Night Fall

by Nelson DeMille

  She stopped at the water’s edge, pointed, and said, “Across that inlet is Fire Island and Smith Point County Park where the memorial service was just held. Far out on the horizon, this police officer could see the jet fuel burning on the water. He shined his light out on the water, but all he saw was a calm, glassy surface. He said in his report that he didn’t expect to see any survivors coming to shore, at least not that soon, and probably not that far from the crash. In any case, he decided to climb up a sand dune where he could get a better view.”

  She turned and headed for the rising dune, which was near where I’d parked the Jeep. I followed.

  We reached the base of the dune. “Okay,” she said, “he told me he saw recent signs that people had scrambled up or down—or up and down—this dune. This guy wasn’t actually following the footprints; he was just looking for a vantage point to scan the water. So, he climbed this dune.”

  “Does that mean I have to climb it?”

  “Follow me.”

  We scrambled up the dune, and I got sand in my shoes. When I was a young detective, I was into re-enactments, which are sometimes strenuous and get your clothes dirty. I’m more cerebral now.

  We stood at the top of the dune, and she said, “Down there in that small valley between this dune and the next, this policeman saw a blanket.” We walked down the shallow slope.

  She said, “Just about here. A bed blanket. If you live around here, you probably own a good cotton beach blanket. This was a synthetic fiber blanket, maybe from a hotel or motel.”

  “Did anyone check out local hotels and motels to get a match?”

  “Yes, an ATTF team did. They found several hotels and motels that used that brand of blanket. They narrowed it down to one hotel that said a maid reported a missing blanket from a room.”

  “What was the name of the hotel?”

  “Are you interested in pursuing this?”

  “No. In fact both you and Liam Griffith have told me it’s none of my business.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Good. By the way—why are we here?”

  “I thought you’d find this interesting. You might work it into one of your classes at John Jay.”

  “You’re always thinking of me.”

  She didn’t reply.

  By now, of course, the hook was in John Corey’s mouth, and Kate Mayfield was reeling the fish in slowly. I think this is how I got married, both times.

  She continued, “On the blanket was an ice chest, and in the chest, the police officer’s report described half-melted ice. There were two wineglasses on the blanket, a corkscrew, and an empty bottle of white wine.”

  “What kind of wine?”

  “An expensive French Pouilly-Fumé. About fifty dollars in those days.”

  I asked, “Did anyone get prints from the bottle?”

  “Yes. And the wineglasses. And the ice chest. Lots of good prints. Two different sets. The FBI ran the prints, but came up empty.”

  I asked, “Lipstick?”

  “Yes, on one glass.”

  “Any sign of sex on the blanket?”

  Kate replied, “There was no semen found, and no condoms.”

  “Maybe they had oral sex, and she swallowed.”

  “Thank you for that thought. Okay, forensics did find male and female epidermal on the blanket, plus body hair, head hair, and some pubic hair, so this couple was probably naked at some point.” She added, “But it could have been someone else’s hair and epidermal since it seemed to be a hotel blanket.”

  “Any foreign fibers?”

  “Lots of fibers. But again, it could be from a dozen different sources.” She added, “Also some white wine on the blanket.”

  I nodded. In fact, stuff found on hotel blankets was not exactly good forensic evidence. I asked, “Sand?”

  “Yes. Some still damp. So they may have gone down to the beach.”

  I nodded and asked, “Did this cop see any vehicles heading away from this beach?”

  “Yes, he mentioned passing a light-colored, late-model Ford Explorer out on Dune Road, coming from this direction. But since he was responding to an emergency, not a crime in progress, he didn’t take note of the license plate or if there were any passengers in the vehicle. No follow-up was done.”

  I nodded. Ford Explorers, like Jeeps, were as common around here as seagulls, so it wasn’t worth the time or effort to check it out.

  Kate said to me, “Okay, that’s about it. Would you like to attempt a reconstruction of the events of that evening?”

  I replied, “Rather than me verbally reconstructing, this may be a good time for a re-enactment.”

  “John, clean up your act.”

  “I’m trying to get into this scene.”

  “Come on. It’s getting late. Reconstruct.” She smiled. “We’ll re-enact later.”

  I smiled in return. “Okay. We have a man and a woman. They may have been staying at a local hotel, the name of which I may learn later. The expensive wine indicates perhaps upper-middle-class and middle-age people. They decide to go to the beach, and they snag the blanket from the hotel bed. They do, however, have an ice chest, so maybe this was planned to some extent. They know or have heard of this secluded spot, or they just stumbled upon it. I think they got here late afternoon or early evening.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I remember where I was when I heard about the crash. Bright and sunny that day, and you didn’t mention suntan oil or lotion on the blanket, on the bottle, or on the wineglasses.”

  “Correct. Continue.”

  “Okay. So, this man and woman, perhaps driving a Ford Explorer, got here at some point before eight-thirty-one P.M., the time of the crash. They laid out the blanket, opened the ice chest, took out the wine, opened it with the corkscrew, poured it into two glasses, and finished the bottle. At some point, they may have gotten naked, and may have engaged in sexual activity.”

