Fatal Voyage (37 page)

 A murmur spread through the back of the room. Hands shot up and
questions were shouted. Jackson ignored them as he projected additional pictures of burned
clothing, unfolded then folded.

 “Inside the baggage compartment, fragments of smoldering tobacco and
ash spilled from the pipe bowl and communicated incandescent combustion to surrounding fabrics in
the bag, generating what we call a hot spot.”

 More shots of burned canvas and clothing.

 “Let me repeat. Geometric burn patterns have been found on no other
items recovered from the wreckage. I’m not going to go into it here, but the press release
explains how evidence of slow burning of folded clothes inside the bag cannot be explained by
anything that occurred after a midair explosion.”

 The next visual showed smoke-blackened fragments of glass.

 “Mr. Lindenbaum’s rum bottle. Inside the loosely packed duffel, smoke
spread at a temperature consistent with that of the localized combustion, a temperature warmer
than the bottle and its contents, which were not involved in the combustion process. The bottle
remained intact, and smoke was deposited on it. These deposits, seen in this view, have been
analyzed by our lab. The products of decomposition present in the smoke are consistent with the
point of origin as I am describing it. Traces of tobacco smoke were positively identified on
the bottle, among other traces, especially since forensic analysis also disposed of unburned
tobacco strands in the pipe bowl as reference.”

 Jackson switched to a diagram of the plane.

 “In the Fokker-100, fuel lines run under the cabin floor, above the
baggage compartments, from wing tanks to aft-mounted engines.”

 He traced the route with his pointer, clicked to a close-up of a fuel
line, then zoomed in on a fitting.

 “Our structures team has found evidence of a fatigue crack in a fuel
line fitting where it passes through the bulkhead at the rear of the baggage compartment. In all
likelihood, this crack was generated by a flawed through-fitting acting as a stress riser.”

 A magnified image of a hairline fracture filled the screen.

 “Heat from the incandescent combustion in Mr. Lindenbaum’s duffel
aggravated the crack, allowing minute quantities of vaporized fuel to dissipate from the line
into the hold.”

 He brought up a dirty and discolored chunk of metal casting.

 “Localized heat degradation, manifested in localized discoloration, is
clearly recognizable on the fuel line at the point of failure due to heat exposure. I’ll go to
simulation now.”

 Keys clicked, the screen went blank, then filled with an animation of
an F-100 in flight. Time ticked in one-second increments at the top of the screen.

 The Lindenbaum duffel could be seen high in the left rear of the
baggage compartment, immediately below seats 23A and B. I watched it ooze from pink, to salmon,
to red, a cold lump in the pit of my stomach.

 “Incandescent combustion in the duffel,” Jackson narrated. “A first
ignition sequence.”

 Pale blue specks began to seep from the bag.

 “Smoke.”

 The particles formed a fine, transparent mist.

 “The baggage compartment is pressurized the same as the passenger
cabin, meaning it is supplied with air containing an adequate proportion of oxygen. The
significance is that there is a lot of warm air moving around down there.”

 The mist slowly dispersed. Red colored the ends of the Linden-baum
suitcase.

 “Though it was contained at first, the smoke eventually spread from the
duffel. The heat eventually pierced, and then there was a development to laminar flaming
combustion outside the duffel, igniting the suitcases on each side and giving off dense
smoke.”

 Tiny black dots appeared at a fuel line running along the inner wall of
the baggage compartment. I stared, mesmerized, as the dots multiplied and slowly descended, or
were entrained in the ambient air movement.

 “Then began the second ignition sequence. When fuel began to dissipate
out of the pressurized line, the quantity was so minute it vaporized and mixed with the air. As
the fuel expanded in a vapor state it sank, since fuel fumes are heavier than ambient air. At
that point an odor would have been present and easily detected.”

 Traces of blue appeared in the passenger cabin.

 “Smoke seeped into the cabin through the ventilation, heating, and
air-conditioning system, and eventually to the exterior via the pressurization outflow valve.” I
thought of Jean Bertrand. Had he noticed the odor? Seen the smoke?

 There was a flash, red spread outward from the Lindenbaum suitcase, and
a jagged hole appeared in the rear of the baggage compartment.

 “Twenty minutes and twenty-one seconds into the flight, vaporized fuel
crossed a wire bundle, which apparently contained some arcing wires, and ignited in a deafening
detonation. This explosion can be heard on the cockpit voice recorder.”

 I remembered Ryan’s account of the pilot’s last words, felt the same
helplessness he had described.

