Fatal Voyage (4 page)

 I started to object but Larke cut me off.

 “We’ll walk back together.”

 While Larke went to decontamination, Lucy gave me directions to the
incident morgue. It wasn’t necessary. I’d spotted the activity while driving up the county
road.

 “Alarka Fire Department’s about eight miles back. Used to be a
school.

 You’ll see swing sets and slides, and the engines parked in a field
next door.“

 On our hike up to the holding area the ME filled me in on recent
developments. Foremost among them, the FBI had received an anonymous tip of an on-board bomb.

 “Good citizen was kind enough to share this information with CNN. The
media are slathering like hounds with a brisket.”

 “Forty-two dead students is going to make this a Pulitzer event.”

 “There’s the other bad news. Forty-two may be a low number. Turns out
more than fifty booked through UGA.”

 “Have you seen the passenger list?” I could barely get the question
out.

 “They’ll have it at the briefing.”

 I felt icy cold.

 “Yes sir,” Larke went on. “We screw up on this one, the press will eat
us alive.”

 We separated and hurried to our cars. Somewhere along the road I drove
into a pocket of reception, and my phone beeped. I hit the brakes, afraid of losing the
signal.

 The message was barely discernible through the static.

 “Dr. Brennan, this is Holey Graham, Katy’s roommate. Um. I played
your

 messages, four of them, I think. And Katy’s dad. He called a couple
of

 times. Anyway, then I heard about the crash, and“ Rattling ”well,
here’s

 the thing. Katy left for the weekend, and I’m not sure where she is.
I

 know Lija phoned a couple of times earlier this week, so I’m kinda

 worried that maybe Katy went to visit her. I’m sure that’s stupid, but
I

 thought I’d call and ask if you’d talked to her. Well“

 More rattling. “Anyway. I sound like a geek, but I’d feel better if I
knew where Katy was. O.K. ”Bye.“

 I punched the auto dial for Pete’s number. He still had not spoken to
our daughter. I dialed again. Lija still did not answer her phone.

 The cold fear spread through my chest and curled around my
breastbone.

 A pickup honked me out of the way.

 I continued down the mountain, craving but dreading the upcoming
meeting, certain of my first request.

 ONE OF DMORT’s FIRST DUTIES IN A MASS DISASTER is THE establishment of
an incident morgue as close to the scene as possible. Favored sites include coroner and medical
examiner offices, hospitals, mortuaries, funeral homes, hangars, warehouses, and National Guard
armories.

 When I arrived at the Alarka Fire Department, chosen to receive the
bodies from Air Trans South 228, the front lot was already packed, and a score of cars waited at
the entrance. I got in line and crept forward, drumming my fingers and looking around.

 The back lot had been set aside for the refrigerated trucks that would
transport victims. I watched a pair of middle-aged women drape the fence with opaque sheeting in
anticipation of photographers, both professional and amateur, who would arrive to violate the
privacy of the dead. A breeze twisted and snapped the plastic as they struggled to secure it to
the chain linking.

 I finally reached the guard, showed ID, and was allowed to park.
Inside, dozens of workers were setting up tables, portable X-ray units and developers, computers,
generators, and hot water heaters. Bathrooms were being scrubbed and sanitized, and a staff break
room and changing areas were being constructed. A conference room had been created in one rear
corner. A computer center and the X-ray station were going up in another.

 The briefing was in progress when I entered. People lined the makeshift
walls and sat around portable tables pushed together in the center of the “room.” Fluorescent
lights hung by wires from the ceiling, casting a blue tint on tense, pale faces. I slipped to the
back and took a seat.

 The NTSB investigator in charge, Magnus Jackson, was finishing an
Incident Command System overview. The IIC, asJackson was called, was lean and hard as a Doberman
pinscher, with skin almost as dark. He wore oval wire-rimmed glasses; his graying hair was
cropped close to his head.

 Jacksonwas describing the NTSB “go team” system. One by one he
introduced those heading the investigative groups under his command: structures, systems, power
plants, human performance, fire and explosion, meteorology, radar data, event recorders, and
witness statements. Investigators, each in a cap and shirt marked NTSB in bold yellow letters,
rose or waved asJackson ran down the roster.