  She didn’t reply, and I continued, “Okay, based on the damp sand found on the blanket, we can speculate that they went down to the water, naked or clothed. At some point—at eight-thirty-one P.M. to be exact—they saw and heard an explosion in the sky. I don’t know where they were standing at that time, but realizing that this spectacular occurrence would draw people to the beach, they got the hell out of here, and they were gone before the police arrived at eight-forty-six. The two vehicles may have passed on the single road leading to this beach.” I added, “My guess is that these two people were not married to each other.”

  “Why?”

  “Too romantic.”

  “Don’t be cynical. Maybe they weren’t running away. Maybe they ran for help.”

  “And kept on running. They didn’t want to be seen together.”

  She nodded. “That’s the general consensus.”

  “Among who?”

  “Among the FBI agents on the Anti-Terrorist Task Force, who investigated this five years ago.”

  “Let me ask you something. What makes these two people so important that the FBI went through all that trouble?”

  “They were probably witnesses to the crash.”

  “So what? There were six hundred eyewitnesses who saw the explosion. Over two hundred of them said they saw a streak of light rising toward the plane before the explosion. If the FBI didn’t believe two hundred people, why are these two unknown people so important?”

  “Oh, I forgot. One last detail.”

  “Ah.”

  She said, “Also on the blanket was a plastic lens cap belonging to a JVC video camera.”

  I let that sink in a moment as I looked around at the terrain and the sky. I asked her, “Did you ever hear from these people?”

  “No.”

  “And you never will. Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  We drove back through the Village of Westhampton. “Home?” I asked.

  “One more stop. But only if you want to.”

  “How many one-more-stops are there?”

>   “Two.”

  I glanced at the woman sitting in the passenger seat beside me. It was my wife, Kate Mayfield. I mention this because sometimes she’s Special Agent Mayfield, and other times she’s conflicted about who she is.

  At this moment, I could tell she was Kate, so this was the moment for me to clear up some things.

  I pointed out to her, “You told me this case was none of my business. Then you took me to the beach where this couple had apparently witnessed and perhaps videotaped the crash. Would you care to explain this apparent contradiction?”

  “No.” She added, “It’s not a contradiction. I just thought you’d find it interesting. We were close to that beach, and I showed it to you.”

  “Okay. What am I going to find interesting at the next stop?”

  “You’ll see at the next stop.”

  “Do you want me to look into this case?” I asked.

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “Well, blink once for yes, twice for no.”

  She reminded me, “You understand, John, I can’t get involved in this case. I’m career FBI. I could get fired.”

  “How about me?”

  “Do you care if you get fired?”

  “No. I have a three-quarter NYPD disability pension. Tax free.” I added, “I’m not thrilled to be working for you anyway.”

  “You don’t work for me. You work with me.”

  “Whatever.” I asked again, “What do you want me to do?”

  “Just look and listen, then whatever you do, you do. But I don’t want to know about it.”

  “What if I get arrested for snooping around?”

  “They can’t arrest you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. I’m a lawyer.”

  I said, “Maybe they’ll try to kill me.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “No, it’s not. Our former CIA teammate, Ted Nash, threatened to kill me a few times.”

  “I don’t believe that. Anyway, he’s dead.”

  “There are more of them.”

  She laughed.

  Not funny. I asked yet again, “Kate, what do you expect me to do?”

  “Make this case your part-time secret hobby.”

  Which reminded me again that my ATTF colleague, Mr. Liam Griffith, had specifically advised me against that. I pulled off to the side of the road and said, “Kate. Look at me.”

  She looked at me.

  I said to her, “You’re jerking me around, sweetheart. I don’t like that.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Exactly what would you like me to do, darling?”

  She thought a moment and replied, “Just look and listen. Then you decide what you want to do.” She forced a smile and said, “Just be John Corey.”

  I said, “Then you just be Kate.”

  “I’m trying. This is so . . . screwed up. I’m really torn about this . . . I don’t want us . . . you to get into trouble. But this case has bothered me for five years.”

  “It’s bothered lots of people. But the case is closed. Like Pandora’s box. Leave it closed.”

  She stayed silent awhile, then said softly, “I don’t think justice was done.”

  I replied, “It was an accident. It has nothing to do with justice.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “No. But if I worried about every case where justice wasn’t done, I’d be in long-term analysis.”

  “This is not any case, and you know it.”

  “Right. But I’m not going to be the guy who sticks his dick in the fire to see how hot it gets.”

  “Then let’s go home.”

  I pulled back on the road, and after a minute or so I said, “Okay, where are we going?”

  She directed me to Montauk Highway, heading west, then south toward the water.

  The road ended at a fenced-in area with a chain-link gate and a guardhouse. My headlights lit up a sign that read UNITED STATES COAST GUARD STATION—CENTER MORICHES—RESTRICTED AREA.

  A uniformed Coast Guard guy with a holstered pistol came out of the guardhouse, opened the gate, then put up his hand. I stopped.

  The guy approached, and I held up my Fed creds, which he barely glanced at, then looked at Kate, and without asking our business, he said, “Proceed.”

