Fatal Voyage (2 page)

 “Sheriff’s with the fire chiefs.” His voice cracked and he wiped a hand
across his mouth. Then he dropped his eyes and walked away, embarrassed to have shown
emotion.

 I was not surprised at the deputy’s demeanor. The toughest and most
capable of cops and rescue workers, no matter how extensive their training or experience, are
never psychologically prepared for their first major.

 Majors. That’s what the National Transportation Safety Board dubbed
these crashes. I wasn’t sure what was required to qualify as a major, but I’d worked several and
knew one thing with certainty: Each was a horror. I was never prepared, either, and shared his
anguish. I’d just learned not to show it.

 Threading toward the fuselage, I passed a deputy covering a body.

 “Take that off,” I ordered.

 “What?”

 “Don’t blanket them.”

“Who says?”

 I showed my ID again.

 “But they’re lying in the open.” His voice sounded flat, like a
computer recording.

 “Everything must remain in place.”

 “We’ve got to do something. It’s getting dark. Bears are gonna scent on
these” he stumbled for a word “people.”

 I’d seen what Ursus could do to a corpse and sympathized with the man’s
concerns. Nevertheless, I had to stop him.

 “Everything must be photographed and recorded before it can be
touched.”

 He bunched the blanket with both hands, his face pinched with pain. I
knew exactly what he was feeling. The need to do something, the uncertainty as to what. The sense
of helplessness in the midst of overwhelming tragedy.

 “Please spread the word that everything has to stay put. Then search
for survivors.”

 “You’ve got to be kidding.” His eyes swept the scene around us. “No one
could survive this.”

 “If anyone is alive they’ve got more to fear from bears than these
folks do.” I indicated the body at his feet.

 “And wolves,” he added in a hollow voice.

 “What’s the sheriff’s name?”

 “Crowe.”

 “Which one?”

 He glanced toward a group near the fuselage.

 “Tall one in the green jacket.”

 I left him and hurried toward Crowe.

 The sheriff was examining a map with a half dozen volunteer
fire-fighters whose gear suggested they’d come from several jurisdictions. Even with head bent,
Crowe was the tallest in the group.

 Under the jacket his shoulders looked broad and hard, suggesting
regular workouts. I hoped I would not find myself at cross purposes with Sheriff Mountain
Macho.

 When I drew close the firemen stopped listening and looked in my
direction.

 “Sheriff Crowe?”

 Crowe turned, and I realized that macho would not be an issue.

 Her cheeks were high and broad, her skin cinnamon. The hair escaping
her flat-brimmed hat was frizzy and carrot red. But what held my attention were her eyes. The
irises were the color of glass in old Coke bottles. Highlighted by orange lashes and brows,
and set against the tawny skin, the pale green was extraordinary. I guessed her age at around
forty.

 “And you are?” The voice was deep and gravelly, and suggested its owner
wanted no nonsense.

 “Dr. Temperance Brennan.”

 “And you have reason to be at this site?”

 “I’m with DMORT.”

 Again the ID. She studied the card and handed it back.

 “I heard a crash bulletin while driving fromCharlotte toKnoxville .

 When I phoned Earl Bliss, who’s leader of the Region Four team, he
asked me to divert over, see if you need anything.“

 A bit more diplomatic than Earl’s actual comments.

 For a moment the woman did not reply. Then she turned back to the
firefighters, spoke a few words, and the men dispersed. Closing the gap between us, she held out
her hand. The grip could injure.

 “Lucy Crowe.”

 “Please call meTempe .”

 She spread her feet, crossed her arms, and regarded me with the
Coke-bottle eyes.

 “I don’t believe any of these poor souls will be needing medical
attention.”

 “I’m a forensic anthropologist, not a medical doctor. You’ve searched
for survivors?”

 She nodded with a single upward jerk of her head, the type of gesture
I’d seen inIndia . “I thought something like this would be the ME’s baby.”

 “It’s everybody’s baby. Is the NTSB here yet?” I knew the National
Transportation Safety Board never took long to arrive.

 “They’re coming. I’ve heard from every agency on the planet. NTSB, FBI,
atf., Red Cross, FAA, Forest Service, TVA, Department of the Interior. I wouldn’t be surprised if
the pope himself came riding over Wolf Knob there.”