 Though I knew these men and women would determine why Air Trans South
228 fell from the sky, the hollow feeling in my chest would not go away, making it hard to
concentrate on anything but the passenger list.

 A question snapped me back.

 “Have the CVR and FDR been located?”

 “Not yet.”

 The cockpit voice recorder captures radio transmissions and sounds in
the cockpit, including the pilots’ voices and engine noise. The flight data recorder monitors
flight operating conditions, such as altitude, airspeed, and heading. Each would play an
important role in determining probable cause.

 WhenJackson finished, an NTSB family affairs specialist discussed the
Federal Family Assistance Plan for Aviation Disasters. He explained that the NTSB would serve as
liaison between Air Trans South and the victims’ families. A family assistance center was being
established at the Sleep Inn inBrysonCity to serve as the collecting point for antemortem
identification information, facts that family members would provide to help identify remains as
those of a son or daughter. Despite myself, I shivered.

 Charles Hanover stood next. He looked strikingly ordinary, like a
pharmacist and member of the Elks rather than the CEO of a regional airline. His face was ashen
and his hands trembled. A tic pulled his left eye, another the corner of his mouth, and one side
of his face jumped when the two fired simultaneously. There was something benign and sad about
the man, and I wondered how Crowe could have found him offensive.

 Hanoverreported that Air Trans South had set up a toll-free number to
handle public inquiries. Phones were being installed in the family assistance center, and
personnel had been appointed to meet regularly with family members who were present, and to
maintain contact with those who were not. Arrangements had been made for mental health and
spiritual support.

 My agitation grew as the briefing dragged on. I’d heard it all before,
and I wanted to see that list.

 A representative of the Federal Emergency Management Agency discussed
communications. NTSB headquarters, the command center at the crash site, and the incident morgue
were now linked, and FEMA would assist the NTSB in the dissemination of public information.

 Earl Bliss spoke about DMORT. He was a tall, angular man with thinning
brown hair slicked back and severely parted. As a high school student, Earl had taken a part-time
job picking up bodies on weekends. Within ten years, he’d purchased his own funeral home. Named
Early because of his premature arrival into the world, Earl had lived his entire forty-nine years
inNashville,Tennessee . When not deployed on mass fatality incidents, he favored string ties and
played banjo in a country-and-western band.

 Earl reminded the representatives of the other agencies that each DMORT
team was composed of private citizens with particular expertise, including pathologists,
anthropologists, dentists, fingerprint specialists, funeral directors, medical records
technicians and transcribers, X-ray technicians, mental health specialists, and security,
administrative, and support personnel.

 One of the ten regional DMORT teams was activated at the request of
local officials for natural disasters, aircraft and other transportation accidents, fires,
bombings, terrorist attacks, and incidents of mass murder/suicide. Earl mentioned recent
deployments. The bombing of the Murrah Federal Building, Oklahoma City, 1995. The Amtrak
derailment,Bourbonnais ,Illinois , 1999. Commuter aircraft accidents,Quincy ,Illinois , 1996,
andMonroe,Michigan 1997. Korean Air Flight 801, Guam, 1997;Egypt Air Flight 990,Rhode Island ,
1999; andAlaska Airlines Flight 261,California , 2000.

 I listened as Earl described the modular design of the incident morgue,
and explained how remains would move through it. All victims and personal effects would be
tagged, coded, photographed, and X-rayed in the remains identification section. Disaster victim
packets, DVPs, would be created, and human bodies, body parts, and tissue would be sent on to the
postmortem data collection section for autopsy, including anthropological, dental, and
fingerprint examination.

 All postmortem findings would be computerized in the identification
section. Records provided by families would also be entered there, and antemortem and postmortem
information would be compared. Following analysis, remains would be sent to a holding area to
await release.

 Larke Tyrell was the last to take the floor. The medical examiner
thanked Earl, drew a deep breath, and surveyed the room.

