Fifteen minutes later a deputy was dropping me at my car. I’d been right about a better route. A quarter mile up from where I’d parked, a dirt track cut off from the Forest Service road. Once used for hauling timber, the tiny trail meandered around the mountain, allowing access to within a hundred yards of the main crash site.
Vehicles now lined both sides of the logging trail, and we’d passed newcomers on our way downhill. By sunrise both the Forest Service and county roads would be jammed.
As soon as I was behind the wheel I grabbed my cell phone. Dead.
I did a three-point turn and headed down toward the county road. Once on Highway 74, I tried again. The signal was back, so I punched in Katy’s number. A machine picked up after four rings.
Uneasy, I left a message, then set the tape in my head to play the “don’t-be-an-idiot-mother” lecture. For the next hour I tried to focus on my upcoming presentation, pushing away thoughts of the carnage I’d left behind and the horror I’d face the following day. It was no go. Images of floating faces and severed limbs shattered my concentration.
I tried the radio. Every station carried accounts of the crash. Broadcasters reverently talked of the death of young athletes and solemnly hypothesized as to cause. Since weather did not seem to be a factor, sabotage and mechanical failure were the favored theories.
Hiking out behind Crowe’s deputy, I’d spotted a line of sheared-off trees oriented opposite my point of entrance. Though I knew the damage marked the plane’s final descent path, I refused to join in the speculation.
I entered I-40, switched stations for the hundredth time, and caught a journalist reporting from overhead a warehouse fire. Chopper sounds reminded me of Larke, and I realized I hadn’t asked where he and the lieutenant governor had landed. I stored the question in the back of my brain.
At nine, I redialed Katy.
Still no answer. I rewound the mind tape.
Arriving in Knoxville, I checked in, contacted my host, then ate the Bojangles’ chicken I’d picked up on the outskirts of town. I phoned my estranged husband in Charlotte to request care for Birdie. Pete agreed, saying I’d be billed for cat transport and feeding. He hadn’t talked to Katy for several days. After delivering a mini-version of my own lecture, he promised to try to reach her.
Next, I phoned Pierre LaManche, my boss at the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale, to report that I would not be in Montreal the following week. He’d heard reports of the crash and was expecting my call. Last, I rang my department chair at UNC-Charlotte.
Responsibilities covered, I spent an hour selecting slides and placing them into carousel trays, then showered and tried Katy again. No go.
I glanced at the clock. Eleven-forty.
She’s fine. She’s gone out for pizza. Or she’s at the library. Yes. The library. I’d used that one many times when I was in school.
It took a very long time to fall asleep.
* * *
By morning, Katy hadn’t called and was still not picking up. I tried Lija’s number in Athens. Another robotic voice requested a message.
I drove to the only anthropology department in America located in a football stadium, and gave one of the more disjointed talks of my career. The host of the guest lecture series listed my DMORT affiliation in his introduction and mentioned that I would be working the Air TransSouth recovery. Though I could supply little information, follow-up queries largely ignored my presentation and focused on the crash. The question-and-answer period lasted forever.
As the crowd finally milled toward the exits, a scarecrow man in a bow tie and cardigan made straight for the podium, half-moon glasses swinging across his chest. Being in a profession with relatively few members, most anthropologists know one another, and our paths cross and recross at meetings, seminars, and conferences. I’d met Simon Midkiff on several occasions, and knew it would be a long session if I wasn’t firm. Looking pointedly at my watch, I gathered my notes, stuffed my briefcase, and descended from the platform.
“How are you, Simon?”
“Excellent.” His lips were cracked, his skin dry and flaky, like that of a dead fish lying in the sun. Tiny veins laced the whites of eyes overshadowed by bushy brows.
“How is the archaeology business?”
“Excellent, as well. Since one must eat, I am engaged in several projects for the cultural resources department in Raleigh. But mainly I spend my days organizing data.” He gave a high-pitched laugh and tapped a hand to one cheek. “It seems I’ve collected an extraordinary amount of data throughout my career.”
