bundle, and a twenty-foot polypropylene line is overwrapped around the chute to hold it tight around the bundle. You with me?”
“Yes.”
“Pearce gives the word. The pax secures the loose end of the line to something inside the aircraft, opens the doggy door, and shoves the bundle out. As the bundle tumbles, the rope unwraps, the chute is pulled free and deploys, and the snort drifts to earth, sweet as a songbird.”
Boyd nipped Ryan’s calf. Ryan clapped at him. The dog leaped backward and resumed looping.
“So what went wrong?” I asked.
“How’s this. They’re flying low over the drop area, close to stall speed, things are hunky-dory, then the last bundle streams back toward the tail. The chute or bundle gets tangled in the rudder or elevator, the pilot can’t steer, loses control. Hello, rock face.”
“Explains why Pearce was belted and his passenger wasn’t.”
I pictured the two burned corpses, each coated with the crispy black residue.
“These chutes are made of lightweight nylon, right?”
“Yes.”
“How about this. The last chute deploys prematurely, inside the plane. It envelops the passenger. He struggles. Pearce reaches over, tries to disentangle him, loses control, flies into the rock face. Fireball.”
“Explains the black residue. Fried parachute.” Jansen was with me.
“But this is still all conjecture,” I said.
“Not really,” Jansen said.
I waited.
“Couple of kids made an interesting discovery yesterday morning.”
13
“THREE KIDS WERE RUNNING THEIR DOGS IN A FIELD EAST OF THE crash site early Monday, spotted what they thought was a ghost flapping around on Grandpa’s old tobacco barn.”
An image. A pilot’s corpse, parachute rising and falling with the wind. Ryan voiced my thought.
“Perfect analogy,” Jansen said. “Having pondered the situation over Nehi and Moon Pies, our little geniuses decided to do some sleuthing. When their beastie turned out to be a parachuted packet of white powder, they voted to stash the booty while considering further action.”
“That action included a broader search,” I guessed.
“They found three more packets of blow in the woods. Knowing about the Cessna, and being
“They called 911 to inquire about a reward.”
“Phoned around ten this morning. The Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD contacted the parents, and an open discussion ensued. Bottom line: the kids had four bundles of snort and four parachutes squirreled away in Gramp’s shed.”
“You’re sure it’s cocaine?” I asked.
“The stuff will have to be tested. But, yeah, I’d bet my ass it’s coke.”
“Why would the pilot’s pickup crew leave the stuff behind?”
“Access to the location is by one narrow, winding road. They probably watched the Cessna go down, figured if they lingered they’d meet emergency responders on their way out. Opting for freedom over fortune, they hauled ass.”
That made sense.
“According to our scenario, the last chute opened prematurely,” I said. “Why?”
“Could have been just lousy luck. Or the blowout could have been caused by an airstream.”
“How so?”
“The army airborne has had deaths over the years from parachutes inflating accidentally while the jumper stands in the door. The reserve chute is worn in front, and the whipping airstream sometimes gets inside and rips the pack open, dragging the chute and the jumper out the door prematurely.”
“Opening the doggy door would have caused an airstream to whip around inside the cabin?” Ryan asked.
“It’s possible,” Jansen said.
“But they’d successfully launched four chutes. Why a screwup with the fifth?” I asked.
“Maybe the last bundle was lighter. Maybe the pax didn’t get the chute wrapped fast enough. Maybe the pilot made a sudden maneuver with the plane.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“The snort was packed in one-foot-square bundles. That was a pretty tight fit for the doggy door. Maybe the
