The media briefing would be Act Two, though. Before that, we had to get through Act One, a private briefing for Richard Janus’s widow. Prescott led Maddox and me into a conference room outfitted with thick carpet, warm paneling, and heavy drapes. Inside, at a large oak table, sat Carmelita Janus, flanked by a dark-suited man who looked to be a lawyer, and a woman who Prescott had told me was an FBI victim specialist.
Even in grief, Mrs. Janus was striking. I’d noticed it from a distance the day she’d stepped out of the helicopter, hair swirling in the rotor wash; I noticed it even more now, sitting four feet across a table from her. A black-haired, brown-eyed, olive-skinned beauty, she came from an aristocratic family in Mexico. I’d seen dozens of pictures of her in Airlift Relief’s newsletters — clad in cargo pants and a sweaty T-shirt, helping unload medical supplies and food for earthquake survivors in Peru; draped in a designer gown, mingling with celebrities at a Hollywood fund-raiser; wearing stained mechanic’s coveralls and wielding a wrench, helping Richard change the oil in a DC-3—and none of the pictures was unflattering. For this meeting, she wore a simple black dress, with a single strand of pearls around her neck. Her eyes were red-rimmed and weary-looking, but glittering with anger as well.
I had expected Prescott to make introductions, but the lawyer-looking guy spoke first. “I’m Martin Janus, Richard’s brother and attorney and executor. I’m here today in that capacity, but also, primarily, as counsel for Mrs. Janus. Just so we’re clear, we won’t be answering any questions today, so don’t waste your time asking. This whole series of events has been unimaginably traumatic. The FBI’s heavy-handed tactics and intimidation drove a good man — a dedicated humanitarian — to his death.” I glanced at Prescott; I suspected this had something to do with the FBI’s operation and with the interagency pissing contest, and I felt sure that Prescott knew exactly what the man meant. But if so, he hid his knowledge well, for his face was a chiseled mask, devoid of expression. “We appreciate the chance to hear what you’ll be releasing to the press. More advance notice would have been considerate, of course. But better to hear it face-to-face than on television. So. Tell us what to expect.” Having finished his curt speech, he sat back in his chair, laying a hand over one of Mrs. Janus’s and giving a quick, reassuring squeeze.
Prescott ignored the attorney, focusing entirely on the widow. “Mrs. Janus,” he began, his tone matter-of-fact, “these gentlemen are experts who are assisting us with the crash investigation.” He gestured first toward me. “This is Dr. Bill Brockton, a forensic anthropologist from the University of Tennessee. He’s an expert on skeletal trauma and human identification.” I half nodded, half bowed, conveying what I hoped was both professionalism and sympathy. Her eyes searched mine, as if trying to read my findings there, but Prescott kept going. “And this is Mr. Patrick Maddox, a crash investigator from the National Transportation Safety Board. Mr. Maddox has been analyzing the accident site, the aircraft debris, radio communications, and the plane’s flight path from the time it took off until the time it crashed.”
Maddox also nodded; Mrs. Janus’s eyes seemed to be searching his face — as if she were trying to place him from some prior meeting that she couldn’t quite recall — but then Prescott barreled ahead and her attention returned to him. “As you know, Mrs. Janus, we’ve not yet completed our investigation — of the crash or of your husband’s activities. But we have positively identified his remains in the aircraft wreckage, and we wanted to share that as soon as possible with you.”
One of her eyebrows arched upward cynically. “With me? Or with the media?”
Prescott ignored the jab. “As you know, from the media coverage and from your own visit to the crash site, the aircraft was almost completely destroyed by the impact and the fire. That made identifying your husband’s remains challenging. That’s why we brought in Dr. Brockton — he’s one of the country’s leading identification experts.”
She looked at me with what appeared to be a mixture of pain and doubt. “So Richard’s body was badly burned? ‘Burned beyond recognition,’ is that how you people say it?”
This wasn’t going to be easy, I realized. “Actually, Mrs. Janus, there was no body — not an intact one. There’s no delicate way to put this, I’m afraid, and I’m sorry about that. Your husband’s body was severely fragmented by the force of the impact. Fragmented and incinerated. Again, my apologies for being so blunt.”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “You’re saying that all you found were burned bits and pieces of him?” I winced, then nodded reluctantly. “Then how can you be sure it’s Richard? Have you done DNA testing?”
“No, ma’am,” I said. “DNA tends to be destroyed by fire, although it’s possible we could find some in the teeth.” I touched the side of my jaw. “The molars can sometimes protect the DNA, if the fire’s not too hot. But the best way to make an identification in a case like this — the fastest and most reliable way — is to match the teeth to dental records.” I slid a manila folder across the table to her. “We’ve recovered almost all the teeth, and several of them had very distinctive features, which we were able to match to x-rays and photographs.” She opened the chart and looked at the top image — a close-up of the chipped incisors we’d found — and then flipped to the second photo. When she saw it, she flinched, and I mentally kicked myself for not having warned her about the photo. It was an eight-by-ten enlargement of her husband’s smiling face, his lips parted in a broad, boyish grin, red arrows pointing to the chips in the central incisors. Like seeing a ghost, I thought, flushing at my insensitivity. An annotated ghost. Regaining her composure, she leafed more guardedly through the remaining images: more close-ups of teeth — the corkscrew-root canine and the Carabelli-cusp molar — followed by dental charts and x-rays. She paused when she came to a photo that showed a tangle of burned wires and circuitry. “That’s a spinal cord stimulator,” I told her, “or what’s left of it. According to your husband’s medical records, he had it implanted three years ago. To help alleviate back pain.”
“I am aware of why he had it implanted.”
Her rebuke was subtle, but it was there. And it was probably justified. She looked up at me, so I went on. “The next page is a copy of the spinal x-ray he had taken after the surgery. You can see the electrical leads going into the spine; the impulse generator was implanted just under the skin on his left hip.”
“I know where it was implanted,” she said — another rebuke — still studying the x-ray. “And you found this in his body?”
“Well,” I said, somewhat off balance, “as I mentioned, the body was… not intact. But yes, when we removed the frame of the pilot’s seat, we found the device with the bones of the pelvis and the spine. The teeth are really the basis for the positive identification of your husband’s remains; the spinal cord stimulator is just added corroboration.” I expected her to ask more questions, but she gave a brief nod, closed the folder, and slid it aside to her brother-in-law. Prescott nudged me and nodded, so I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a small envelope. I had expected him to do this part, but he’d demurred, delegating it to me. “We also found this,” I said, handing her the envelope. “I think I’ve seen it in pictures of Richard. In the newsletter.”
“The newsletter?”
“Yes, ma’am. My wife and I are… We’re on the Airlift Relief mailing list.”
“I see,” she said, her tone neutral and her expression unreadable. As she turned the envelope to raise the flap, the chain inside shifted and slid, rasping softly. As she opened the envelope and tipped the pendant into her palm, she gasped and seemed on the verge of a sob, but she squelched it — fought it back might be more accurate — as if she felt it important not to reveal any weakness or emotion to us.