John Nance - 16 Souls

“Hey, I’m not a bit like Columbo!”

“You drive an old Volvo, right?”

“He didn’t drive a Volvo… did he?”

“I really don’t recall.” Joe chuckled. “It was an old beater, though.” He paused, both of them watching the sky.

“So, what, in this case, is keeping you up at night, Mister Scott?”

“Unexplained lights.”

“Excuse me?”

“On final approach that night, after everything that had happened in the middle of the blizzard, the captain said in his hospital interview with the NTSB that suddenly bright lights snapped on just to the right of the centerline, and he reacted instinctively to avoid hitting whatever it was. He figured it was a snowplow in the wrong place, but the airport flatly denies any snowplows were anywhere near that runway and they’re got video of their equipment parking garage which seems to support the point.”

“Is the man lying?”

“I doubt it. He could have just imagined it afterwards, a trauma-induced false memory, but his history just isn’t that of someone who tries to lie his way out of things. But you asked… and that’s what’s bothering me.”

The landing lights of the approaching Blackhawk were suddenly visible and the two men watched as the thunderous roar of the blades and engine approached and the National Guardsman set the chopper back down in the landing zone. The door slid open and the two paramedics who had been waiting in their ambulance now scrambled aboard , and out again within a minute. They retreated to respectful distance as the pilot lifted the Blackhawk into the night sky once more and headed east.

Scott shadowed Joe Johnson as the ranger approached the two paramedics.

“What’s going on, fellas?”

“No time to take the patient by road, sir,” one of them said, folding an unused blanket and preparing to leave empty.

“Why’s that?” Joe pressed.

“Excuse me, sir, you are…?” the paramedic asked.

“I’m the chief ranger here. I summoned you.”

“Okay, sir, just… checking before I breach confidentiality.”

The medic was looking at Scott but Joe didn’t flinch and it was enough to declassify him as an interloper.

“So, why did he need air evacuation?”

“Well, when you have a suspected overdose, especially a barbiturate, there’s no direct antidote, and they’ve got a bunch of things that have to be done fast. We don’t have everything we’d need aboard.”

“Overdose? You mean as in attempted suicide?”

“Off the record, probably. The crew chief said he recovered a prescription bottle and other stuff up there indicating the patient didn’t intend to come down alive. They’ll have him at a trauma center in fifteen minutes. It would take us an hour.”

“What are his chances?” Scott interjected.

The medic shrugged. “Honestly, I have no idea.”

Present Day — August 15 th, 10:00 am

St. Michael’s Hospital, North Denver

National Guard helicopters cannot successfully pluck stranded climbers from a major mountain peak in a national park at night without the story leaking like a failing dam. When reporters glommed onto the fact that the rescue was none other than the indicted captain of Flight 12, the chase was on.

Acutely aware of the value to TV news reporters of an on-the-scene backdrop to any interview, Judith arranged to meet camera crews from three of the local stations on the steps of the hospital. Determined to keep it brief, she had already warned the media force that the ‘conference’ would be confined to a prepared statement.

“Hello. I am Judith Winston, attorney for Captain Marty Mitchell of Regal Airlines. I appreciate everyone’s concern and presence here this morning wondering about Captain Mitchell’s condition. Captain Mitchell made an ascent of Long’s Peak yesterday, and was unable to descend from the summit safely after dark. As a precaution against hypothermia, a helicopter unit of the Colorado Air National Guard volunteered to make a difficult landing on the summit and bring him down to safety, and they performed magnificently. Captain Mitchell is resting comfortably and in good condition.”

Predictably, hands went up, and Judith turned back, pointing to one of the reporters — a planned maneuver.

“Ms. Winston, there are rumors that Captain Mitchell is despondent over his prosecution for murder in Denver. Did that play a role in his being on the peak last night?”

She smiled a practiced, indulgent smile before answering.

“I think any of us would be despondent over being wrongly and scandalously accused of committing a crime by doing nothing more than trying to save people in a major emergency. And when any of us are feeling such pain, we do different things to take our minds of the raging injustice — run marathons, do extreme sports, ski too fast, climb mountains… you name it.”

Another reporter tag teamed the first.

“Did Captain Mitchell intend to come down but couldn’t, or was there some other reason?”

“What are you asking?” Judith countered, knowing the word ‘suicide’ would not be openly asked.

The reporter started to respond but Judith interrupted.

“Folks, when the captain is released from the hospital’s care, we’ll hold a presser and let him describe the problems he encountered last night.”

The same reporter raised her hand again.

“Ms. Winston, you’re his defense attorney and it would be expected that you would denounce the prosecution of your client. But, do you truly believe Captain Mitchell is going to be found innocent of the specific charges, considering that he was warned by his airline not to attempt to do exactly what he ended up doing?”

Perfect set up, Judith thought to herself, taking a small step forward toward the cameras.

“The short answer is yes, he will be found innocent because the charges are ridiculous and this is a gross misuse of the criminal statutes of Colorado. But there’s a far more important question that everyone out there who is aware of the national outrage over District Attorney Grant Richardson’s attempt to put a decent and even heroic pilot and Air Force veteran in prison needs to ask. In his public comments, he has been uncharacteristically unrestrained. Why is the district attorney so furious?”

There were more questions, but she waved like a veteran politician and sidestepped them all, disappearing quickly into the hospital’s main entry.

Room 314

With a sudden involuntary convulsion, Marty Mitchell jerked back to consciousness, twisting his body as he sat bolt upright in the hospital bed, eyes wide, a feral look on his face as he tried to make sense of the images his eyes were transmitting. This was the second time in seven months he’d found himself in a hospital bed, decorated with plastic tubes and IV bags.

The unexpected movement had equally startled the only other person in the room, and once she got her heart rate under control, Judith Winston was on her feet, moving to the bedside, her hand on the side rail as he squinted at her in marginal recognition.

“Judith?”

“Yes.”

“So… so I’m alive?”

“Not by much. You have enough charcoal in you to fuel a grill for a week.”

“Charcoal?”

“They say you took a form of Seconal. That’s one of the treatments.”

“How… how did I get here?”

“Courtesy of our State National Guard and a great helicopter crew who plucked you off Long’s Peak, despite the fact you were making obscene gestures at them.”

He shook his head, taking a raged breath, and forced his eyes shut.