“No doubt about it. Susan's group is still studying the mode of breakup. They'll try to reconstruct the exact sequence of failure, but it's pretty clear there was a sudden, catastrophic midair event. That means that parts of the fuselage tumbled prior to ground impact. I'm a little surprised there isn't more variation among the various sections, but these things never follow the book. What is clear is that the seats in each section show nearly identical impact loading.”
He worked the keys, and the original diagram filled the screen.
“And there's little doubt where the blast occurred.” He pointed to the splotch of fiery red at the left rear of the cabin.
“An explosion doesn't necessarily mean a bomb.”
We swiveled to see Magnus Jackson standing at the cubicle entrance. He looked at me a long time but said nothing. The screen glowed rainbow bright behind us.
“The rocket scenario has been given some new credibility,” Jackson said.
We all waited.
“There are now three witnesses claiming to have seen an object shoot into the sky.”
Ryan crooked an arm over the back of his chair. “I've talked to the Right Reverends Mr. Claiborne and Mr. Bowman, and I'd estimate a combined IQ in the woolly worm range.”
I wondered how Ryan knew about woolly worms but didn't ask.
“All three witnesses give times and descriptions that are virtually identical.”
“Like their genetic codes,” Ryan quipped.
“Will these witnesses take lie detector tests?” I asked.
“They probably think a microwave will fry their genitals,” Ryan said.
Jackson almost smiled, but Ryan's jokes were beginning to annoy me.
“You're right,” Jackson said. “There's a healthy suspicion of authority and science in the rural areas up here. The witnesses refuse to submit to polygraphs on the grounds that the government could use the technology to alter their brains.”
“Give them upgrades?”
Jackson did smile briefly. Then the investigator in charge studied me again, and left without another word.
“Can we go back to the seating chart?” I asked.
Lowery entered a sequence of keystrokes and the diagram filled the screen.
“Can you superimpose the seat damage over that?”
Another few keys and the Seurat was in place.
“Where was Martha Simington seated?”
Lowery pointed to the first row in first class: “1A.”
Pale blue.
“And the Sri Lankan exchange student?”
“Anurudha Mahendran—12F, just forward of the right wing.”
Dark blue.
“Where were Jean Bertrand and Remi Petricelli?”
Lowery's finger moved to the last row on the left.
“Twenty-three A and B.”
Fiery red.
Ground zero.
FOLLOWING THE BRIEFING, RYAN AND I BOUGHT LUNCH AT HOT Dog Heaven and watched tourists at the Great Smoky Mountains Railroad Depot as we ate. The weather had warmed, and at one-thirty in the afternoon the temperature was in the low eighties. The sun was bright, the wind barely a whisper. Indian summer in Cherokee country.
Ryan promised to ask about progress in victim identification, and I promised to dine with him that night. As he drove off I felt like a housewife whose children had just started full-day school: a long afternoon of yawning until the troops reappeared.
Returning to High Ridge House, I took Boyd for another walk. Though the dog was delighted, the outing was really for me. I was restless and edgy and needed physical exertion. Crowe hadn't called, and I couldn't get into the courthouse until Monday. As I was barred from the morgue and persona non grata with my colleagues, further research into the foot was at a standstill.
I then tried reading but by three-thirty could take it no longer. Grabbing purse and keys, I set out, going somewhere.
I'd hardly left Bryson City when I passed a mile marker for Cherokee.
