Fatal Voyage tb-4

by Reichs, Kathy

  I remembered Ryan's account of the pilot's last words, felt the same helplessness he had described.

  “The circuit failed.”

  I thought of the passengers. Had they felt the shock? Heard the explosion? Did they realize they were going to die?

  “The initial explosion blew from the pressurized baggage compartment into the unpressurized fuselage behind, and air loads began tearing parts from the plane. At that point, more fuel escaped from the line and flaming fire ensued in the hold.”

  Jackson identified items as they separated and fell to the ground.

  “Skin from the aft fuselage. Speed brakes.”

  The room was deathly quiet.

  “Air loads then blew up through the vertical tail and dislodged the horizontal stabilizer and elevators.”

  The plane in the animation pitched nose down and plunged toward the ground, the passenger cabin still intact. Jackson hit a key and the screen went blank.

  No one seemed to breathe or move. Seconds passed. I heard a sob, or perhaps only a deep breath. A cough. Then the room exploded.

  “Mr. Jackson—”

  “Why weren't smoke detect—”

  “Mr. Jack—”

  “How long—”

  “I'll take questions one at a time.”

  Jackson pointed to a woman with Buddy Holly frames.

  “How long would it have taken to raise the temperature in the duffel to the point of fire?”

  “Let me clarify one thing. We're talking about incandescence, a glowing type of combustion generated when the little oxygen available comes in direct contact with a solid, like coals or embers. This is not flaming combustion. In a small volume like the bag's interior, incandescence could be quickly established and maintained at around five hundred to six hundred degrees Fahrenheit.”

  His finger found another journalist.

  “How could the rum bottle survive the fire in the bag?”

  “Easy. On the other end of the temperature spectrum, incandescence can reach eleven hundred to twelve hundred degrees Fahrenheit, the temperature of a lit pipe or cigarette. That's hardly enough to alter a glass bottle containing liquid.”

  “And the smoke deposits would remain on the bottle?”

  “Yes. Unless it was subjected to a very intense and sustained fire, which was not the case, as it occurred inside the suitcase.”

  The finger moved.

  “The metal fatigue marks survived as well?”

  “To melt steel you need temperatures of twenty-five hundred degrees Fahrenheit or more. Beach marks, your typical evidence of fatigue, generally survive fires of the intensity I'm describing.”

  He pointed to a reporter from the Charlotte Observer.

  “Did the passengers know what was happening?”

  “Those seated close to the flash point would have felt the shock. Everyone would have heard the explosion.”

  “What about smoke?”

  “Smoke would have seeped into the passenger cabin via the heating and air-conditioning system.”

  “Were the passengers conscious the whole time?”

  “The type of combustion I've described can give off noxious gases which may affect people very quickly.”

  “How quickly?”

  “The old, the young, perhaps as fast as ninety seconds.”

  “Could these gases have gotten into the passenger compartment?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have traces of smoke or noxious gases been found in the victims?”

  “Yes. Dr. Tyrell is going to make a statement shortly.”

  “With so much smoke, how can you be sure about the source of the deposits on the rum bottle?” The questioner looked about sixteen.

  “Fragments of the Lindenbaum pipe were recovered, and reference studies were conducted using unburned strands of tobacco adhering to the inside of the bowl. The deposits on the bottle were the by-products of the combustion of that tobacco.”

  “How could there have been a fuel leak?” Shouted from the back.

  “When fire broke out in the hold, flame impingement affected only a segment of the fuel line. This pulled the wall of the line, or induced a stress that opened very slightly the seed failure.”

  Jackson called on a reporter who looked and sounded like Dick Cavett.

  “Are you telling us that the initial fire did not directly cause the explosion?”

  “Yes.”

  “What caused the explosion?” he persisted.

  “An electrical failure. That's the second ignition sequence.”

  “How sure can you be?”

  “Reasonably certain. When electricity sparks an explosion, the electrical energy is not lost, it must ground. Damage due to electrical grounding has been identified on the same segment of fuel line. Such damage is normally seen on copper items and rather seldom on steel parts.”

  “I can't believe that the fire in the suitcase didn't cause the explosion.” Cavett made little attempt to hide his skepticism. “Wouldn't that be more normal?”

  “Your question makes sense. It's really what we thought at first, but you see, the fumes are not yet mixed enough with air at such short distance from the source of emission. The fumes must mix before ignition can occur, but when it does, the blast is deafening.”

  Another hand.

  “Was the analysis done by certified fire and explosion specialists?”

  “Yes. Outside experts were brought in.”

  Another questioner stood.

  Eighty-eight people were dead because one man was preoccupied about losing his seat. The whole thing was a tragic mistake.

  I looked at my watch. Crowe would be waiting.

  Feeling numb, I slipped from the room. I had victims waiting whose deaths were not due to simple carelessness.

  The reefer trucks were gone from the grounds of the Alarka Fire Department. The lot held only the company's displaced engines and the vehicles of those assisting me. A single deputy guarded the entrance.

  Crowe was there when I arrived. Seeing me, she climbed from her cruiser, collected a small leather case, and waited. The sky was pewter, and a cold wind was tearing through the gorge. Gusts teased her hat brim, subtly reshaping it around her face.

