He mentally reviewed the brief, unpleasant phone conversation he’d had with his lieutenant. Carlson had paged him just as he had settled into a deck chair at his cabin, cold beer in hand. Frank had objected to being called on a day off; Carlson told him he didn’t care who was up next on the roster, Frank was only a few minutes away from the scene. Besides, the lieutenant told him, Lefebvre, the presumed victim of the crash, had not only been a Las Piernas homicide detective, he had been involved in one of the old cases he had just assigned to Frank. The Randolph cases.
“What Randolph cases? I don’t have any Randolph cases.”
“You do now. Discuss this with no one. You and Sheridan have a very simple task today. Just let me know what you find in a careful search of whatever’s left of that plane.” He had added that Cliff Garrett would be by to drive them to the scene, then hung up.
Lefebvre’s name had seemed vaguely familiar to Frank. He supposed that someone who had worked with Lefebvre when he was with the department must have mentioned him, but he could not remember who might have done so or what had been said.
They picked up a couple of duffel bags, including one with supplies for Ben — courtesy of the San Bernardino Coroner’s Office — and began following Wilson.
“San Bernardino called us right away,” Mayumi said as they walked. “As you know, Frank, if a plane is missing, we start a file at that time.”
“When you say ‘missing’ — that might not be known immediately, right? The pilots of these small planes don’t always file flight plans, do they?”
“No. Eventually, though, family members or friends will report that a pilot didn’t return home on time or didn’t reach a planned destination. But you’re right, flight plans aren’t always required, and obviously one wasn’t filed in this case—”
Obviously? But before Frank could ask about that, Wilson said, “The file you start — is this data about the plane or the pilot?”
“Both,” Mayumi answered. “The plane’s registration number, manufacturer, model, and age are included, along with information about the pilot’s health, experience, drug or alcohol consumption, and possible state of mind. So are any flight plans, communications with control towers, checks on the weather conditions that day, and other data. When any wreckage is found, the registration number is checked against the list of missing planes — its file can be matched very quickly, especially if the plane is from the local area.”
“And this one was on your local list,” Ben said.
“Yes. When we checked this registration number against our records, we found that ten years ago, this plane went missing — and that it was owned and piloted by Detective Philip Lefebvre. That’s why we called Las Piernas right away.”
They climbed a small rise overlooking a dry gully. What remained of the Cessna lay below, so covered with leaves, pine needles, earth, and vines, Frank was amazed that the hikers had been able to see what their dog was after. Most of the left wing was broken off; Mayumi told them they had found it about twenty-five yards back. There were little numbered yellow flags on wires scattered in a pattern behind and near the plane; locations where debris had been found or from which measurements had been taken. “Lots of small hardware scattered along here,” Mayumi said. “Mostly from the wings and tail.” He half listened as she spoke. He was looking at the fuselage. He wasn’t thinking about small hardware.
He had brought a notebook with him, and he took it out now. He began making crude sketches, noting the position of the plane. He could tell that the scene had already been mapped and measured by the sheriff’s department and Mayumi. He didn’t care; he started sketching because the process helped him think.
He thought about Lefebvre and wondered who he had been and what those last few moments of life had been like for him. Peaceful or terrifying?
This is an NTSB case, he told himself. If a Las Piernas cop hadn’t been at the controls, his department never would have been called in. Frank might not have been the one to take that call if he hadn’t been up here — or maybe he was sent because he was with Ben. Given the age of the remains, a forensic anthropologist was needed, so Ben might have been called by the San Bernardino coroner anyway.
Mostly, though, the investigation would be Mayumi’s problem — figuring out what had happened, what had caused this crash. He knew that most of these light plane crashes were caused by inexperience, overconfidence, or other pilot error. What had been Lefebvre’s error?
The plane had landed on its belly and lay slightly askew. The right wing was buckled back, the right side of the cockpit caved in, the nose buried. The fuselage had taken a beating, but even so, it was relatively intact. Although it was dented and scraped, Frank saw no large tears or holes. There were stains where muddy water had reached the lowest portions of the wreckage.
He moved closer to the plane. Some of the covering vines had been cut away and a portion of a window cleaned. Mayumi assured him that they had both videotaped and photographed the scene before disturbing it. Frank cautiously approached the window and peered in.
He saw the body, or what remained of it, immediately. Directly in front of him, it sat at the controls. A seat belt was strapped across the headless form. One side of a bright blue nylon jacket was stained with large brownish- black patches of dried blood. Here and there, the jagged edges of broken ribs pierced the jacket, corresponding roughly to the impact from the right. The radius and ulna of one arm protruded from a sleeve; dark dried sinew still covered them. He did not see hand bones or a skull.
Once they knew remains were present, Mayumi was saying, they had called the coroner. Her voice seemed separated from what lay before him, as if she were the narrator of a documentary film.
With the help of Wilson and one of the other deputies, Frank pried the cockpit door open. A dry, musty smell greeted him. Ben stepped forward and shone a flashlight over the interior. Spiderwebs were everywhere. The material of Lefebvre’s pants had not fared as well as the jacket; mummified leg bones stuck out of a pair of boots.
“Luckily, it seems to have stayed fairly dry in here,” Ben said. “And I don’t see many signs of scavenger activity. No entry point large enough for most of them. Insects, spiders, mice… maybe a wood rat… that seems to be about it. We may want to look for a wood rat’s nest. Wish I had Bingle up here with me.”
“Bingle?” Wilson asked.
“Ben is also a cadaver dog handler,” Frank said. “Bingle is one of his dogs. He might be able to find bones carried off by other animals.”