Simon Midkiff earned a doctorate at Oxford in 1955, then came to the United States to accept a position at Duke. But the archaeology superstar published nothing and was denied tenure six years later. Midkiff was given a second chance by the University of Tennessee, again failed to produce publications, and again was let go.
Unable to obtain a permanent faculty position, for thirty years Midkiff had hung around the periphery of academia, doing contract archaeology and teaching courses as replacement instructors were needed at colleges and universities in the Carolinas and Tennessee. He was notorious for excavating sites, filing the requisite reports, then failing to publish his findings.
“I’d love to hear about it, Simon, but I’m afraid I have to run.”
“Yes, indeed. Such a terrible tragedy. So many young lives.” His head moved sadly from side to side. “Where exactly is the crash?”
“Swain County. And I really must get back.” I started to move on, but Midkiff made a subtle shift, blocking my path with a size-thirteen Hush Puppy.
“Where in Swain County?”
“South of Bryson City.”
“Perhaps you could be a bit more specific?”
“I can’t give you coordinates.” I did not mask my irritation.
“Please forgive my beastly rudeness. I’ve been excavating in Swain County, and I was worried about damage to the site. How selfish of me.” Again the giggle. “I apologize.”
At that moment my host joined us.
“May I?” He waggled a small Nikon.
“Sure.”
I assumed the Kodak smile.
“It’s for the departmental newsletter. Our students seem to enjoy it.”
He thanked me for the lecture and wished me well with the recovery. I thanked him for the accommodations, excused myself to both men, collected my slide carousels, and hurried from the auditorium.
* * *
Before leaving Knoxville I located a sporting goods store and purchased boots, socks, and three pairs of khakis, one of which I put on. At an adjoining pharmacy I grabbed two packages of Hanes Her Way cotton bikinis. Not my brand, but they would do. Shoving the panties and extra khakis into my overnighter, I pointed myself east.
Born in the hills of Newfoundland, the Appalachians parallel the East Coast on their plunge from north to south, splitting near Harpers Ferry, West Virginia, to form the Great Smoky and Blue Ridge chains. One of the world’s oldest upland regions, the Great Smoky Mountains rise to over 6,600 feet at Clingmans Dome on the North Carolina–Tennessee border.
Less than an hour out of Knoxville, I’d traversed the Tennessee towns of Sevierville, Pigeon Forge, and Gatlinburg, and was passing east of the dome, awed, as always, by the surreal beauty of the place. Molded by aeons of wind and rain, the Great Smokies roll across the South as a series of gentle valleys and peaks. The forest cover is luxuriant, much of it preserved as national land. The Nantahala. The Pisgah. The Cherokee. The Great Smoky Mountains National Park. The soft, mohair greens and smokelike haze for which these highlands are named create an unparalleled allure. The earth at its best.
Death and destruction amid such dreamlike loveliness was a stark contrast.
Just outside Cherokee, on the North Carolina side, I made another call to Katy. Bad idea. Again, her voice mail answered. Again I left a message: Phone your mother.
I kept my mind miles from the task ahead. I thought about the
pandas at the Atlanta zoo, the fall lineup on NBC, luggage retrieval at the Charlotte airport. Why was it always so slow?
I thought about Simon Midkiff. What an odd duck. What were the chances a plane would drop precisely on his dig?
Avoiding the radio, I slipped in a CD of Kiri Te Kanawa, and listened to the diva sing Irving Berlin.
* * *
It was almost two when I approached the site. A pair of cruisers now blocked the county road just below its junction with the Forest Service road. A National Guardsman directed traffic, sending some motorists up the mountain, ordering others back down. I produced ID, and the guardsman checked his clipboard.
“Yes, ma’am. You’re on the list. Park on up at the holding area.”
He stepped aside, and I squeezed through a gap between the cruisers.
A holding area had been created from an overlook built to accommodate a fire tower and a small field on the other side of the road. The cliff face had been stripped back to increase the size of the inside tract, and gravel had been spread as a precaution against rain. It was at this location that briefings would take place and relatives counseled until a family assistance center could be established.
