“External burning was severe, but I didn’t find a lot of deep-tissue destruction.” Larabee.
“After impact gravity took over and the fuel cascaded down the cliff face,” Jansen explained.
In my mind’s eye I saw the trail of burned vegetation.
“So the victims were exposed to the fireball effect of the explosion, but the burning wouldn’t have lasted very long.”
“That fits,” Larabee said.
“Both bodies show evidence of a black residue,” I said, settling into a chair. “Especially the passenger.”
“I found the same stuff all over the cockpit. I’ve sent a sample off for testing.”
“We’re screening for alcohol, amphetamines, methamphetamines, barbiturates, cannabinoids, opiates,” Larabee said. “If these guys were flying high, we’ll catch it.”
“You’re calling them guys.” Jansen.
“Pilot was a white male, probably in his thirties, five-eight to fiveten, lots of dental work, great tattoo.”
Jansen was nodding as she wrote it all down.
“Passenger was also male. Taller. With his head, that is.” He turned to me. “Tempe?”
“Probably early twenties,” I said.
“Racial background?” Jansen asked.
“Yes.”
She looked up.
“I’m working on it.”
“Any unique identifiers?”
“At least two fillings.” I pictured the nasal. “And he had something going on with his nose. I’ll let you know on that, too.”
“My turn.” Jansen flipped pages in her notebook. “The plane was registered to one Richard Donald Dorton. Ricky Don to his friends.”
“Age?” I asked.
“Fifty-two. But Dorton wasn’t flying yesterday. He’s riding out the heat wave at Grandfather Mountain. Claims he left the Cessna safe and sound at a private airstrip near Concord.”
“Did anyone see the plane take off?” I asked.
“No.”
“Flight plan?”
“No.”
“And no one spotted it in flight.”
“No.”
“Do you know why it crashed?”
“Pilot flew it into a rock face.”
We let that hang a moment.
“Who is Ricky Don Dorton?” I asked.
“Ricky Don Dorton owns two strip joints, the Club of Jacks and the Heart of Queens, both in Kannapolis. That’s a mill town just north of here, right?”
Nods all around.
“Ricky Don supplied sleaze for gentlemen of every lifestyle.”
“Man’s a poet.” Larabee.
“Man’s a lizard.” Jansen. “But a rich lizard. The Cessna-210’s just one of his many toys.”
“Are tits and ass that profitable?” I asked.
Jansen gave a beats-me shrug.
“Could it be that Ricky Don is also in the import business?” I asked.
“That thought has crossed the minds of local law enforcement. They’ve had Dorton under surveillance for some time.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “Ricky Don doesn’t hang with the Baptist choir.”
Larabee clapped me on the shoulder. “She’s good, isn’t she?”
Jansen smiled. “One problem. The plane was clean.”
“No drugs?”
“Nothing so far.”
