THE ROTOR WAS STILL SPINNING AS A MAN APPROACHED the helicopter with a limp in his stride, a scowl on his face, and a pair of outstretched arms that silently shouted the question “What the hell?!?” Tight on his head was a navy blue baseball cap, monogrammed NTSB in large letters. He made a beeline for the cockpit door, but the pilot pointed a thumb over his shoulder, indicating that McCready was the one he should talk to. A moment later the cabin door was yanked open. “Who are you,” shouted the man in the cap, “and what the hell did you think you were doing, besides jeopardizing my crash scene?”
“Actually, it’s my crash scene now,” McCready said, flashing his badge. “Supervisory Special Agent Clint McCready. Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“FBI?” The man in the cap glowered, but he dialed back the anger a few clicks. “What brings the Bureau up here?”
“We’re . . . investigating,” McCready said drily. “We’ll be working this as a crime scene. I’ve got an identification expert and a mapping team with me, and an eight-man Evidence Response Team is headed up the mountain now from our local field office.” McCready clambered out of the cabin and extended a hand. “We appreciate your help, Mr. . . . ?” The final sentence was more than just a way of asking who the pissed-off guy in the cap was; it was also McCready’s efficient way of putting the guy in his place, of showing him whose jurisdictional penis was larger. McCready’s smile, as he waited for an answer, was polite but tight, underscoring the message that the Bureau was running the show now.
“Maddox,” said the man in the NTSB cap. “Patrick Maddox, National Transportation Safety Board.” He unfolded his arms and shook McCready’s hand with understandable coolness. In less than thirty seconds, Maddox had been demoted from head honcho to hired help. Henceforth, he was a consultant who might provide useful insights, but his investigative procedures and priorities now carried far less weight than they had before our arrival.
Wriggling out of my harness, I lurched out of the cabin with my bag. Kimball and Boatman were close on my heels, nimble despite their load of gear and baggage.
As the rotor spun up again, Maddox surveyed the lot of us, then shrugged. “It’s all yours,” he shouted. “Knock yourself out.” The helicopter lifted off and spun away, wheeling westward and dropping down toward Brown Field. Maddox watched it, then turned to McCready again. “By the way,” he added, as the rotor’s noise faded in the distance, “do you realize that you guys nearly made history?”
“How’s that?” asked McCready.
“First crash ever witnessed—in person, in real time—by an NTSB investigator. You’d’ve been famous at the Safety Board. Legends, all of you.”
I had to admit, he had a point—and maybe a sense of humor, too. “No offense,” I chimed in, “but I’d much rather be a living legend.”
McCready and Maddox both smiled, and I hoped I’d helped ease the tension.
McCready pointed at me. “Mr. Maddox, this—”
“Call me Pat,” said Maddox.
“Okay, Pat. Call me Special Supervisory Agent McCready.” Maddox stiffened again, but then McCready laughed. “I’m kidding, Pat. Call me Mac. Sorry to get in your business here.” He gestured at the two young agents. “Pat, meet Agents Kimball and Boatman. They’ll use a Total Station to map the site.” He indicated me. “And this is Dr. Bill Brockton, a forensic anthropologist from the University of Tennessee. Doc here specializes in human identification and skeletal trauma.”
Maddox shook my hand, nodding in the direction of the crash. “Plenty of trauma here, but probably not much human left to identify.” He furrowed his brow at me. “Remind me? How many bones in the human body?”
“Two hundred and six, in adults.”
“Uh-huh. Ever work one of those thousand-piece jigsaw puzzles?”
I shook my head. “Never had the patience.”
“Well, better start cultivating some,” he said. “Just a guess—but it’s a fairly educated guess—you’ve got one hell of a puzzle waiting down there, and the pieces are gonna be damned tiny.”
“You mean ‘we,’ don’t you? We’ve got a puzzle. You’ll be down there with us, right?”
He shook his head. “I wish. Can’t.” He hoisted up the left leg of his pants to reveal a contraption of straps, buckles, and hinges that resembled a medieval implement of torture. “Knee surgery three weeks ago. I’m not supposed to be walking on anything rougher than wall-to-wall carpet. My orthopedist went ballistic when I asked what to do if I had to climb around on a mountainside. ‘Schedule a knee replacement,’ he said.”
“Knee surgery’s tricky stuff,” I said. “Your doctor’s right to be cautious.”