Maybe all of them, I realized as the turbine spooled down. All of those, and more besides. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Chapter 6
The rotor was still spinning as a man approached the helicopter with a limp in his stride, a scowl on his face, and a pair of outstretched arms that silently shouted the question “What the hell?!?” Tight on his head was a navy blue baseball cap, monogrammed NTSB in large letters. He made a beeline for the cockpit door, but the pilot pointed a thumb over his shoulder, indicating that McCready was the one he should talk to. A moment later the cabin door was yanked open. “Who are you,” shouted the man in the cap, “and what the hell did you think you were doing, besides jeopardizing my crash scene?”
“Actually, it’s my crash scene now,” McCready said, flashing his badge. “Supervisory Special Agent Clint McCready. Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“FBI?” The man in the cap glowered, but he dialed back the anger a few clicks. “What brings the Bureau up here?”
“We’re… investigating,” McCready said drily. “We’ll be working this as a crime scene. I’ve got an identification expert and a mapping team with me, and an eight-man Evidence Response Team is headed up the mountain now from our local field office.” McCready clambered out of the cabin and extended a hand. “We appreciate your help, Mr.…?” The final sentence was more than just a way of asking who the pissed-off guy in the cap was; it was also McCready’s efficient way of putting the guy in his place, of showing him whose jurisdictional penis was larger. McCready’s smile, as he waited for an answer, was polite but tight, underscoring the message that the Bureau was running the show now.
“Maddox,” said the man in the NTSB cap. “Patrick Maddox, National Transportation Safety Board.” He unfolded his arms and shook McCready’s hand with understandable coolness. In less than thirty seconds, Maddox had been demoted from head honcho to hired help. Henceforth, he was a consultant who might provide useful insights, but his investigative procedures and priorities now carried far less weight than they had before our arrival.
Wriggling out of my harness, I lurched out of the cabin with my bag. Kimball and Boatman were close on my heels, nimble despite their load of gear and baggage.
As the rotor spun up again, Maddox surveyed the lot of us, then shrugged. “It’s all yours,” he shouted. “Knock yourself out.” The helicopter lifted off and spun away, wheeling westward and dropping down toward Brown Field. Maddox watched it, then turned to McCready again. “By the way,” he added, as the rotor’s noise faded in the distance, “do you realize that you guys nearly made history?”
“How’s that?” asked McCready.
“First crash ever witnessed — in person, in real time — by an NTSB investigator. You’d’ve been famous at the Safety Board. Legends, all of you.”
I had to admit, he had a point — and maybe a sense of humor, too. “No offense,” I chimed in, “but I’d much rather be a living legend.”
McCready and Maddox both smiled, and I hoped I’d helped ease the tension.
McCready pointed at me. “Mr. Maddox, this—”
“Call me Pat,” said Maddox.
“Okay, Pat. Call me Special Supervisory Agent McCready.” Maddox stiffened again, but then McCready laughed. “I’m kidding, Pat. Call me Mac. Sorry to get in your business here.” He gestured at the two young agents. “Pat, meet Agents Kimball and Boatman. They’ll use a Total Station to map the site.” He indicated me. “And this is Dr. Bill Brockton, a forensic anthropologist from the University of Tennessee. Doc here specializes in human identification and skeletal trauma.”
Maddox shook my hand, nodding in the direction of the crash. “Plenty of trauma here, but probably not much human left to identify.” He furrowed his brow at me. “Remind me? How many bones in the human body?”
“Two hundred and six, in adults.”
“Uh-huh. Ever work one of those thousand-piece jigsaw puzzles?”
I shook my head. “Never had the patience.”
“Well, better start cultivating some,” he said. “Just a guess — but it’s a fairly educated guess — you’ve got one hell of a puzzle waiting down there, and the pieces are gonna be damned tiny.”
“You mean ‘we,’ don’t you? We’ve got a puzzle. You’ll be down there with us, right?”
He shook his head. “I wish. Can’t.” He hoisted up the left leg of his pants to reveal a contraption of straps, buckles, and hinges that resembled a medieval implement of torture. “Knee surgery three weeks ago. I’m not supposed to be walking on anything rougher than wall-to-wall carpet. My orthopedist went ballistic when I asked what to do if I had to climb around on a mountainside. ‘Schedule a knee replacement,’ he said.”
“Knee surgery’s tricky stuff,” I said. “Your doctor’s right to be cautious.”
Maddox sighed. “I hate being on the sidelines, though.”
“Not to worry, Pat,” said McCready, clapping me on the shoulder. “If anybody can put the pieces together, it’s this man right here. The best there is.” Then he frowned. “I have a question, though. That little kaboom a minute ago — what the hell was that? It rang our chimes pretty good.”
“I’ve seen planes brought down by less,” said Maddox. “A lot less.”
“Hovering beside a burning aircraft.” McCready looked rueful. “Kinda dumb, I guess.”
“You said it.”
“So what was it?” persisted McCready.
Maddox shrugged. “Won’t know till we start combing through the debris. Just guessing, though, I’d say an overheated oxygen cylinder.”
“That’s what the helicopter pilot said, too.” McCready looked puzzled. “But the fire’s about out. Why would it blow now, not earlier?”
“Well…” The crash expert glanced away, then met McCready’s gaze. “Frankly?” McCready gave a yes-please nod. “Probably the buffet from your rotor wash,” Maddox said, “stirring things around. Maybe knocked the cylinder against something sharp — a metal rod, or a shard of rock — and it popped. Like a balloon.”
McCready grimaced. “So it was my own damn fault?” I looked at him, surprised; it had been the pilot, not the FBI agent, who had dropped down beside the wreckage. McCready was choosing to let the buck stop with him, though, and I admired that. Maddox gave a half nod, half shrug, which I also admired: He was confirming what McCready said, but without rubbing his nose in it, as he could’ve. McCready shook his head. “Hate that,” he said. “I put my people at risk, and I altered the scene, too. If anybody should know better, it’s me, Mr. Save-the-Evidence. Sorry about that.”
“Well, look on the bright side,” Maddox said. “If it hadn’t blown now, it might’ve blown later, with your guys right there beside it. Somebody’s boot bumps it, the thing tips over, hits a sharp edge, and kaboom. Could’ve taken off a foot, maybe blinded somebody. So you probably did us all a big favor.” He paused. “Hell, now that I think about it, maybe you oughta call that chopper back to stir things around some more; set off anything else that’s about to blow.” He smiled, making sure we knew it was a joke, not a jab. McCready smiled back. Olive branches had been accepted all around, it seemed.
McCready shifted gears and got down to business. “Seriously, how soon you think it’s safe to get down there and start working it? We got more oxygen cylinders down there? What about other hazards?”