The Breaking Point (Body Farm 9)

THE FBI AGENTS AND I SHIFTED IN OUR CHAIRS IN the command center—adjusting and readjusting our personal-space boundaries, like people crammed into an oversized elevator—as crash investigator Patrick Maddox began briefing us on what to expect in the wreckage. Using the command center’s satellite link and computers, Maddox had, in ten minutes or so, downloaded a batch of files and created a PowerPoint presentation. I was impressed. Maddox appeared at least ten years older than I was—a leathery, rode-hard sixty, probably more—but he seemed far more Internet savvy and Power-Point positive. My relationship with PowerPoint could best be characterized not as love-hate, but as loathe-hate. I despised the software, with a deep and abiding passion. Drop my 35-millimeter slides into the slots of a Kodak Carousel projector, and I’m a happy guy; import them into PowerPoint—whose default settings seem to include a permanent “blur” feature—and I’m one pissed-off professor.

“Okay, guys,” Maddox commenced. “I’ll give you the supercondensed version of ‘Aircraft 101.’ So I guess that makes it ‘Aircraft 0.1.’ Maybe some of you know some of this stuff already. Hell, maybe all of you know all this stuff already. Tough shit—I like talking about it. And it’ll be easier to recognize the ‘after’—the debris you’ll be recovering—if you’ve taken a look at the ‘before,’ inside and out.” He reached for the power button on the projector, but stopped before switching it on. “By the way, anybody remember anything particularly relevant about this mountain?” None of the younger guys seemed to, but Prescott, as a San Diego old-timer, nodded, and so did I, a middle-aged Tennessean. “A twin-engine Hawker jet crashed up here thirteen years ago, about a quarter mile from here. It was carrying a band. Doc, what’s the name of that Nashville singer they played for?”

“Reba McEntire,” I said. “She lost her whole band.”

He nodded. “She and her husband were supposed to be on the plane, too, but they decided to spend the night in San Diego and catch a flight the next day. Lucky for them. Too bad for everybody else.”

“What caused that one to crash?” asked Kimball.

“Bad luck and stupidity,” said Maddox, shaking his head. “The night was dark and hazy. The pilots didn’t know the area or the terrain. The FAA briefer they talked to on the radio gave ’em bad advice—practically steered ’em into the mountainside. Shouldn’t’ve happened. But it did. And I can tell you, it was a mess to clean up. Anyhow.” He switched on the projector, and a photo of a sleek little twin-engine jet filled the screen. “Here’s a Cessna Citation.” He clicked forward to another, bigger jet. “Here’s another Citation.” He fast-forwarded through a series of jets, each different from the others. “These are all Citations. Some have straight wings, some have swept wings. Some carry four passengers; some carry sixteen. But they’re all Citations—Cessna calls it the ‘Citation family.’ Confusing as all get-out, unless you’re an airplane geek like me.” He flashed a photo that I recognized from an Airlift Relief newsletter: a smiling Richard Janus standing beside a jet, freshly painted with the agency’s name and symbol. “This is the one we’re recovering here. Donated to Janus’s organization four years ago, in 2000. It’s a 501—an early Citation—built in 1979. Funny thing, most of us wouldn’t dream of driving a car that’s twenty-five years old, but we routinely zip around the sky—six miles up; five, six hundred miles an hour—in vehicles built before some of you guys were even born. This Citation wasn’t new by any stretch, but two years ago, it was upgraded—retrofitted with bigger engines and bigger fuel tanks—so it could fly faster and farther. In the end, of course, that meant it crashed harder and burned longer.”

“Excuse me,” McCready interrupted. “I’ve been wondering about that.”

“About which—the crash, or the burn?”

“The burn. How come the fuel didn’t all explode on impact—one giant fireball?”

“Because this wasn’t a scene in a Bruce Willis movie,” Maddox deadpanned, earning another round of laughs. “Actually, that’s a good question. Evidently the fuel tanks didn’t rupture completely. So instead of vaporizing and exploding, the fuel—some of it, at least—stayed contained within the wing structure, and it dribbled out or poured out, sustaining the fire. More on that in just a minute,” he said. “First, let’s back up to some basics. Structurally, an aircraft has a lot in common with a bug.” He looked around, noticed puzzled looks on many of the faces, and smiled, clearly pleased by the response. He turned to me. “Dr. Brockton, how would you describe the structural framework of humans?”