 “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got a lot of grieving families out there
searching for peace of mind. Magnus and his boys are going to help them by figuring out what
knocked this plane out of the sky. We’ll contribute to that process, but our main job here will
be victim identification. Having something to bury speeds the healing, and we’re going to
try our damndest to send a casket home to each and every family.”

 I remembered my hike through the woods, and knew what many of those
coffins would hold. In the coming weeks DMORT, local, and state personnel would go to
extraordinary lengths to identify every scrap of tissue associated with the crash. Fingerprints,
dental and medical records, DNA, tattoos, and family photos would be the main sources of
information, and the team anthropologists would be intimately involved in the ID process. Despite
our best efforts, little would be left to put in some caskets. A severed limb. A charred molar
crown. A cranial fragment. In many cases, what went home would weigh only grams.

 “Once site processing is complete, all remains will be brought here
from the temporary morgue,” Larke continued. “We expect transport to start in the next few hours.
That’s when the real work begins for us. You all know your jobs, so I’ve got just a few
reminders, then I’ll shut up.”

 “That’ll be a first.”

 Mild laughter.

 “Don’t separate any personal effects from any set of remains until
they’re fully photographed and written up.”

 My mind slid to Raggedy Ann.

 “Not every set of remains will go through every stage of processing.
The folks doing intake will decide what goes where. But if a station is skipped, indicate that
clearly in the disaster victim packet. I don’t want to be guessing later if dental wasn’t done
because there weren’t any teeth, or because that station got overlooked. Put something on every
sheet in the packet. And be sure that information stays with the body. We want full documentation
on every ID.

 “One more thing. As I’m sure you’ve heard, the FBI received a call
about an explosive device. Be alert for blast effects. Check X rays for bomb parts and shrapnel.
Examine lungs and eardrums for pressure damage. Look for peppering and flash burns on the skin.
You know the drill.” Larke paused and looked around the room.

 “Some of you are first-timers, others have done this before. I don’t
have to tell any of you how hard the next few weeks are going to be.

 Take breaks. No one works more than twelve hours per day. If you feel
overwhelmed, talk to a counselor. There’s no weakness in that. These folks are here for your
benefit. Use them.“

 Larke clipped his pen to the legal pad he was holding.

 “Guess that about does it, except for thanking my staff and Earl’s
DMORT folks for getting here so quickly. As for the rest of you, clear out of my morgue.”

 As the room emptied, I crossed to Larke, determined to ask about the
passenger list. Magnus Jackson arrived at the same moment and nodded a greeting. I’d met the IIC
while working a commuter crash some years back, and knew he was not one for trading
pleasantries.

 “Howdy, Tempe,” Larke said to me, then turned to Jackson.

 “I see you’ve brought a full team.”

 “There’s going to be a lot of pressure on this one. We’ll have close to
fifty on site by tomorrow.”

 I knew that only superficial examination of the wreckage would be done
in situ. Once photographed and recorded, the plane’s parts would be removed and taken to a
permanent location for reassembly and analysis.

 “Anything else on the bomb?” Larke asked.

 “Hell, it’s probably a crank, but the media already has this thing
wrapped up slicker than snail spit. CNN’s calling him the Blue Ridge Bomber, geography be damned.
ABC floated the Soccer Bomber, but it just doesn’t have the alliterative ring.”

“The FBI’s coming on board?” Larke asked.

 “They’re here, pawing at the fence, so it may not be long.”

 I broke in, unable to wait another moment.

 “Do we have a passenger list?”

 The ME slid a printout from his pad and handed it to me.

 I experienced a kind of fear I’d rarely felt in my life.

 Please, God.

 The world receded as I raced through the names. Anderson. Beacham.

 Bertrand. Caccioh. Daignault. Larke spoke, but his words didn’t
penetrate.

 A lifetime later, I undamped the teeth from my lower lip and resumed
breathing.

 Neither Katy Brennan Petersons nor Lija Feldman was on the list.

 I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply.

 I opened them to questioning looks. Offering no explanation, I returned
the printout, the profound relief already blunted by a sense of guilt.