commander's eyes wouldn't meet mine.

  “Dr. Brennan, please have a seat.” The lieutenant governor gestured to an armchair directly in front of the desk.

  As I sat, Davenport leaned back and laced his fingers on his vest. The view behind him was spectacular, a Smoky Mountain postcard in explosive fall color. Squinting into the glare, I recognized my disadvantage. Had Tyrell been in charge, I'd have known the seating arrangement was strategy. I wasn't sure Davenport was that smart.

  “Would you like coffee?” Davenport asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  Lookin
g at Davenport, I had difficulty imagining how he had lasted so long in public office. He was neither tall nor short, dark nor fair, smooth nor craggy. His hair and eyes were nondescript brown, his speech flat and without inflection. In a system that elects its leaders based on looks and eloquence, Davenport was clearly a noncontender. In a word, the man was unmemorable. But perhaps this was his greatest asset. People voted for Davenport, then forgot him.

  The lieutenant governor unlaced his fingers, examined his palms, then looked at me.

  “Dr. Brennan, some very disturbing allegations have been brought to my attention.”

  “I'm glad we're meeting to clear this up.”

  “Yes.” Davenport leaned into the desk and opened a folder. To its left lay a videocassette. No one spoke as he selected and perused a document.

  “Let's get right to the meat of this.”

  “Let's.”

  “Did you enter the site of the Air TransSouth crash on October fourth prior to the arrival of NTSB or medical examiner officials?”

  “Since I was in the area, Earl Bliss asked me to stop by.” I looked at the DMORT commander. His eyes remained on the hands in his lap.

  “Did you have official orders to go there?”

  “No, sir, but—”

  “Did you falsely identify yourself as an official representative of the NDMS?”

  “No, I did not.”

  Davenport checked another paper.

  “Did you interfere with local authorities in their search-and-recovery efforts?”

  “Absolutely not!” I felt heat rise up my neck and into my face.

  “Did you order Deputy Anthony Skinner to remove protective covering from a crash victim, knowing there was risk of animal predation?”

  “That's standard protocol.”

  I turned to Earl and Larke. Neither man was looking at me. Stay calm, I told myself.

  “It is alleged that you broke protocol,” Davenport emphasized my word, “by removing remains prior to documentation.”

  “That was a unique situation requiring immediate action. It was a judgment call, which I explained to Dr. Tyrell.”

  Davenport leaned farther forward, and his tone grew hard.

  “Was stealing those remains also a judgment call?”

  “What?”

  “The case to which we refer is no longer at the morgue.”