  Clearly we were expected, and everyone but me knew our business. I proceeded through the open gate along a blacktop road.

  Up ahead was a picturesque white-shingled building with a red-dormered roof and a square lookout tower; a typical old Coast Guard structure.

  Kate said, “Park over there.”

  I parked in the lot at the front of the building, shut off the engine, and we got out of the Jeep.

  I followed Kate around to the rear of the building, which faced the water. I looked out over the floodlit installation, which was set on a point of land jutting into Moriches Bay. At the water’s edge were a few boathouses, and to the right of those, a long dock where two Coast Guard boats were tied to pilings. One of the boats looked like the one that had participated in the memorial service. Other than the guy at the front gate, the facility seemed deserted.

  Kate said to me, “This was where the command post was set up right after the crash.” She continued, “All the rescue boats came in here through Moriches Inlet and deposited the debris from the crash, then it was trucked to the hangar at the Calverton naval installation to be reassembled.” She added, “This was also where they took the bodies before they went on to the morgue.” She stayed silent awhile, then said, “I worked here, on and off, for two months. I lived in a motel nearby.”

  I didn’t reply, but I thought about this. I knew a few NYPD men and women who’d worked this case day and night for weeks and months, living out of a suitcase, having nightmares about the bodies, and drinking too much in the local gin mills. No one, I’m told, came away from this case without some trauma. I glanced at Kate.

  We made eye contact, and she turned away. She said, “The bodies . . . pieces of bodies . . . kids’ toys, stuffed animals, dolls, suitcases, backpacks . . . a lot of young people going to Paris for summer study. One girl had money stuffed in her sock. One of the rescue boats fished up a small jewelry box and inside was an engagement ring. Someone was going to get engaged in Paris . . .”

  I put my arm around Kate, and she put her head on my shoulder. We stood there awhile looking out over the bay. This is a tough lady, but even tough people get overwhelmed sometimes.

  She straightened up, and I let her move away. She walked toward the dock and spoke as she walked. “When I got here, the day after the crash, this place was about to be closed down and wasn’t being maintained. Grass as high as my waist. Within a few days, this whole place was filled with commo vans, forensic vans, ambulances, a big Red Cross tent over there, trucks, mobile morgues . . . we had portable showers to wash off the . . . contaminants . . . About a week later, they put in those two paved helipads out on the lawn. It was a good response. An excellent response. I was really proud to be working with these people. Coast Guard, NYPD, local and state police, Red Cross, and lots of local fishermen and boaters who worked day and night to find bodies and debris . . . It was amazing, really.” She looked at me and said, “We’re good people. You know? We’re selfish, self-centered, and pampered. But when the shit hits the fan, we’re at our best.”

  I nodded.

  We reached the end of the dock, and Kate pointed to the west, toward where TWA Flight 800 had exploded over the ocean five years ago this night. She said, “If it was an accident, then it was an accident, and the Boeing people and the National Transportation Safety Board and everyone else involved in aircraft safety can fine-tune the glitch, and maybe no one else has to worry about the center fuel tank exploding in flight.” She took a deep breath and added, “But if it was murder, then we have to know it was murder before we can look for justice.”

  I thought a moment, then replied, “I’ve looked for murderers when almost no one thought a murder had
been committed.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Once. Things pop up years later. You reopen the case.” I asked her, “You got something?”

  “Maybe.” She added, “I got you.”

  I smiled. “I’m not that good.”

  “What’s good is that you can look at this with a fresh eye and a clear mind. We all lived this case for a year and a half until it was closed, and I think we were overwhelmed by the scope of the tragedy, and by paperwork—the forensic reports, conflicting theories, turf battles, outside pressures, and the media frenzy. There’s a shortcut through the bullshit. Someone needs to find it.”

  In truth, most of the cases I’ve solved were a result of standard, plodding police work, forensic reports, and all that. But now and then, solving a case had to do with the lucky discovery of the golden key that opened the door to the short path through the bullshit. It happens, but not in a case like this.

  Kate turned away from the water and looked back toward the white Coast Guard station in the distance. Several lights were on in the windows, but I saw no sign of activity. I remarked, “Pretty quiet here.”

  She replied, “It’s winding down again.” She added, “This place was built at the beginning of the Second World War to hunt for German submarines lurking off the coast. That war is over, and the Cold War is over, and the TWA 800 crash was five years ago. The only thing that would keep this place alive would be a terrorist threat or an actual attack.”

  “Right. But we don’t want to manufacture one.”

  “No. But you’ve worked in the Anti-Terrorist Task Force long enough to know there’s a real threat out there that neither the government nor the people are paying attention to.”

  I didn’t reply.

  She said, “You’ve got the Plum Island biological research lab not far from here, Brookhaven National Laboratory, the Groton Naval Submarine Base, and the New London nuclear plant across Long Island Sound.” She said, “And let’s not forget the attack on the World Trade Center in February 1993.”

  I replied, “And let’s not forget Mr. Asad Khalil, who still wants to kill me. Us.”

  She stayed silent a moment and stared off into space, then said, “I have this feeling that there’s an imminent threat out there. Something far bigger than Asad Khalil.”