  I joined her, and we entered what was now a different type of incident morgue. Stan and Maggie worked at autopsy tables, arranging bones where crash victims recently had lain. Four tables held unopened cardboard boxes.

  I greeted my team and hurried to the cubicle I was using as an office. As I exchanged my jacket for a lab coat, Crowe took the chair opposite my desk, zipped open the case, and withdrew several folders.

  “Nineteen seventy-nine came up zilch. All MPs accounted for. There were two from 1972.”

  She opened the first folder.

  “Mary Francis Rafferty, white female, age eighty-one. Lived alone over in Dillsboro. Her daughter checked on her every Saturday. One week Rafferty wasn't in her home. Never seen again. It was presumed she wandered off and died of exposure.”

  “How often have we heard that?”

  She went to the next folder.

  “Sarah Ellen Deaver, white female, age nineteen. Left home to go to her job at a convenience store on Highway 74. Never got there.”

  “I doubt we've got Deaver out there. Anything from Tommy Albright?”

  “George Adair's positive,” Crowe confirmed.

  “Dental?” I asked.

  “Yes.” Pause. “You know that first alcove burial was missing its left foot?”

  “Albright phoned me.”

  “Jeremiah Mitchell's daughter thought she recognized some of the clothing. We're getting blood from a sister.”

  “Albright asked me to cut bone samples. Tyrell's promised to rush them through. Did you check the other dates?”

  “Albert Odell's family provided the name of his dentist.”

  “He's the apple farmer?” I asked.

  “Odell's the only MP still out from eighty-six.”

  “Many denti
sts don't keep records past ten years.”

  “Dr. Welch didn't sound like the brightest bulb in the marquee. I'm driving over to Lauada this afternoon to see what he has.”

  “What about the others?” I knew what her answer would be even as I asked the question.

  “The others will be tough. It's been over fifty years for Adams and Farrell, over forty for Tramper.”

  She withdrew three more folders and laid everything on my desk.

  “Here's what I've managed to dig up.” She stood. “I'll let you know what I get from the dentist.”

  When she'd gone I spent a few moments perusing the folders. The one for Tucker Adams contained only the press items I'd already seen.

  Edna Farrell's record was a little better, and included handwritten notes taken at the time of her disappearance. There was a statement by Sandra Jane Farrell, giving an account of Edna's last days and a detailed physical description. Edna had fallen from a horse as a young woman, and Sandra described her mother's face as “lopsided.”

  I snatched up a black-and-white snapshot with scalloped edges. Though the image was blurry, the facial asymmetry was obvious.

  “Way to go, Edna.”

  There were photos of Charlie Wayne Tramper, and his disappearance and death were reported in several newspaper articles. Otherwise, there was little in the way of written information.

  The following days were like the first I'd spent at the Alarka Fire Department, living with the dead from dawn until dusk. Hour after hour I sorted and arranged bones, determined sex and race, estimated age and height. I searched for indicators of old injury, past illness, congenital peculiarity, or repetitive movement. For each skeleton I built as complete a profile as was possible working from remains devoid of living tissue.

  In a way, it was like processing a crash, where names are known from the passenger roster. Based on Veckhoff's diary, I was convinced I had a limited population because the dates entered in his lists matched precisely the disappearance dates of seniors from Swain and adjoining counties: 1943, Tucker Adams; 1949, Edna Farrell; 1959, Charlie Wayne Tramper; 1986, Albert Odell.

  Believing them to be the earliest in time, we started with the four tunnel burials. While Stan and Maggie cleaned, sorted, numbered, photographed, and X-rayed, I studied bones.

  I found Edna Farrell early. Skeleton number four was that of an elderly female whose right cheekbone and jawbone deviated sharply from the midline due to fractures that had healed without proper intervention.

  Skeleton number five was incomplete, lacking portions of the rib cage, arms, and lower legs. Animal damage was extensive. Pelvic features told me the individual was male and old. A globular skull, flaring cheekbones, and shoveling on the front teeth suggested Native-American ancestry. Statistical analysis placed the skull squarely in the Mongoloid camp. Charlie Wayne Tramper?

  Number six, the most deteriorated of the skeletons, was that of an elderly Caucasoid male who had been toothless at the time of his death. Save for a height estimate of over six feet, I found no unique markers on the bones. Tucker Adams?

  Skeleton number three was that of an elderly male with healed fractures of the nose, maxilla, third, fourth, and fifth ribs, and right fibula. A long, narrow skull, Quonset hut nasal bridge, smooth nasal border, and anterior projection of the lower face suggested the man was black. So did the Fordisc 2.0 program. I suspected he was the 1979 victim.

  Next, I examined the skeletons found in the alcove with Mitchell and Adair.

  Skeleton number two was that of an elderly white male. Arthritic changes in the right shoulder and arm bones suggested repeated extension of the hand above the head. Apple picking? Based on the state of preservation, I guessed this individual had died more recently than those buried in the tunnel graves. The apple farmer, Albert Odell?

  Skeleton number one was that of an elderly white female with advanced arthritis and only seven teeth. Mary Francis Rafferty, the woman from Dillsboro whose daughter had found her mother's house empty in 1972?