 “Interior and TVA?”

 “The feds own most of this county; about eighty-five percent as
national forest, five percent as reservation.” She extended a hand at shoulder level, moved it in
a clockwise circle. “We’re on what’s called Big Laurel.BrysonCity ‘s off to the northwest,Great
Smoky MountainsNational Park ’s beyond that. The Cherokee Indian Reservation lies to the north,
theNantahalaGameLand and National Forest to the south.”

 I swallowed to relieve the pressure inside my ears.

 “What’s the elevation here?”

 “We’re at forty-two hundred feet.”

 “I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, Sheriff, but there are a
few folks you might want to keep out.”

 “The insurance man and the snake-bellied lawyer. Lucy Crowe may live on
a mountain, but she’s been off it once or twice.”

 I didn’t doubt that. I was also certain that no one gave lip to Lucy
Crowe.

 “Probably good to keep the press out, too.”

 “Probably.”

 “You’re right about the ME, Sheriff. He’ll be here. But theNorth
Carolina emergency plan, calls for DMORT involvement for a major.”

 I heard a muffled boom, followed by shouted orders. Crowe removed her
hat and ran the back of her sleeve across her forehead.

 “How many fires are still burning?”

 “Four. We’re getting them out, but it’s dicey. The mountain’s mighty
dry this time of year.” She tapped the hat against a thigh as muscular as her shoulders.

 “I’m sure your crews are doing their best. They’ve secured the area and
they’re dealing with the fires. If there are no survivors, there’s nothing else to be done.”

 “They’re not really trained for this kind of thing.”

 Over Crowe’s shoulder an old man in a Cherokee Volunteer PD jacket
poked through a pile of debris. I decided on tact.

 “I’m sure you’ve told your people that crash scenes must be treated
like crime scenes. Nothing should be disturbed.”

 She gave her peculiar down-up nod.

 “They’re probably feeling frustrated, wanting to be useful but unsure
what to do. A reminder never hurts.”

 I indicated the poker.

 Crowe swore softly, then crossed to the volunteer, her strides powerful
as an Olympic runner’s. The man moved off, and in a moment the sheriff was back.

 “This is never easy,” I said. “When the NTSB arrives they’ll assume
responsibility for the whole operation.”

 “Yeah.”

 At that moment Crowe’s cell phone rang. I waited as she spoke.

 “Another precinct heard from,” she said, hooking the handset to her
belt. “Charles Hanover, CEO of Airtranssouth.”

 Though I’d never flown it, I’d heard of the airline, a small, regional
carrier connecting about a dozen cities in the Carolinas,Georgia , andTennessee
withWashington,D.C.

 “This is one of theirs?”

 “Flight 228 was late leavingAtlanta forWashington,D.C. Sat on the
runway forty minutes, took off at twelve forty-five P.M. The plane was at about twenty-five
thousand feet when it disappeared from radar at one oh seven. My office got the 911 call around
two.”

 “How many on board?”

 “The plane was a Fokker-100 carrying eighty-two passengers and six
crew.

 But that’s not the worst of it.“ Her next words foretold the horror of
the coming days.

 THE UGA SOCCER TEAMS?“

 Crowe nodded. “Hanoversaid both the men and women were traveling to
matches somewhere nearWashington .”

 “Jesus.” Images popped like flashbulbs. A severed leg. Teeth with
braces. A young woman caught in a tree.

 A sudden stab of fear.

 My daughter, Katy, was a student inVirginia , but often visited her
best friend inAthens , home of theUniversityofGeorgia . Lija was on athletic scholarship. Was it
soccer?

 Oh, God. My mind raced. Had Katy mentioned a trip? When was her
semester break? I resisted the impulse to grab my cell phone.

 “How many students?”

 “Forty-two passengers booked through the university.Hanover thought
most of those were students. Besides the athletes there would be coaches, trainers, girlfriends,
boyfriends. Some fans.” She ran a hand across her mouth. “The usual.”

 The usual. My heart ached at the loss of so many young lives. Then
another thought.

 “This will be a media nightmare.”

 “Hanoveropened with that concern.” Crowe’s voice dripped with
sarcasm.

 “When the NTSB takes over they’ll deal with the press.”

