Night Fall (4 page)

“I don’t have to. The official report picked them all, with emphasis on optical illusion.”

“Yeah. I remember that.” In fact, the CIA had made a speculative reconstruction animation of the explosion, which they’d shown on TV, and which seemed to explain the streak of light. In the animation, as I recalled, the streak of light, which over two hundred people had seen rising toward the aircraft, was, according to the animation, actually coming
from
the aircraft as a result of burning fuel dropping from the ruptured fuel tank. The way this was explained in the animation was that it was not the initial explosion that caught the attention of the witnesses-it was the
sound
of the explosion that would have reached them fifteen to thirty seconds afterward, depending on where they were located. Then, when they looked up toward the sound, what they saw was the burning stream of jet fuel, which could be mistaken for a rocket or missile streaking upward. Also, the main fuselage of the aircraft actually rose, according to radar sightings, a few thousand feet after the explosion, and this burning section of the plane may also have looked like an ascending missile.

Optical illusion, according to the CIA. Sounded like bullshit to me, but the animation looked better than it sounded. I needed to see that video animation again.

And I needed to ask myself again, as I did five years ago, why it was the CIA who made the animation, and not the FBI. What was that all about?

We reached the far side of the bridge and got onto the William Floyd Parkway. I looked at my dashboard clock and said, “We won’t get back to the city until about eleven.”

“Later than that, if you want.”

“Meaning?”

“One more stop. But only if you want to.”

“Are we talking about a quickie in a hot-sheet motel?”

“We are not.”

I seemed to recall Liam Griffith strongly advising me not to make this case my off-duty hobby. He didn’t actually say what would happen if I didn’t take his advice, but I guessed it wouldn’t be pleasant.

“John?”

I needed to consider Kate’s career more than my own-she makes more money than I do. Maybe I should tell her what Griffith said.

She said to me, “Okay, let’s go home.”

I said to her, “Okay, one more stop.”

CHAPTER FOUR

We got off the William Floyd Parkway and headed east on Montauk Highway. Kate directed me through the pleasant village of Westhampton Beach.

We crossed a bridge over Moriches Bay, which led to a thin barrier island where we turned onto the only road, Dune Road, and headed west. New houses lined the road-oceanfront houses to the left, ocean view houses to the right.

Kate said, “This was not very developed five years ago.”

An offhand observation, perhaps, but more likely she meant this was a more secluded area at the time of the accident, and therefore, what I was about to see and hear should be put into that context.

Within ten minutes a sign informed me that I was entering Cupsogue Beach County Park, officially closed at dusk, but I was officially on unofficial police business, so I drove into the big parking field.

We passed through the parking field, and Kate directed me to a sand road, which was actually a nature trail, according to the sign that also said NO VEHICLES. The trail was partially blocked by a roll-up fence, so I put the Jeep into four-wheel drive and drove around the fence, my headlights illuminating the narrowing trail, which was now the width of the Jeep, flanked by scrub brush and dunes.

At the end of the trail, Kate said, “Turn down here, toward the beach.”

I turned between two dunes and down a gradual slope, nailing a scrub oak on the way.

“Be careful of the vegetation, please. Turn right at this dune.”

I turned at the edge of the dune, and she said, “Stop here.”

I stopped, and she got out.

I shut off the ignition and the lights and followed her.

Kate stood near the front of the Jeep and stared out at the dark ocean. She said, “Okay, on the night of July 17, 1996, a vehicle, most likely a four-wheel drive like yours, left the road and stopped right about here.”

“How do you know that?”

“A Westhampton village police report. Right after the plane went down, a police car, an SUV, was dispatched here, and the officer was told to walk down to the beach and see if he could be of any help. He arrived at eight-forty-sixP.M. ”

“What kind of help?”

“The exact location of the crash wasn’t known at that point. There was a possibility of survivors-people with life vests or rafts. This officer had a handheld searchlight. He noticed tire marks in the sand, ending about here. He didn’t think anything of it and walked down to the beach.”

“You saw this report?”

“Yes. There were hundreds of written reports on every imaginable aspect of this crash, from dozens of local law enforcement agencies as well as the Coast Guard, commercial and private pilots, fishermen, and so forth. But this one caught my eye.”

“Why?”

“Because it was one of the earliest and one of the least important.”

“But you didn’t think so. Did you talk to this cop?”

“I did. He said he walked down to the beach.” She started down to the beach, and I followed.

She stopped at the water’s edge, pointed, and said, “Across that inlet is Fire Island and Smith Point County Park where the memorial service was just held. Far out on the horizon, this police officer could see the jet fuel burning on the water. He shined his light out on the water, but all he saw was a calm, glassy surface. He said in his report that he didn’t expect to see any survivors coming to shore, at least not that soon, and probably not that far from the crash. In any case, he decided to climb up a sand dune where he could get a better view.”

She turned and headed for the rising dune, which was near where I’d parked the Jeep. I followed.

We reached the base of the dune. “Okay,” she said, “he told me he saw recent signs that people had scrambled up or down-or up
and
down-this dune. This guy wasn’t actually following the footprints; he was just looking for a vantage point to scan the water. So, he climbed this dune.”

“Does that mean I have to climb it?”

“Follow me.”

We scrambled up the dune, and I got sand in my shoes. When I was a young detective, I was into re-enactments, which are sometimes strenuous and get your clothes dirty. I’m more cerebral now.

