“You sure about that?” asked McCready. Prescott was listening closely.
“Here, I’ll show you.” Maddox crooked a finger, beckoning, and led us across the cracked concrete pad to one of the shipping containers, which by now was half filled with mangled metal. Tugging at a wadded-up chunk that was leaning against one wall, he laid it flat and dragged it toward the container’s opening, where the light was better. “This came up a couple hours ago,” he said. “It’s the cabin door. Some of it, anyhow.” He pointed to a crumpled lever. “This is the latch. Banged up and burned, but you can still tell that it was in the ‘closed’ position. Also”—he pointed to one edge of the door, which was fringed with torn metal—“here’s a piece of the door frame, which got ripped apart by the impact. See these bolts?” He tapped two metal rods, which—despite their thickness—were bent, their ends crowned with jagged aluminum. “When the door latches, a dozen of those bolts—spaced around the rim of the door—slide out and lock into the frame.”
“Like the door of a bank vault?”
He nodded. “Or a watertight door on a ship. The whole hull is pressurized, so the latches and seals have to be really robust.” I could feel myself starting to recalibrate—to get interested in the puzzle pieces again—when he added, “Look, he’s gotta be in there. You’ll find him. You just gotta keep digging.”
He was right—in my heart of hearts, I knew he was right—but I was tired, and my back hurt, and his confidence and encouragement seemed slightly condescending, so my frustration returned, this time as annoyance. Prescott didn’t help my mood any when he said, “Maybe you’re looking too close, you know what I mean?”
I turned and stared at him. “No,” I said. “I have no idea what you mean.”
If he sensed my anger, he didn’t let on. “You know how, if you look at a photograph through a microscope, you might not be able to recognize the picture?”
I stared at him. “So you think maybe we’ve all been stumbling over a body down there, but nobody’s noticed it, because we’re too close to see the shape of the arms and legs and head?”
“No, I don’t mean that,” he hedged. “I’m just wondering if you might get a better feel for the bigger picture—for how things are . . . arranged—if you take a step back, get into a groove, and get some momentum going.”
“Three years ago—after 9/11—I spent ten days sifting through rubble from the World Trade Center,” I told him. “In those ten days, I saw four intact long bones. Four.” I held up my right hand, fingers splayed, for digital emphasis. “I didn’t see a single complete skull. Mostly what I saw were shreds and splinters. Even the teeth were in bits and pieces. I could be wrong—Pat, please correct me if I am—but I’m guessing this crash is like a scaled-down version of that rubble. Yes? No?”
Maddox hesitated, looking reluctant to choose sides. “Well, I hadn’t thought about it in those terms. But a straight-on impact at that velocity?” He considered it only for a moment. “The pilot probably fragments from the initial impact. Then the rest of the plane slams into him like a pile driver. Then comes the fire.” He shrugged at Prescott in what seemed a sort of apology. “This reminds me of some military crashes I’ve seen. Fighter jets. Sometimes all they leave is a smokin’ hole.” He gave us all a conciliatory smile. “But hey, tomorrow’s another day, right? A juicy steak and a good night’s sleep, and we’ll be raring to go again.”
I couldn’t help wondering: Which “we”? The “we” in the air-conditioned command center, or the “we” doubled over like field hands? Still, I appreciated his sticking up for me, and I suspected I’d enjoy trading stories with him over dinner. “You eating with us, Pat?”
He shook his head. “Nah, I hear you guys are staying in Otay Mesa. Close to Brown Field. I’m booked somewhere in San Diego. Pain in the ass to get there, but hey, a good soldier goes where he’s sent.” He flashed us a peace sign and turned to go, leaving me with the FBI agents.