 “The circuit failed.” I thought of the passengers. Had they felt the
shock? Heard the explosion? Did they realize they were going to die?

 “The initial explosion blew from the pressurized baggage compartment
into the unpressurized fuselage behind, and air loads began tearing parts from the plane. At that
point, more fuel escaped from the line and flaming fire ensued in the hold.”

 Jackson identified items as they separated and fell to the ground.

 “Skin from the aft fuselage. Speed brakes.”

 The room was deathly quiet.

 “Air loads then blew up through the vertical tail and dislodged the
horizontal stabilizer and elevators.”

 The plane in the animation pitched nose down and plunged toward the
ground, the passenger cabin still intact. Jackson hit a key and the screen went blank.

 No one seemed to breathe or move. Seconds passed. I heard a sob, or
perhaps only a deep breath. A cough. Then the room exploded.

 “Mr. Jackson ”

 “Why weren’t smoke detect ”

 “Mr. Jack ”

 “How long ”

 “I’ll take questions one at a time.”

 Jackson pointed to a woman with Buddy Holly frames.

 “How long would it have taken to raise the temperature in the duffel to
the point of fire?”

 “Let me clarify one thing. We’re talking about incandescence, a glowing
type of combustion generated when the little oxygen available comes in direct contact with a
solid, like coals or embers. This is not flaming combustion. In a small volume like the bag’s
interior, incandescence could be quickly established and maintained at around five hundred to six
hundred degrees Fahrenheit.”

 His finger found another journalist.

 “How could the rum bottle survive the fire in the bag?”

 “Easy. On the other end of the temperature spectrum, incandescence can
reach eleven hundred to twelve hundred degrees Fahrenheit, the temperature of a lit pipe or
cigarette. That’s hardly enough to alter a glass bottle containing liquid.”

 “And the smoke deposits would remain on the bottle?”

 “Yes. Unless it was subjected to a very intense and sustained fire,
which was not the case, as it occurred inside the suitcase.”

 The finger moved.

 “The metal fatigue marks survived as well?”

 “To melt steel you need temperatures of twenty-five hundred degrees
Fahrenheit or more. Beach marks, your typical evidence of fatigue, generally survive fires of the
intensity I’m describing.”

 He pointed to a reporter from the Charlotte Observer.

 “Did the passengers know what was happening?”

 “Those seated close to the flash point would have felt the shock.

 Everyone would have heard the explosion.“

 “What about smoke?”

 “Smoke would have seeped into the passenger cabin via the heating and
air-conditioning system.”

 “Were the passengers conscious the whole time?”

 “The type of combustion I’ve described can give off noxious gases which
may affect people very quickly.”

 “How quickly?”

 “The old, the young, perhaps as fast as ninety seconds.”

 “Could these gases have gotten into the passenger compartment?”

 “Yes.”

 “Have traces of smoke or noxious gases been found in the victims?”

 “Yes. Dr. Tyrell is going to make a statement shortly.”

 “With so much smoke, how can you be sure about the source of the
deposits on the rum bottle?” The questioner looked about sixteen.

 “Fragments of the Lindenbaum pipe were recovered, and reference studies
were conducted using unburned strands of tobacco adhering to the inside of the bowl. The deposits
on the bottle were the by-products of the combustion of that tobacco.”

 “How could there have been a fuel leak?” Shouted from the back.

 “When fire broke out in the hold, flame impingement affected only a
segment of the fuel line. This pulled the wall of the line, or induced a stress that opened very
slightly the seed failure.”

 Jackson called on a reporter who looked and sounded like Dick
Cavett.

 “Are you telling us that the initial fire did not directly cause the
explosion?”

 “Yes.”

 “What caused the explosion?” he persisted.

 “An electrical failure. That’s the second ignition sequence.”

 “How sure can you be?”

 “Reasonably certain. When electricity sparks an explosion, the
electrical energy is not lost, it must ground. Damage due to electrical grounding has been
identified on the same segment of fuel line. Such damage is normally seen on copper items and
rather seldom on steel parts.”

 “I can’t believe that the fire in the suitcase didn’t cause the
explosion.” Cavett made little attempt to hide his skepticism.

 “Wouldn’t that be more normal?”

 “Your question makes sense. It’s really what we thought at first, but
you see, the fumes are not yet mixed enough with air at such short distance from the source of
emission. The fumes must mix before ignition can occur, but when it does, the blast is
deafening.”

 Another hand.

 “Was the analysis done by certified fire and explosion
specialists?”

 “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. Tyrelps 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.”