We stood at the top of the dune, and she said, “Down there in that small valley between this dune and the next, this policeman saw a blanket.” We walked down the shallow slope.

She said, “Just about here. A bed blanket. If you live around here, you probably own a good cotton beach blanket. This was a synthetic fiber blanket, maybe from a hotel or motel.”

“Did anyone check out local hotels and motels to get a match?”

“Yes, an ATTF team did. They found several hotels and motels that used that brand of blanket. They narrowed it down to one hotel that said a maid reported a missing blanket from a room.”

“What was the name of the hotel?”

“Are you interested in pursuing this?”

“No. In fact both you and Liam Griffith have told me it’s none of my business.”

“That’s correct.”

“Good. By the way-why are we here?”

“I thought you’d find this interesting. You might work it into one of your classes at John Jay.”

“You’re always thinking of me.”

She didn’t reply.

By now, of course, the hook was in John Corey’s mouth, and Kate Mayfield was reeling the fish in slowly. I think this is how I got married, both times.

She continued, “On the blanket was an ice chest, and in the chest, the police officer’s report described half-melted ice. There were two wineglasses on the blanket, a corkscrew, and an empty bottle of white wine.”

“What kind of wine?”

“An expensive French Pouilly-Fume. About fifty dollars in those days.”

I asked, “Did anyone get prints from the bottle?”

“Yes. And the wineglasses. And the ice chest. Lots of good prints. Two different sets. The FBI ran the prints, but came up empty.”

I asked, “Lipstick?”

“Yes, on one glass.”

“Any sign of sex on the blanket?”

Kate replied, “There was no semen found, and no condoms.”

“Maybe they had oral sex, and she swallowed.”

“Thank you for that thought. Okay, forensics did find male and female epidermal on the blanket, plus body hair, head hair, and some pubic hair, so this couple was probably naked at some point.” She added, “But it could have been someone else’s hair and epidermal since it seemed to be a hotel blanket.”

“Any foreign fibers?”

“Lots of fibers. But again, it could be from a dozen different sources.” She added, “Also some white wine on the blanket.”

I nodded. In fact, stuff found on hotel blankets was not exactly good forensic evidence. I asked, “Sand?”

“Yes. Some still damp. So they may have gone down to the beach.”

I nodded and asked, “Did this cop see any vehicles heading away from this beach?”

“Yes, he mentioned passing a light-colored, late-model Ford Explorer out on Dune Road, coming from this direction. But since he was responding to an emergency, not a crime in progress, he didn’t take note of the license plate or if there were any passengers in the vehicle. No follow-up was done.”

I nodded. Ford Explorers, like Jeeps, were as common around here as seagulls, so it wasn’t worth the time or effort to check it out.

Kate said to me, “Okay, that’s about it. Would you like to attempt a reconstruction of the events of that evening?”

I replied, “Rather than me verbally reconstructing, this may be a good time for a re-enactment.”

“John, clean up your act.”

“I’m trying to get into this scene.”

“Come on. It’s getting late. Reconstruct.” She smiled. “We’ll re-enact later.”

I smiled in return. “Okay. We have a man and a woman. They may have been staying at a local hotel, the name of which I may learn later. The expensive wine indicates perhaps upper-middle-class and middle-age people. They decide to go to the beach, and they snag the blanket from the hotel bed. They do, however, have an ice chest, so maybe this was planned to some extent. They know or have heard of this secluded spot, or they just stumbled upon it. I think they got here late afternoon or early evening.”

“Why?”

“Well, I remember where I was when I heard about the crash. Bright and sunny that day, and you didn’t mention suntan oil or lotion on the blanket, on the bottle, or on the wineglasses.”

“Correct. Continue.”

“Okay. So, this man and woman, perhaps driving a Ford Explorer, got here at some point before eight-thirty-oneP.M., the time of the crash. They laid out the blanket, opened the ice chest, took out the wine, opened it with the corkscrew, poured it into two glasses, and finished the bottle. At some point, they may have gotten naked, and may have engaged in sexual activity.”

She didn’t reply, and I continued, “Okay, based on the damp sand found on the blanket, we can speculate that they went down to the water, naked or clothed. At some point-at eight-thirty-oneP.M. to be exact-they saw and heard an explosion in the sky. I don’t know where they were standing at that time, but realizing that this spectacular occurrence would draw people to the beach, they got the hell out of here, and they were gone before the police arrived at eight-forty-six. The two vehicles may have passed on the single road leading to this beach.” I added, “My guess is that these two people were not married to each other.”

“Why?”

“Too romantic.”

“Don’t be cynical. Maybe they weren’t running away. Maybe they ran for help.”

“And kept on running. They didn’t want to be seen together.”

She nodded. “That’s the general consensus.”

“Among who?”

“Among the FBI agents on the Anti-Terrorist Task Force, who investigated this five years ago.”

“Let me ask
you
something. What makes these two people so important that the FBI went through all that trouble?”

“They were probably witnesses to the crash.”

“So what? There were six hundred eyewitnesses who saw the explosion. Over two hundred of them said they saw a streak of light rising toward the plane before the explosion. If the FBI didn’t believe two hundred people, why are these two unknown people so important?”

“Oh, I forgot. One last detail.”

“Ah.”

She said, “Also on the blanket was a plastic lens cap belonging to a JVC video camera.”

I let that sink in a moment as I looked around at the terrain and the sky. I asked her, “Did you ever hear from these people?”

“No.”

“And you never will. Let’s go.”