Fatal Voyage

by Kathy Reichs

  Being a forensic anthropologist, it is my job to investigate violent death. I have examined hundreds of fire victims for coroners and medical examiners, and know the smell of charred flesh. One gorge over, people were burning.

  I swallowed hard and refocused on the rescue operation. Some who had been inactive were now moving across the site. I watched a sheriff’s deputy bend and inspect debris at his feet. He straightened, and an object flashed in his left hand. Another deputy had begun stacking debris.

  “Shit!”

  I started picking my way downward, clinging to underbrush and zigzagging between trees and boulders to control my balance. The gradient was steep, and a stumble could turn into a headlong plunge.

  Ten yards from the bottom I stepped on a sheet of metal that slid and sent me into the air like a snowboarder on a major wipeout. I landed hard and began to half roll, half slide down the slope, bringing with me an avalanche of pebbles, branches, leaves, and pinecones.

  To stop my fall, I grabbed for a handhold, skinning my palms and tearing my nails before my left hand struck something solid and my fingers closed around it. My wrist jerked painfully as it took the weight of my body, breaking my downward momentum.

  I hung there a moment, then rolled onto my side, pulled with both hands, and scooched myself to a sitting position. Never easing my grasp, I looked up.

  The object I clutched was a long metal bar, angling skyward from a rock at my hip to a truncated tree a yard upslope. I planted my feet, tested for traction, and worked my way to a standing position. Wiping bleeding hands on my pants, I retied my jacket and continued downward to level ground.

  At the bottom, I quickened my pace. Though my terra felt far from firma, at least gravity was now on my side. At the cordoned-off area, I lifted the tape and ducked under.

  “Whoa, lady. Not so fast.”

  I stopped and turned. The man who had spoken wore a Swain County Sheriff’s Department jacket.

  “I’m with DMORT.”

  “What the hell is DMORT?” Gruff.

  “Is the sheriff on site?”

  “Who’s asking?” The deputy’s face was rigid, his mouth compressed into a hard, tight line. An orange hunting cap rested low over his eyes.

  “Dr. Temperance Brennan.”

  “We ain’t gonna need no doctor here.”

  “I’ll be identifying the victims.”

  “Got proof?”

  In mass disasters, each government agency has specific responsibilities. The Office of Emergency Preparedness, OEP, manages and directs the National Disaster Medical System, NDMS, which provides medical response and victim identification and mortuary services in the event of a mass fatality incident.

  To meet its mission, NDMS created the Disaster Mortuary Operational Response Team, DMORT, and Disaster Medical Assistance Team, DMAT, systems. In officially declared disasters, DMAT looks after the needs of the living, while DMORT deals with the dead.

  I dug out and extended my NDMS identification.

  The deputy studied the card, then tipped his head in the direction of the fuselage.

  “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 firefighters 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 from Charlotte to Knoxville. 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 me Tempe.”

  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 in India. “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. Bryson City’s off to the northwest, Great Smoky Mountains National Park’s beyond that. The Cherokee Indian Reservation lies to the north, the Nantahala Game Land 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 ou—”

  “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 the North 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 Air TransSouth.”

  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, and Tennessee with Washington, D.C.

  “This is one of theirs?”

  “Flight 228 was late leaving Atlanta for Washington, 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.

  2

  THE UGA SOCCER TEAMS?”

  Crowe nodded. “Hanover said both the men and women were traveling to matches somewhere near Washington.”

  “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 in Virginia, but often visited her best friend in Athens, home of the University of Georgia. 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.”

  “Hanover opened 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 of North 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 TransSouth 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 as North 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 in North 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 of North 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 pure Carolina. 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 afraid Quebec may have to do without its anthropologist
this autumn.”

  A decade back I’d participated in a faculty exchange with McGill University. While in Montreal I’d begun consulting to the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale, 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 to Montreal.

  “How did you get here so quickly?”

  Again I explained my trip to Knoxville 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.”

  “I’ve given that order,” Crowe said. “This location is pretty inaccessible, but I’ll post extra security. Animals will probably be the biggest problem. Especially when these bodies start to go.”

  The lieutenant governor made an odd sound, spun, and lurched off. I watched him brace against a mountain laurel, bend, and vomit.

  Larke fixed us with a sincere sheriff of Mayberry gaze, shifting his eyes from Crowe to me.

  “You ladies are making a very difficult job infinitely easier. Words can’t express how much I appreciate your professionalism.”

  Shift.

  “Sheriff, you keep things squared away here.”

  Shift.

  “Tempe, you go on and give your lecture in Knoxville. Then pick up whatever supplies you’ll need and report back tomorrow. You’re going to be here awhile, so inform the university. We’ll secure a bunk for you.”

  * * *