“Metraux swears he saw Pepper Petricelli at a steak house in Plattsburgh, New York, last Saturday night.”
“That's impossible,” I burst out. “Petricelli is dead. . . .” My voice trailed off on the last word.
Ryan's eyes did a long sweep of the diner, then came back to rest on mine. In them I saw pure agony.
“Four passengers remain unidentified, including Bertrand and Petricelli.”
“They don't think— Oh, my God, what
Ryan and McMahon exchanged glances. My heartbeat quickened.
“What is it you're not telling me?”
“Don't go schizoid. We're not keeping things from you. You've had a rough day, and we thought it could wait until tomorrow.”
I felt anger coalesce like fog inside my chest.
“Tell me,” I said evenly.
“Tyrell attended the briefing today to present an updated trauma chart.”
I felt miserable at being excluded, and lashed out. “
“He says he has remains that don't fit anyone on the manifest.”
I stared at him, too surprised to speak.
“Only four passengers remain missing. All were in the left rear of the plane. Their seats were pretty much pulverized, so it's to be expected the occupants did not fare well.”
Ryan drew on his cigarette again, exhaled.
“Twenty-two A and B were occupied by male students. Bertrand and Petricelli were behind them in row twenty-three. Tyrell claims to have tissue fitting none of the eighty-four passengers already identified, and none of these four.”
“Such as?”
“A shoulder fragment with a large tattoo.”
“Someone could have gotten a tattoo right before the flight.”
“A portion of jaw with elaborate bridgework.”
“Fingerprints,” McMahon added.
I took a moment to digest this.
“What does it mean?”
“It could mean a lot of things.”
McMahon caught Cynthia's eye and signaled for the check.
“Maybe the biker boys got a stand-in and Petricelli really was enjoying a porterhouse in New York last weekend.” Ryan's voice was tempered steel.
“What are you implying?”
“If Petricelli wasn't on that plane it means one of two things. Either Bertrand was persuaded by greed or force to make a career change . . .”
Ryan took one last pull and added his butt to the sweet potatoes.
“. . . or Bertrand was murdered.”
* * *
Back in my room, I treated myself to a long hot bubble bath, followed by a talcum powder chaser. Only slightly relaxed, but smelling of honeysuckle and lilac, I propped myself in bed, raised my knees to my chest, pulled up the blankets, and turned on my phone. I'd missed seventeen calls. Finding no familiar numbers, I dumped the messages and made a call I'd been putting off.
Though fall break had ended and university classes had resumed the day before, I'd requested continued leave after finding the decomp stain at the courtyard house. I hadn't actually said it, but neither had I corrected my chair's assumption that I was still involved in victim processing. In a sense, I was.
But today's media delirium had made me apprehensive. Taking a deep breath, I scrolled to Mike Perrigio's number and hit “dial.” I was about to click off after seven rings, when a woman picked up. I asked for Mike. There was a long pause. I could hear a lot of racket in the background, a child crying.
When Mike came on, he was brusque, almost cold. My classes were covered. Keep checking in. Dial tone.
I was still staring at the phone when it rang again.
The voice was totally unexpected.
Larke Tyrell asked how I was. He'd heard I was back in Bryson City. Could I meet with him the next day? Zero-nine-hundred at the family assistance center? Good, good. Take care.
Again, I sat staring at the little black handset, not knowing whether to feel crushed or buoyed. My boss at the university obviously knew of the news coverage. That had to be bad. But Larke Tyrell wanted to talk. Had the chief ME come around to my position? Had this other errant tissue persuaded him that the great foot controversy did not involve crash remains?