“Well,” I began, “we’re primates—upright, bipedal vertebrates—with an axial skeleton and an appendicular skeleton. The axial skeleton—”

He held up a finger to interrupt me. “Full marks,” he said. “To translate that into terms that even I can understand, you’re saying our skeleton is an endoskeleton—an interior structural framework—right?”

“Right.”

“Whereas bugs have . . . ?”

“An exoskeleton,” I supplied, feeling a bit like a student being nose-led by a professor—and not particularly liking the feeling. “An external shell, made of chitin—a bioprotein or biopolymer, if I’m remembering my zoology.”

“I’ll take your word for the chemical details,” he cracked. “A bug’s shell is light, strong, and rigid. So is an aircraft’s. Trouble is, when either one—a bug or a plane—gets squashed, the shell crumples, and the guts go everywhere.”

“The plane’s guts,” asked Kimball, “or the pilot’s?”

“At four hundred miles an hour? Both,” Maddox answered. “As we dig down through it, we’ll certainly recognize parts. I’m pretty good at identifying airplane pieces, and I’m told Dr. Brockton here is terrific at identifying people pieces. But basically? That plane and anybody in it? Squashed like a bug.”

“Oh, goody,” Kimball joked. “Can’t wait.”

It was gallows humor—a sanity-saving necessity in work this grim. But the truth was, I couldn’t wait. And unless I missed my guess, neither could eager-beaver Kimball.

I WAS HALFWAY THROUGH MY PART OF THE BRIEFING—I had passed out diagrams of the human skeleton and had worked my way from the skull down through the spine and into the pelvis—when I noticed that my voice wasn’t the only thing droning. Maddox was ignoring me by now, his head turned in the direction of the sound; a moment later, I saw McCready and Prescott turn toward it, too. In the distance but closing fast was the distinctive thudding of a helicopter rotor.

When it became clear that the helicopter was landing, McCready and Prescott headed for the door, trailed by the rest of us. Maddox and I stayed in the background, watching from the command center’s steps.

The agents fanned out on the concrete, facing the helicopter—the sheriff’s helicopter again, as I’d guessed from the low, military muscularity of the pitch. As the rotor slowed, the left cockpit door opened and a woman got out of the copilot’s seat—a woman I recognized, even through the dark hair whipping across her face, as Carmelita Janus. She was dressed in black from head to toe, but the outfit was a far cry from widow’s weeds; it looked more like a commando’s uniform for night ops—but night ops with style. She

wore billowy cargo pants of what appeared to be parachute nylon, topped by a long-sleeved, form-fitting pullover; the pants were tucked into tight, knee-high boots that sported tapered toes and a hint of a heel.

Maddox nudged me, muttering, “Is that who I think it is?”

“If you think it’s the grieving widow,” I muttered back.

“Christ, what’s she doing here?”

“Trying to find out if her husband’s dead, I guess. Or maybe trying to make sure we’re not sitting around playing video games.” I glanced at McCready and Prescott; to say they didn’t look thrilled to see her would have been the understatement of the century.

Mrs. Janus strode toward the FBI agents, who stood shoulder to shoulder, like some posse of Wild West lawmen, minus the six-shooters and the ten-gallon hats. Her gaze swept across the group, then returned to the central figure, the one wearing the power suit. “You must be Agent Prescott,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Special Agent in Charge Miles Prescott. So, Mrs. Janus? Why are you here?”

“To identify my husband’s body, if it’s been found. To help search for it, if it hasn’t been.”

Prescott shook his head slowly, seeming pained. “Ma’am, I’m very sorry, but I can’t let you do that.”

“Why not? I’m trained in search and rescue. I’m also a paramedic. Not that I think Richard could have survived this crash.”

“How did you get the sheriff’s office to fly you up here?”

“Our organization has a good partnership with the sheriff’s office,” she said. “We often work together. Quite closely.” Prescott frowned. “Mr. Prescott, I’m here to help any way I can. Even if it’s just to identify the body.”

He held out his hands, palms up. “Mrs. Janus, we haven’t even started the search. It’s not safe yet. I can’t put you at risk. And once we do start, we’ll be collecting forensic evidence—evidence we’re counting on to tell us what happened last night. You wouldn’t want any of that evidence to be overlooked, or damaged, or destroyed, would you?”