“Dorton’s from Sneedville, Tennessee.”
“That works.”
“Thought it might.”
“Give Sheila Jansen a call. I’ll get on the horn to Sneedville.”
I’d just completed my call to the NTSB agent when Slidell and Rinaldi made their second appearance of the day.
“Ever hear of a man named J. J. Wyatt?” Rinaldi asked.
I shook my head.
“Looks like Wyatt was on Darryl Tyree’s speed dialer.”
“Meaning Tyree called Wyatt frequently?”
Rinaldi nodded. “From his cell phone.”
“Recently?”
“The final three calls were placed just before seven last Sunday morning.”
“To?”
“Wyatt’s cell phone.” Slidell face looked poached with heat.
“Which was located where?” I asked.
“Most likely in Wyatt’s hand.” Slidell mopped his brow.
I was biting back a reply when Larabee joined us wearing a smile wider than a lean face such as his could support.
“Guys,” the ME said to Slidell and Rinaldi, “you are in the presence of genius.”
Larabee did a half-bow in my direction, then waggled a slip of paper in the air.
“Jason Jack Wyatt.”
Absolute quiet crammed my little office.
Puzzled by our nonreaction, Larabee looked from Slidell to Rinaldi to me.
“What?”
Slidell spoke first.
“What about Jason Jack Wyatt, Doc?”
“Twenty-four-year-old male Melungeon from Sneedville, Tennessee. Wyatt was reported missing three days ago by a worried grandma.”
Larabee glanced up from his notes.
“Granny says young J.J. suffered from ‘the arthrity’ in his hands and feet. Dental records are in transit, and it looks good for a match on the Cessna passenger.”
No one said a word.
“Ready for the best part?”
Three nods.
“Grandma’s name is Effie Opal Dorton Cumbo.”
Larabee’s impossibly wide smile broadened.
“J. J. Wyatt and Ricky Don Dorton are Tennessee kissin’ cousins.”
16
THIRTY SECONDS PASSED BEFORE ANYONE SPOKE.
Rinaldi stared at the ceiling. Slidell studied his shoes. Both looked like they were doing complicated math in their heads.
Knowing he was out of the loop, but not knowing why, Larabee waited us out, the smile gone. His slack face looked like it had spent a lifetime baking in an oven.
I started the dialogue by holding up an index finger.
“Jason Jack Wyatt might be the passenger on the Cessna.”
“The Cessna was owned by Ricky Don Dorton,” Rinaldi said.
I added a finger.
“Wyatt was Dorton’s cousin,” Slidell offered.
Ring man.
“Darryl Tyree made frequent calls to Wyatt, including three on the morning the Cessna crashed.” Rinaldi.
Pinky.
