“Yes. Outside experts were brought in.”
Another questioner stood.
Eighty-eight people were dead because one man was preoccupied about losing his seat. The whole thing was a tragic mistake.
I looked at my watch. Crowe would be waiting.
Feeling numb, I slipped from the room. I had victims waiting whose deaths were not due to simple carelessness.
The reefer trucks were gone from the grounds of the Alarka Fire Department. The lot held only the company's displaced engines and the vehicles of those assisting me. A single deputy guarded the entrance.
Crowe was there when I arrived. Seeing me, she climbed from her cruiser, collected a small leather case, and waited. The sky was pewter, and a cold wind was tearing through the gorge. Gusts teased her hat brim, subtly reshaping it around her face.
I joined her, and we entered what was now a different type of incident morgue. Stan and Maggie worked at autopsy tables, arranging bones where crash victims recently had lain. Four tables held unopened cardboard boxes.
I greeted my team and hurried to the cubicle I was using as an office. As I exchanged my jacket for a lab coat, Crowe took the chair opposite my desk, zipped open the case, and withdrew several folders.
“Nineteen seventy-nine came up zilch. All MPs accounted for. There were two from 1972.”
She opened the first folder.
“Mary Francis Rafferty, white female, age eighty-one. Lived alone over in Dillsboro. Her daughter checked on her every Saturday. One week Rafferty wasn't in her home. Never seen again. It was presumed she wandered off and died of exposure.”
“How often have we heard that?”
She went to the next folder.
“Sarah Ellen Deaver, white female, age nineteen. Left home to go to her job at a convenience store on Highway 74. Never got there.”
“I doubt we've got Deaver out there. Anything from Tommy Albright?”
“George Adair's positive,” Crowe confirmed.
“Dental?” I asked.
“Yes.” Pause. “You know that first alcove burial was missing its left foot?”
“Albright phoned me.”
“Jeremiah Mitchell's daughter thought she recognized some of the clothing. We're getting blood from a sister.”
“Albright asked me to cut bone samples. Tyrell's promised to rush them through. Did you check the other dates?”
“Albert Odell's family provided the name of his dentist.”
“He's the apple farmer?” I asked.
“Odell's the only MP still out from eighty-six.”
“Many dentists don't keep records past ten years.”
“Dr. Welch didn't sound like the brightest bulb in the marquee. I'm driving over to Lauada this afternoon to see what he has.”
“What about the others?” I knew what her answer would be even as I asked the question.
“The others will be tough. It's been over fifty years for Adams and Farrell, over forty for Tramper.”
She withdrew three more folders and laid everything on my desk.
“Here's what I've managed to dig up.” She stood. “I'll let you know what I get from the dentist.”
When she'd gone I spent a few moments perusing the folders. The one for Tucker Adams contained only the press items I'd already seen.
Edna Farrell's record was a little better, and included handwritten notes taken at the time of her disappearance. There was a statement by Sandra Jane Farrell, giving an account of Edna's last days and a detailed physical description. Edna had fallen from a horse as a young woman, and Sandra described her mother's face as “lopsided.”
I snatched up a black-and-white snapshot with scalloped edges. Though the image was blurry, the facial asymmetry was obvious.
“Way to go, Edna.”
There were photos of Charlie Wayne Tramper, and his disappearance and death were reported in several newspaper articles. Otherwise, there was little in the way of written information.
The following days were like the first I'd spent at the Alarka Fire Department, living with the dead from dawn until dusk. Hour after hour I sorted and arranged bones, determined sex and race, estimated age and height. I searched for indicators of old injury, past illness, congenital peculiarity, or repetitive movement. For each skeleton I built as complete a profile as was possible working from remains devoid of living tissue.
In a way, it was like processing a crash, where names are known from the passenger roster. Based on Veckhoff's diary, I was convinced I had a limited population because the dates entered in his lists matched precisely the disappearance dates of seniors from Swain and adjoining counties: 1943, Tucker Adams; 1949, Edna Farrell; 1959, Charlie Wayne Tramper; 1986, Albert Odell.
