Ben smiled.
Frank called Garrett on the radio and warned him that the deputy was on his way. “You’d better take a long time finding that form, Cliff,” he said, “or I may require lots of cooperation from a certain San Bernardino homicide detective. You want to hike down here again to help?”
Cliff laughed and asked how the mosquitoes were, then agreed to keep the deputy busy.
They had no trouble finding the others; they followed the sound of their voices until they saw the coroner’s assistant, several sheriff’s deputies, and a tall, dark-haired woman in lightweight coveralls standing in a small clearing. Frank recognized the woman — they had worked together on a previous case. Was that the real reason Carlson had sent him out here?
“Hello, Mayumi,” he said to her. “How’s life with the NTSB?”
She turned and smiled. “Frank! Good to see you again.” She quickly sobered and said, “Sorry it has to be under these circumstances.”
“Thanks, but I never knew him, so—”
“Of course not,” she said.
This quick reassurance puzzled him. He glanced at the other men. They seemed a little tense. What was going on?
“You weren’t in the department in Las Piernas ten years ago, were you?” Mayumi was saying.
“No, I was still working in Bakersfield then,” he said, and saw the others visibly relax. What the hell was that all about?
“Where’s the wreckage?” Ben asked.
“Not far. I’m Mayumi Iwata,” she said, extending a hand. “I’m with the National Transportation Safety Board.”
“Forgive me for not introducing you, Mayumi,” Frank said. “This is Dr. Ben Sheridan. Ben’s a forensic anthropologist. He’ll be doing the work on recovering and identifying the remains.”
“Oh, yes, the coroner’s office told us you would be coming here with Frank.” She introduced them to the coroner’s assistant and the others. One of the older deputies, a man named Wilson, looked back in the direction of the road and asked, “Where’s the chatterbox?”
Frank and Ben exchanged a look.
“Frank sent him on an important errand,” Ben said.
Wilson laughed. “You have our undying gratitude.” He gave them the sign-in sheet for the scene, noting the time of their arrival, then reached into a canvas bag and brought out some gloves. “You’ll need these. There’s quite a bit of poison oak down there.”
“I begin to see why Cliff was so happy to hand this one off,” Frank said with a laugh, but noticed that Wilson suddenly seemed uneasy. Probably one of Cliff’s friends. Frank decided to stick to business. “Who was first on the scene?”
“I was,” Wilson said. “A couple hikers with a dog wandered through here. We don’t get many through this ravine, because most of the time the little creek that runs through here is dry. I don’t think they would have seen the wreckage if it hadn’t been for the dog.”
“Did the dog disturb the remains?” Ben asked.
“No, and the hikers didn’t either. The dog kind of scratched at the door of the plane. Hikers called him back, and I guess they — well, they freaked out when they realized what it was and came running out of here. We almost couldn’t find it again. Hadn’t been for the dog, I don’t know if we would have. We took statements from them and let them go on home — didn’t realize what a mess…” His voice trailed off, and he colored slightly. “Well, let’s take you on over there.”
Again, Frank felt as if the others were waiting for him to react to something, that there was more going on here than the little Carlson had told him.
He mentally reviewed the brief, unpleasant phone conversation he’d had with his lieutenant. Carlson had paged him just as he had settled into a deck chair at his cabin, cold beer in hand. Frank had objected to being called on a day off; Carlson told him he didn’t care who was up next on the roster, Frank was only a few minutes away from the scene. Besides, the lieutenant told him, Lefebvre, the presumed victim of the crash, had not only been a Las Piernas homicide detective, he had been involved in one of the old cases he had just assigned to Frank. The Randolph cases.
“What Randolph cases? I don’t have any Randolph cases.”
“You do now. Discuss this with no one. You and Sheridan have a very simple task today. Just let me know what you find in a careful search of whatever’s left of that plane.” He had added that Cliff Garrett would be by to drive them to the scene, then hung up.
Lefebvre’s name had seemed vaguely familiar to Frank. He supposed that someone who had worked with Lefebvre when he was with the department must have mentioned him, but he could not remember who might have done so or what had been said.
They picked up a couple of duffel bags, including one with supplies for Ben — courtesy of the San Bernardino Coroner’s Office — and began following Wilson.
“San Bernardino called us right away,” Mayumi said as they walked. “As you know, Frank, if a plane is missing, we start a file at that time.”
“When you say ‘missing’ — that might not be known immediately, right? The pilots of these small planes don’t always file flight plans, do they?”
“No. Eventually, though, family members or friends will report that a pilot didn’t return home on time or didn’t reach a planned destination. But you’re right, flight plans aren’t always required, and obviously one wasn’t filed in this case—”
Obviously? But before Frank could ask about that, Wilson said, “The file you start — is this data about the plane or the pilot?”
“Both,” Mayumi answered. “The plane’s registration number, manufacturer, model, and age are included, along with information about the pilot’s health, experience, drug or alcohol consumption, and possible state of mind. So are any flight plans, communications with control towers, checks on the weather conditions that day, and other data. When any wreckage is found, the registration number is checked against the list of missing planes — its file can be matched very quickly, especially if the plane is from the local area.”
“And this one was on your local list,” Ben said.
“Yes. When we checked this registration number against our records, we found that ten years ago, this plane went missing — and that it was owned and piloted by Detective Philip Lefebvre. That’s why we called Las Piernas right away.”
They climbed a small rise overlooking a dry gully. What remained of the Cessna lay below, so covered with leaves, pine needles, earth, and vines, Frank was amazed that the hikers had been able to see what their dog was after. Most of the left wing was broken off; Mayumi told them they had found it about twenty-five yards back. There were little numbered yellow flags on wires scattered in a pattern behind and near the plane; locations where debris had been found or from which measurements had been taken. “Lots of small hardware scattered along here,” Mayumi said. “Mostly from the wings and tail.” He half listened as she spoke. He was looking at the fuselage. He wasn’t thinking about small hardware.
He had brought a notebook with him, and he took it out now. He began making crude sketches, noting the position of the plane. He could tell that the scene had already been mapped and measured by the sheriff’s department and Mayumi. He didn’t care; he started sketching because the process helped him think.
He thought about Lefebvre and wondered who he had been and what those last few moments of life had been like for him. Peaceful or terrifying?
This is an NTSB case, he told himself. If a Las Piernas cop hadn’t been at the controls, his department never would have been called in. Frank might not have been the one to take that call if he hadn’t been up here — or maybe he was sent because he was with Ben. Given the age of the remains, a forensic anthropologist was needed, so Ben might have been called by the San Bernardino coroner anyway.