Scores of people and vehicles filled both sides of the road. Red Cross trailers. Television vans with satellite dishes. SUVs. Pickups. A hazardous-materials truck. I squeezed my Mazda between a Dodge Durango and a Ford Bronco on the uphill side, grabbed my overnighter, and wove toward the blacktop.
Emerging opposite the overlook, I could see a collapsible school table at the base of the tower, outside one of the Red Cross trailers. A convention-sized coffeemaker gleamed in the sun. Family members huddled around it, hugging and leaning on one another, some crying, others stiffly silent. Many clutched Styrofoam cups, a few spoke into cell phones.
A priest circulated among the mourners, stroking shoulders and squeezing hands. I watched him bend to speak to an elderly woman. With his hunched posture, bald head, and hooked nose he resembled the carrion-eating birds I’d seen on the plains of East Africa, an unfair comparison.
I remembered another priest. Another death watch. That man’s sympathetic hovering had extinguished any hope I’d sustained that my grandmother would recover. I recalled the agony of that vigil, and my heart went out to those gathering to claim their dead.
Reporters, cameramen, and soundmen jockeyed for position along the low stone wall bordering the overlook, each team seeking the choicest backdrop for its coverage. As with the 1999 Swissair crash in Peggy’s Cove, Nova Scotia, I was certain that scenic panoramas would feature prominently in every broadcast.
Shouldering my bag, I headed downhill. Another guardsman allowed me onto the logging trail, which had been converted overnight to a two-lane gravel road. An access route now led from the expanded trail into the crash site. Gravel crunched underfoot as I walked through the freshly cut tunnel of trees, the scent of pine tainted by the faint odor of early stage putrefaction.
Decontamination trailers and Porta-Johns lined barricades blocking access to the primary site, and an Incident Command Center had been set up inside the restricted area. I could see the familiar NTSB trailer, with its satellite dish and generator shed. Refrigerated trucks were parked beside it, and stacks of body bags lay on the ground. This temporary morgue would be the staging site for transfer of remains to a more permanent incident morgue.
Backhoes, cherry pickers, dump trucks, fire engines, and squad cars were scattered here and there. The solitary ambulance told me that the operation had officially changed from “search and rescue” to “search and recovery.” Its vigil was now for injured workers.
Lucy Crowe stood inside the barricades talking with Larke Tyrell.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“My phone never stops.” Crowe sounded exhausted. “Almost turned the damn thing off last night.”
Over her shoulder I could see the debris field where searchers in masks and Tyvek jumpsuits moved in straight lines, eyes to the ground. Occasionally someone squatted, inspected an item, then marked the spot. Behind the team, red, blue, and yellow flags dotted the landscape like colored pins on a city map.
Other white-suited workers milled around the fuselage, wing tip, and engine, taking pictures, jotting notes, and speaking into tiny Dictaphones. Blue caps identified them as NTSB.
“The gang’s all here,” I said.
“NTSB, FBI, SBI, FAA, ATF, CBS, ABC. And, of course, the CEO. If they’ve got letters, they’re here.”
“This is nothing,” said Larke. “Give it a day or two.” He peeled back a latex glove and checked his watch.
“Most of the DMORTs are at a briefing at the incident morgue, Tempe, so there’s no sense you suiting up now. Let’s head in.”
I started to object but Larke cut me off.
“We’ll walk back together.”
While Larke went to decontamination, Lucy gave me directions to the incident morgue. It wasn’t necessary. I’d spotted the activity while driving up the county road.
“Alarka Fire Department’s about eight miles back. Used to be a school. You’ll see swing sets and slides, and the engines parked in a field next door.”
On our hike up to the holding area the ME filled me in on recent developments. Foremost among them, the FBI had received an anonymous tip of an on-board bomb.
“Good citizen was kind enough to share this information with CNN. The media are slathering like hounds with a brisket.”
“Forty-two dead students is going to make this a Pulitzer event.”
“There’s the other bad news. Forty-two may be a low number. Turns out more than fifty booked through UGA.”
“Have you seen the passenger list?” I could barely get the question out.
