“I’m telling you the law, Mr. Corey, so later, if it comes up, you can’t plead ignorance.”
“Hey, pal, I’ve been a cop for over twenty years, and I teach criminal justice at John Jay College. I know the fucking law.”
“Good. I’ll note that in my report.”
“While you’re at it, note, too, that you told me you were here as a private citizen, then read me my rights.”
He actually smiled, then switched to good cop and informed me, “I like you.”
“Well, I like you, too, Liam.”
“Take this conversation as friendly advice from a colleague. There’ll be no report.”
“You guys don’t take a crap without making out a ten-page report.”
I don’t think he liked me anymore. He said, “You have a reputation of being difficult and not a team player. You know that. You’re the golden boy for the moment as a result of the Asad Khalil case. But that was over a year ago, and you haven’t done anything spectacular since then. Khalil’s still free, and by the way, so are the guys who put three bullets in you up in Morningside Heights. If you need a mission in life, Mr. Corey, look for these people who tried to kill you. That should be enough to keep you busy and out of trouble.”
It’s never a good idea to coldcock a Federal agent, but when they use this condescending tone, I should go ahead and do it. Just once. But not here. I suggested to Mr. Griffith, “Go fuck yourself.”
“Okay,” he said, as though he thought that was a good idea. “Okay, consider yourself on notice.”
I replied, “Consider yourself gone.”
He turned and went away.
Before I could process the conversation with Mr. Griffith, Kate came up beside me and said, “That couple lost their only daughter. She was on her way to Paris for a summer study program.” She added, “Five years hasn’t made a bit of difference, nor should it.”
I nodded.
She asked me, “What was Liam Griffith talking to you about?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Did he want to know what we were doing here?”
“How do you know him?” I asked.
“He works with us, John.”
“What section?”
“Same as ours. Mideast terrorism. What did he say?”
“Why don’t I know him?”
“I don’t know. He travels a lot.”
“Did he work the TWA case?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. Why didn’t you ask him?”
“I meant to. Right before I told him to go fuck himself. Then the moment was gone.”
“You shouldn’t have said that to him.”
“Why’s he here?”
She hesitated, then replied, “To see who else is here.”
“Is he sort of like an Internal Affairs guy?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Did my name come up?”
“He said you weren’t satisfied with the government’s final determination of this case.”
“I never said that to anyone.”
“I’m sure he deduced it.”
She nodded, and like a good lawyer not wanting to hear any more than she’d be willing to repeat under oath, she dropped it.
Kate looked out over the ocean, then up at the sky. She asked me, “What doyou think happened here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Iknow you don’t know. I worked the case, and I don’t know. What do youthink?”
I took her hand, and we began the walk back to the Jeep. I said to her, “I think we need to explain the streak of light. Without the streak of light, the evidence is overwhelming for a mechanical failure. With the streak of light, we have another very credible theory-a surface-to-air missile.”
“And which way do you lean?”
“I always lean toward the facts.”
“Well, you have two sets of facts to pick from-the eyewitnesses and their testimony regarding the streak of light, and the forensic facts, which show no evidence of a missile strike and do show some evidence of an accidental center fuel tank explosion. Which facts do you like?”
I replied, “I don’t always trust eyewitnesses.”
“What if there are over two hundred of them who all saw the same thing?”
“Then I’d need to speak to a lot of them.”
“You saw eight of them on TV the other night.”
“That’s not the same as me questioning them.”
“I did that. I interviewed twelve of them, and I heard their voices and I looked into their eyes.” She said to me, “Look into my eyes.”
I stopped walking and looked at her.
She said, “I can’t get their words or their faces out of my mind.”
I replied, “It might be a good idea if you did.”
We got to the Jeep, and I opened the door for Kate. I got in, started the engine, and backed onto the sand road. The scrub pine bounced back, taller and fuller than before I’d run over it. Trauma is good for wildlife. Survival of the fittest.
I joined a long line of vehicles leaving the memorial service.
Kate stayed quiet for a while, then said, “I get myself worked up when I come here.”
“I can see why.”
We made our way slowly toward the bridge.
I suddenly recalled, very distinctly, a conversation I’d had with Special Agent Kate Mayfield, not too long after we’d met. We were working the case of Asad Khalil, recently mentioned by my new friend, Liam. Mr. Khalil, a Libyan gentleman, had come to America with the purpose of murdering a number of U.S. Air Force pilots who had dropped some bombs on his country. Anyway, I guess I was complaining about the long hours or something, and Kate had said to me, “You know, when the ATTF worked the TWA explosion, they worked around the clock, seven days a week.”
I had responded, perhaps sarcastically, maybe presciently, “And that wasn’t even a terrorist attack.”
Kate had not replied, and I recalled thinking at the time that no one in the know replied to questions about TWA 800, and that there were still unanswered questions.
And here we were, a year later, now married, and she still wasn’t saying much. But she was telling me something.
I turned onto the bridge and crept along with the traffic. To the left was the Great South Bay, to the right Moriches Bay. Lights from the far shore sparkled on the water. Stars twinkled in the clear night sky, and the smell of salt air came through the open windows.
On a flawless summer night, very much like this one, exactly five years ago, a great airliner, eleven and a half minutes out of Kennedy Airport, on its way to Paris with 230 passengers and crew on board, exploded in midair, then fell in fiery pieces into the water, and set the sea ablaze.
I tried to imagine what that must have looked like to an eyewitness. Certainly, it would have been so far out of the realm of anything they’d ever seen that they couldn’t comprehend it or make any sense of it.
I said to Kate, “I once had an eyewitness to a shooting who said he’d been standing ten feet from the assailant, who shot the victim once from a range of five feet. In fact, a security camera had recorded the whole scene, which showed the witness at about thirty feet from the assailant, the assailant twenty feet from the victim, and three shots being fired.” I added, unnecessarily, “In cases of extreme and traumatic situations, the brain does not always comprehend what the eyes see or the ears hear.”
“There were hundreds of eyewitnesses.”
“The power of suggestion,” I said, “or false-memory syndrome, or the desire to please the interrogator, or in this case, a night sky and an optical illusion. Take your pick.”
“I don’t have to. The official report picked them all, with emphasis on optical illusion.”
“Yeah. I remember that.” In fact, the CIA had made a speculative reconstruction animation of the explosion, which they’d shown on TV, and which seemed to explain the streak of light. In the animation, as I recalled, the streak of light, which over two hundred people had seen rising toward the aircraft, was, according to the animation, actually comingfrom the aircraft as a result of burning fuel dropping from the ruptured fuel tank. The way this was explained in the animation was that it was not the initial explosion that caught the attention of the witnesses-it was thesound of the explosion that would have reached them fifteen to thirty seconds afterward, depending on where they were located. Then, when they looked up toward the sound, what they saw was the burning stream of jet fuel, which could be mistaken for a rocket or missile streaking upward. Also, the main fuselage of the aircraft actually rose, according to radar sightings, a few thousand feet after the explosion, and this burning section of the plane may also have looked like an ascending missile.