Reichs, Kathy - Fatal Voyage

I listened, knowing the bodies would be coded, just as the seats had been. Green: body intact. Yellow: crushed head or loss of one extremity. Blue: loss of two extremities with or without crushed head. Red: loss of three or more extremities or complete transection of body.

“The autopsy reports will also show where passengers with penetrating materials, thermal burns, or chemical burns were seated within the cabin,” Lowery went on. “We'll also try to correlate right-versus-left-side injury patterns with right-versus-left-seat deformation.”

“What does that tell you?” Ryan asked.

“A high degree of correlation would suggest that passengers remained seated through most of the crash sequence. A poor correlation would mean either they were not in their assigned seats, or they became separated from their seats fairly early in the sequence.”

I felt a chill thinking of the terror-filled final moments of those passengers.

“The docs will also give us data on anterior-versus-posterior injuries, which we'll correlate to fore-versus-aft seat deformation.”

“Why?” Ryan.

“It's assumed that the forward motion of the plane combined with the protective effect of the seat at the occupant's back result in predominantly anterior injuries.”

“Unless the passenger is separated from the seat.”

“Exactly. Also, in crashes with forward velocity, forward-facing seats are deformed in the forward direction. In midair breakups, that pattern may not occur, since portions of the plane may have tumbled prior to impact.”

“And?”

“Of the seats recovered so far, over seventy percent show detectable deformation in the fore-aft plane. Of those, less than forty percent were deformed in the forward direction.”

“Meaning in-flight destruction.”

“No doubt about it. Susan's group is still studying the mode of breakup. They'll try to reconstruct the exact sequence of failure, but it's pretty clear there was a sudden, catastrophic midair event. That means that parts of the fuselage tumbled prior to ground impact. I'm a little surprised there isn't more variation among the various sections, but these things never follow the book. What is clear is that the seats in each section show nearly identical impact loading.”

He worked the keys, and the original diagram filled the screen.

“And there's little doubt where the blast occurred.” He pointed to the splotch of fiery red at the left rear of the cabin.

“An explosion doesn't necessarily mean a bomb.”

We swiveled to see Magnus Jackson standing at the cubicle entrance. He looked at me a long time but said nothing. The screen glowed rainbow bright behind us.

“The rocket scenario has been given some new credibility,” Jackson said.

We all waited.

“There are now three witnesses claiming to have seen an object shoot into the sky.”

Ryan crooked an arm over the back of his chair. “I've talked to the Right Reverends Mr. Claiborne and Mr. Bowman, and I'd estimate a combined IQ in the woolly worm range.”

I wondered how Ryan knew about woolly worms but didn't ask.

“All three witnesses give times and descriptions that are virtually identical.”

“Like their genetic codes,” Ryan quipped.

“Will these witnesses take lie detector tests?” I asked.

“They probably think a microwave will fry their genitals,” Ryan said.

Jackson almost smiled, but Ryan's jokes were beginning to annoy me.

“You're right,” Jackson said. “There's a healthy suspicion of authority and science in the rural areas up here. The witnesses refuse to submit to polygraphs on the grounds that the government could use the technology to alter their brains.”

“Give them upgrades?”

Jackson did smile briefly. Then the investigator in charge studied me again, and left without another word.

“Can we go back to the seating chart?” I asked.

Lowery entered a sequence of keystrokes and the diagram filled the screen.

“Can you superimpose the seat damage over that?”

Another few keys and the Seurat was in place.

“Where was Martha Simington seated?”

Lowery pointed to the first row in first class: “1A.”

Pale blue.

“And the Sri Lankan exchange student?”

“Anurudha Mahendran—12F, just forward of the right wing.”

Dark blue.

“Where were Jean Bertrand and Rémi Petricelli?”

Lowery's finger moved to the last row on the left.

“Twenty-three A and B.”

Fiery red.

Ground zero.

FOLLOWING THE BRIEFING, RYAN AND I BOUGHT LUNCH AT HOT Dog Heaven and watched tourists at the Great Smoky Mountains Railroad Depot as we ate. The weather had warmed, and at one-thirty in the afternoon the temperature was in the low eighties. The sun was bright, the wind barely a whisper. Indian summer in Cherokee country.

Ryan promised to ask about progress in victim identification, and I promised to dine with him that night. As he drove off I felt like a housewife whose children had just started full-day school: a long afternoon of yawning until the troops reappeared.

Returning to High Ridge House, I took Boyd for another walk. Though the dog was delighted, the outing was really for me. I was restless and edgy and needed physical exertion. Crowe hadn't called, and I couldn't get into the courthouse until Monday. As I was barred from the morgue and persona non grata with my colleagues, further research into the foot was at a standstill.

I then tried reading but by three-thirty could take it no longer. Grabbing purse and keys, I set out, going somewhere.

I'd hardly left Bryson City when I passed a mile marker for Cherokee.

Daniel Wahnetah was Cherokee. Was he living on the reservation at the time of his disappearance? I couldn't remember.

In fifteen minutes I was there.

The Cherokee Nation once ruled 135,000 square miles of North America, including parts of what are now eight states. Unlike the Plains Indians, so popular with producers of Western movies, the Cherokee lived in log cabins, wore turbans, and adopted the European style of dress. With Sequoyah's alphabet, their language became transcribable in the 1820s.

In 1838, in one of the more infamous betrayals in modern history, the Cherokee were forced from their homes and driven 1,200 miles west to Oklahoma on a death march christened the Trail of Tears. The survivors came to be known as the Western Band Cherokee. The Eastern Band is composed of the descendants of those who hid out and remained in the Smoky Mountains.

As I drove past signs for the Oconaluftee Indian Village, the Museum of the Cherokee Indian, and the outdoor drama Unto These Hills, I experienced my usual anger at the arrogance and cruelty of manifest destiny. Though geared toward the dollar, these contemporary enterprises were also attempts at heritage preservation, and demonstrated the tenacity of another people screwed over by my noble pioneer ancestors.

Billboards plugged Harrah's Casino and the Cherokee Hilton, living proof that Sequoyah's descendants shared his aptitude for cultural borrowing.

So did downtown Cherokee, where T-shirt, leather, knife, and moccasin stores elbowed for space with gift and souvenir emporiums, fudge shops, ice cream parlors, and fast-food joints. The Indian Store. The Spotted Pony. The Tomahawk Mini-Mall. The Buck and Squaw. Teepees sprouted from roofs and painted totem poles flanked entrances. Aboriginal kitsch extraordinaire.

After several unsuccessful passes up and down Highway 19, I parked in a small lot several blocks off the main drag. For the next hour I joined the tourist mass swarming walkways and businesses. I appraised genuine Cherokee ashtrays, key chains, back scratchers, and tom-toms. I inspected authentic wooden tomahawks, ceramic buffalo, acrylic blankets, and plastic arrows, and marveled at the ringing of the cash registers. Had there ever been buffalo in North Carolina?