  By late afternoon Saturday, I felt confident I had matched the bones with their proper names. Lucy Crowe helped by finding Albert Odell's dental records, the Reverend Luke Bowman by remembering Tucker Adams's height. Six foot three.

  And I had a pretty good idea as to manner of death.

  The hyoid is a small, horseshoe-shaped bone embedded in the soft tissue of the neck, high up behind the lower jaw. In the elderly, whose bones are often brittle, the hyoid fractures when its wings are compressed. The most common source of compressive force is strangulation.

  Tommy Albright phoned as I was preparing to close up.

  “Find any more hyoid fractures?”

  “Five out of the six.”

  “Mitchell, too. He must have put up a helluva fight. When they couldn't strangle him, they smashed his head in.”

  “Adair?”

  “No. But there's petechial hemorrhage.”

  Petechiae are minute blood clots that appear as dots in the eyes and throat, and are strong indicators of asphyxiation.

  “Who the hell would want to strangle old people?”

  I did not answer. I'd seen other trauma on the skeletons. Trauma I found puzzling. Trauma I would not mention until I understood more.

  When he hung up, I went to burial four, picked up the thighbones, and brought them to the magnifier light.

  Yes. It was there. It was real.

  I collected the femora from every skeleton, and took the bones to a dissecting scope.

  Tiny grooves circled each right proximal shaft and ran the length of each linea aspera, the roughened ridge for muscle attachment on the back side of the bone. Other gashes ran horizontally, above and below the joint surfaces. Though the number of marks varied, their distribution was consistent from victim to victim.

  I cranked the magnification as high as it would go.

  When I focused, the grooves crystallized into sharp-edged crevices, V-shaped in cross section.

  Cut marks. But how could that be? I'd seen cut marks on bone, but only in cases of dismemberment. Except for Charlie Wayne Tramper and Jeremiah Mitchell, these individuals had been buried whole.

  Then why? And why only the right femora? Was it only the right femora?

  I was about to begin a reexamination of every bone when Andrew Ryan burst through the door.

  Maggie, Stan, and I looked up, startled.

  “Have you been listening to the news?” Ryan asked, flushed and perspiring despite the coolness.

  We shook our heads.

  “Parker Davenport was found dead about three hours ago.”

  “DEAD?”

  Emotions snapped inside me. Shock. Pity. Anger. Wariness.

  “How?”

  “A single bullet to the brain. An aide found him at his home.”

  “A suicide?”

  “Or a setup.”

  “Is Tyrell doing the post?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Has it hit the media?”

  “Oh, yeah. They're pissing their pants for information.”

  Relief. The pressure would lift from me. Guilt. A man is dead and you think first of yourself.

  “But the thing's wrapped tighter than the U.S. war plan.”

  “Did Davenport leave a note?”

  “None found. What's up here?” He gestured toward the autopsy tables.

  “Got some time?”

  “The crash was due to carelessness and mechanical failure.” He spread his arms. “I'm a free man.”

  The wall clock said seven forty-five. I told Stan and Maggie to call it a day, then led Ryan to my cubicle and explained the Veckhoff diary.

  “You're suggesting that random elderly persons were murdered following the deaths of prominent citizens?” He tried but failed to keep the skepticism from his voice.

  “Yes.”

  “And no one noticed.”

  “The disappearances weren't frequent enough to suggest a pattern, and the selection of aged victims created less of a ripple.
”

  “And this granny-napping has been going on for half a century.”

  “Longer.”

  It did sound preposterous, and this made me edgy. When edgy, I get mouthy.

  “And gramps was fair game, too.”

  “And the perps used the Arthur house to dispose of the bodies.”

  “Yes, but for more than just disposing.”

  “And this was some sort of group in which everyone had a code name.”

  “Has,” I snapped.

  Silence.

  “Are you talking cult?”

  “No. Yes. I don't know. I don't think so. But I do think the victims were used in some sort of ritual.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Come with me.”

  I walked him from table to table, making introductions and pointing out details. Finally, I took him to the dissecting scope and focused the lens on Edna Farrell's right femur. When he'd studied it, I inserted one of Tucker Adams's thighbones. Rafferty. Odell.

  The pattern was unmistakable. Same nicks. Same distribution.

  “What are they?”

  “Cut marks.”

  “As in knife?”

  “Something with a sharp blade.”

  “What do they mean?”

  “I don't know.”

  Each bone made a soft thunk as I replaced it on the stainless steel. Ryan watched me, his face unreadable.

  My heels clicked loudly as I crossed to the sink, then walked to my cubicle to remove my lab coat and put on my jacket. When I returned, Ryan was standing over the skeleton I believed to be the apple farmer, Albert Odell.

  “So you know who they are.”

  “Except for that gentleman.”

  I indicated the elderly black male. “And you think they were strangled.”

  “Yes.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “Talk to McMahon. That's police work.”

  Ryan followed me out to the parking lot. As I was sliding behind the wheel, he shot off one more question.

  “What kind of twisted mutant would snatch old people, choke them to death, and play with their bodies?”

  The answer would come from an unexpected source.