“They’ll have it at the briefing.”
I felt icy cold.
“Yessir,” Larke went on. “We screw up on this one, the press will eat us alive.”
We separated and hurried to our cars. Somewhere along the road I drove into a pocket of reception, and my phone beeped. I hit the brakes, afraid of losing the signal.
The message was barely discernible through the static.
“Dr. Brennan, this is Haley Graham, Katy’s roommate. Um. I played your messages, four of them, I think. And Katy’s dad. He called a couple of times. Anyway, then I heard about the crash, and”—Rattling—“well, here’s the thing. Katy left for the weekend, and I’m not sure where she is. I know Lija phoned a couple of times earlier this week, so I’m kinda worried that maybe Katy went to visit her. I’m sure that’s stupid, but I thought I’d call and ask if you’d talked to her. Well”—More rattling. “Anyway. I sound like a geek, but I’d feel better if I knew where Katy was. OK. ’Bye.”
I punched the autodial for Pete’s number. He still had not spoken to our daughter. I dialed again. Lija still did not answer her phone.
The cold fear spread through my chest and curled around my breastbone.
A pickup honked me out of the way.
I continued down the mountain, craving but dreading the upcoming meeting, certain of my first request.
3
ONE OF DMORT’S FIRST DUTIES IN A MASS DISASTER is the establishment of an incident morgue as close to the scene as possible. Favored sites include coroner and medical examiner offices, hospitals, mortuaries, funeral homes, hangars, warehouses, and National Guard armories.
When I arrived at the Alarka Fire Department, chosen to receive the bodies from Air TransSouth 228, the front lot was already packed, and a score of cars waited at the entrance. I got in line and crept forward, drumming my fingers and looking around.
The back lot had been set aside for the refrigerated trucks that would transport victims. I watched a pair of middle-aged women drape the fence with opaque sheeting in anticipation of photographers, both professional and amateur, who would arrive to violate the privacy of the dead. A breeze twisted and snapped the plastic as they struggled to secure it to the chain linking.
I finally reach
ed the guard, showed ID, and was allowed to park. Inside, dozens of workers were setting up tables, portable X-ray units and developers, computers, generators, and water heaters. Bathrooms were being scrubbed and sanitized, and a staff break room and changing areas were being constructed. A conference room had been created in one rear corner. A computer center and the X-ray station were going up in another.
The briefing was in progress when I entered. People lined the makeshift walls and sat around portable tables pushed together in the center of the “room.” Fluorescent lights hung by wires from the ceiling, casting a blue tint on tense, pale faces. I slipped to the back and took a seat.
The NTSB investigator in charge, Magnus Jackson, was finishing an Incident Command System overview. The IIC, as Jackson was called, was lean and hard as a Doberman pinscher, with skin almost as dark. He wore oval wire-rimmed glasses; his graying hair was cropped close to his head.
Jackson was describing the NTSB “go team” system. One by one he introduced those heading the investigative groups under his command: structures, systems, power plants, human performance, fire and explosion, meteorology, radar data, event recorders, and witness statements. Investigators, each in a cap and shirt marked NTSB in bold yellow letters, rose or waved as Jackson ran down the roster.
Though I knew these men and women would determine why Air TransSouth 228 fell from the sky, the hollow feeling in my chest would not go away, making it hard to concentrate on anything but the passenger list.
A question snapped me back.
“Have the CVR and FDR been located?”
“Not yet.”
The cockpit voice recorder captures radio transmissions and sounds in the cockpit, including the pilots’ voices and engine noise. The flight data recorder monitors flight operating conditions, such as altitude, airspeed, and heading. Each would play an important role in determining probable cause.
When Jackson finished, an NTSB family affairs specialist discussed the Federal Family Assistance Plan for Aviation Disasters. He explained that the NTSB would serve as liaison between Air TransSouth and the victims’ families. A family assistance center was being established at the Sleep Inn in Bryson City to serve as the collecting point for antemortem identification information, facts that family members would provide to help identify remains as those of a son or daughter. Despite myself, I shivered.