 And with the families, I didn’t add. They, too, would be here, moaning
and huddling for comfort, some watching with frightened eyes, some demanding immediate answers,
belligerence masking their unbearable grief.

 At that moment blades whumped, and we saw a helicopter come in low over
the trees. I spotted a familiar figure beside the pilot, another silhouette in the rear. The
chopper circled twice, then headed in the opposite direction from where I assumed the road to
be.

 “Where are they going?”

 “Hell if I know. We’re not oversupplied with landing pads up here.”

 Crowe lowered her gaze and replaced her hat, tucking in frizz with a
backhand gesture.

 “Coffee?”

 Thirty minutes later the chief medical examiner of the State ofNorth
Carolina walked into the site from the west, followed by the state’s lieutenant governor. The
former wore the basic deployment uniform of boots and khaki, the latter a business suit. I
watched them pick their way through the debris, the pathologist looking around, assessing, the
politician with head bowed, glancing neither left nor right, holding himself gathered tightly, as
if contact with his surroundings might draw him in as a participant rather than an observer. At
one point they stopped and the ME spoke to a deputy. The man pointed in our direction, and the
pair angled toward us.

 “Hot damn. A superb photo op.” Said with the same sarcasm she’d
directed toward Charles Hanover, the Air Trans South CEO.

 Crowe crumpled her Styrofoam cup and jammed it into a thermos bag. I
handed her mine, wondering at the vehemence of her disapproval. Did she disagree with the
lieutenant governor’s politics, or was there personal history between Lucy Crowe and Parker
Davenport?

 When the men drew close the ME showed ID. Crowe waved it aside.

 “No need for that, Doc. I know who you are.”

 So did I, having worked with Larke Tyrell since his appointment asNorth
Carolina ‘s chief medical examiner in the mid-1980s. Larke was cynical, dictatorial, and one of
the best pathologist-administrators in the country. Working with an inadequate budget and a
disinterested legislature, he had taken an office in chaos and turned it into one of the most
efficient death investigative systems inNorth America .

 My forensic career was in its infancy at the time of Larke’s
appointment, and I had just qualified for certification by the American Board of Forensic
Anthropology. We met through work I was doing for the North Carolina State Bureau of
Investigation, reassembling and identifying the corpses of two drug dealers murdered and
dismembered by outlaw bikers. I was one of Larke’s first hires as a consulting specialist, and
had handled the skeletal, the decomposed, the mummified, the burned, and the mutilated dead
ofNorth Carolina ever since.

 The lieutenant governor extended one hand, pressed a hankie to his
mouth with the other. His face was the color of a frog’s belly. He said nothing as we shook.

 “Glad you’re in country,Tempe ,” said Larke, also crushing my fingers
in his grip. I was rethinking this whole handshake business.

 Larke’s “in country” idiom was Vietnam-era military, his dialect
pureCarolina . Born in the low country, Larke grew up in a Marine Corps family, then did two
hitches of his own before heading off to medical school. He spoke and looked like a
spit-and-polish version of Andy Griffith.

 “When do you head north?”

 “Next week is fall break,” I responded.

 Larke’s eyes narrowed as he did another sweep of the site.

 “I’m afraidQuebec may have to do without its anthropologist this
autumn.”

 A decade back I’d participated in a faculty exchange
withMcgillUniversity . While inMontreal I’d begun consulting to the Labora-to are de Sciences
Judiciaires et deMedecine Legale,Quebec ‘s central crime and medico-legal lab. At the end of my
year, recognizing the need for a staff forensic anthropologist, the provincial government had
funded a position, equipped a lab, and signed me up on a permanent consultant basis.

 I’d been commuting between Quebec and North Carolina, teaching physical
anthropology at UNC-Charlotte and consulting to the two jurisdictions, ever since. Because my
cases usually involved the less-than-recent dead, this arrangement had worked well. But there was
an understanding on both ends that I would be immediately available for court testimony and in
crisis situations.

 An aviation disaster definitely qualified as a crisis situation. I
assured Larke that I would cancel my October trip toMontreal .

 “How did you get here so quickly?”

 Again I explained my trip toKnoxville and the phone conversation with
the DMORT leader.

 “I’ve already talked to Earl. He’ll deploy a team up here tomorrow
morning.” Larke looked at Crowe. “The NTSB boys will be rolling in tonight. Until then everything
stays put.”