“Looks like a four-seater, so I’m thinking less than a six-pack.”
Gullet apparently wanted to compete with Slidell for movie cop work.
Flipping the cover with a one-handed motion, Gullet slid the spiral into his breast pocket.
“The dispatcher has notified the FAA or the NTSB, or whatever feds need contacting. Between my crew and the fire boys, I think we can handle the scene here. Just tell me what you need on your end, Doc.”
I’d noticed a pair of ambulances parked on the shoulder where we’d pulled up.
“You’ve notified a trauma center?”
“Alerted CMC down in Charlotte. Paramedics and I took a peek once the fire was under control.” Gullet gave a half shake of the head. “There’s no one sucking air in that mess.”
As Larabee started explaining how we’d proceed, I snuck a look at my watch. Four-twenty. Visitor ETA at my condo.
I hoped he’d gotten my message saying I’d be late. I hoped he’d found a taxi. I hoped he’d spotted the key I’d asked Katy to tape to the kitchen door.
I hoped Katy had taped the key to the kitchen door.
I unhooked and checked my cell phone. No signal.
Damn.
“Ready for a look-see?” Gullet was saying to Larabee.
“No hot spots?”
“Fire’s out.”
“Lead on.”
Hating my job at that moment, I followed Gullet and Larabee through the cornrows and under the police tape to the edge of the wreckage.
Up close, the plane looked better than it had from a distance. Though accordioned and burned, the fuselage was largely intact. Around it lay scorched and twisted pieces of wing, melted plastic, and a constellation of unrecognizable rubble. Tiny cubes of glass sparkled like phosphorous in the afternoon sun.
“Ahoy!”
At the sound of the voice, we all turned.
A woman in khakis, boots, and dark blue shirt and cap was striding toward us. Big yellow letters above her brim announced the arrival of the National Transportation Safety Board.
“Sorry it’s so late. I got the first available flight.”
Draping a camcorder strap around her neck, the woman offered a hand.
“Sheila Jansen, air safety investigator.”
We took turns shaking. Jansen’s grip was anaconda strong.
Jansen removed her cap and ran a forearm across her face. Without the hat she looked like a milk commercial, all blonde and healthy and lousy with vitality.
“It’s hotter here than in Miami.”
We all agreed it was hot.
“Everything as it was, Officer?” Jansen asked, squinting through the viewfinder of a small digital camera.
“Except for dousing the flames.” Gullet.
“Survivors?”
“No one’s reported in to us.”
“How many inside?” Jansen kept clicking away, moving a few feet left and a few feet right to capture the scene from different angles.
“At least one.”
“Your officers walked the area?”
“Yes.”
“Give me a minute?” Jansen raised the camcorder.
Larabee gave a go-ahead gesture with one hand.
We watched her circle the wreckage, shooting stills and video. Then she photographed the rock face and the surrounding fields. Fifteen minutes later Jansen rejoined us.
“The plane’s a Cessna-210. The pilot’s in place, there’s a passenger in back.”
“Why in back?” I asked.
“The right front seat’s not there.”
“Why?”
