“Once site processing is complete, all remains will be brought here from the temporary morgue,” Larke continued. “We expect transport to start in the next few hours. That's when the real work begins for us. You all know your jobs, so I've got just a few reminders, then I'll shut up.”
“That'll be a first.”
Mild laughter.
“Don't separate any personal effects from any set of remains until they're fully photographed and written up.”
My mind slid to Raggedy Ann.
“Not every set of remains will go through every stage of processing. The folks doing intake will decide what goes where. But if a station is skipped, indicate that clearly in the disaster victim packet. I don't want to be guessing later if dental wasn't done because there weren't any teeth, or because that station got overlooked. Put something on every sheet in the packet. And be sure that information stays with the body. We want full documentation on every ID.
“One more thing. As I'm sure you've heard, the FBI received a call about an explosive device. Be alert for blast effects. Check X rays for bomb parts and shrapnel. Examine lungs and eardrums for pressure damage. Look for peppering and flash burns on the skin. You know the drill.”
Larke paused and looked around the room.
“Some of you are first-timers, others have done this before. I don't have to tell any of you how hard the next few weeks are going to be. Take breaks. No one works more than twelve hours per day. If you feel overwhelmed, talk to a counselor. There's no weakness in that. These folks are here for your benefit. Use them.”
Larke clipped his pen to the legal pad he was holding.
“Guess that about does it, except for thanking my staff and Earl's DMORT folks for getting here so quickly. As for the rest of you, clear out of my morgue.”
As the room emptied, I crossed to Larke, determined to ask about the passenger list. Magnus Jackson arrived at the same moment and nodded a greeting. I'd met the IIC while working a commuter crash some years back, and knew he was not one for trading pleasantries.
“Howdy, Tempe,” Larke said to me, then turned to Jackson.
“I see you've brought a full team.”
“There's going to be a lot of pressure on this one. We'll have close to fifty on site by tomorrow.”
I knew that only superficial examination of the wreckage would be done in situ. Once photographed and recorded, the plane's parts would be removed and taken to a permanent location for reassembly and analysis.
“Anything else on the bomb?” Larke asked.
“Hell, it's probably a crank, but the media already has this thing wrapped up slicker than snail spit. CNN's calling him the Blue Ridge Bomber, geography be damned. ABC floated the Soccer Bomber, but it just doesn't have the alliterative ring.”
“The FBI's coming on board?” Larke asked.
“They're here, pawing at the fence, so it may not be long.”
I broke in, unable to wait another moment.
“Do we have a passenger list?”
The ME slid a printout from his pad and handed it to me.
I experienced a kind of fear I'd rarely felt in my life.
Please, God.
The world receded as I raced through the names. Anderson. Beacham. Bertrand. Caccioli. Daignault. Larke spoke, but his words didn't penetrate.
A lifetime later, I unclamped the teeth from my lower lip and resumed breathing.
Neither Katy Brennan Petersons nor Lija Feldman was on the list.
I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply.
I opened them to questioning looks. Offering no explanation, I returned the printout, the profound relief already blunted by a sense of guilt. My daughter was alive, but the children of others lay dead on a mountain. I wanted to work.
“What would you like me to do?” I asked Larke.
“Earl has the morgue under control. Go work recovery. But once transport starts I'll need you here.”
Back at the site, I went directly to a decontamination trailer and donned mask, gloves, and jumpsuit. Looking more like a spaceman than an anthropologist, I nodded to the guard, circled the barricade, and crossed to the temporary morgue for an update.
The exact location of every flagged item was being entered into a CAD-type program using technology called Total Station. The position of airplane parts, personal effects, and human remains would later be plotted onto virtual grids and printed out as hard copy. Since the technique was far quicker and less labor-intensive than the traditional system of mapping with strings and grids, the removal of remains had already begun. I headed out across the debris field.
The sun was arcing toward the tree line, and delicate shadows spiderwebbed the carnage. Klieg lights had been set up, and the smell of putrefaction had strengthened. Otherwise, little had changed in the time I'd been gone.
