Fatal Voyage Read Free Page B

politics, or was there personal history between Lucy Crowe and Parker

Davenport?
     When the men drew close the ME showed ID. Crowe waved it aside.
     “No need for that, Doc. I know who you are.”
     So did I, having worked with Larke Tyrell since his appointment asNorth

Carolina ‘s chief medical examiner in the mid-1980s. Larke was cynical, dictatorial, and one of

the best pathologist-administrators in the country. Working with an inadequate budget and a

disinterested legislature, he had taken an office in chaos and turned it into one of the most

efficient death investigative systems inNorth America .
     My forensic career was in its infancy at the time of Larke’s

appointment, and I had just qualified for certification by the American Board of Forensic

Anthropology. We met through work I was doing for the North Carolina State Bureau of

Investigation, reassembling and identifying the corpses of two drug dealers murdered and

dismembered by outlaw bikers. I was one of Larke’s first hires as a consulting specialist, and

had handled the skeletal, the decomposed, the mummified, the burned, and the mutilated dead

ofNorth Carolina ever since.
     The lieutenant governor extended one hand, pressed a hankie to his

mouth with the other. His face was the color of a frog’s belly. He said nothing as we shook.
     “Glad you’re in country,Tempe ,” said Larke, also crushing my fingers

in his grip. I was rethinking this whole handshake business.
     Larke’s “in country” idiom was Vietnam-era military, his dialect

pureCarolina . Born in the low country, Larke grew up in a Marine Corps family, then did two

hitches of his own before heading off to medical school. He spoke and looked like a

spit-and-polish version of Andy Griffith.
     “When do you head north?”
     “Next week is fall break,” I responded.
     Larke’s eyes narrowed as he did another sweep of the site.
     “I’m afraidQuebec may have to do without its anthropologist this

autumn.”
     A decade back I’d participated in a faculty exchange

withMcgillUniversity . While inMontreal I’d begun consulting to the Labora-to are de Sciences

Judiciaires et deMedecine Legale,Quebec ‘s central crime and medico-legal lab. At the end of my

year, recognizing the need for a staff forensic anthropologist, the provincial government had

funded a position, equipped a lab, and signed me up on a permanent consultant basis.
     I’d been commuting between Quebec and North Carolina, teaching physical

anthropology at UNC-Charlotte and consulting to the two jurisdictions, ever since. Because my

cases usually involved the less-than-recent dead, this arrangement had worked well. But there was

an understanding on both ends that I would be immediately available for court testimony and in

crisis situations.
     An aviation disaster definitely qualified as a crisis situation. I

assured Larke that I would cancel my October trip toMontreal .
     “How did you get here so quickly?”
     Again I explained my trip toKnoxville and the phone conversation with

the DMORT leader.
     “I’ve already talked to Earl. He’ll deploy a team up here tomorrow

morning.” Larke looked at Crowe. “The NTSB boys will be rolling in tonight. Until then everything

stays put.”
    “I’ve given that order,” Crowe said. “This location is pretty inaccessible,

but I’ll post extra security. Animals will probably be the biggest problem. Especially when these

bodies start to go.”
     The lieutenant governor made an odd sound, spun, and lurched off. I

watched him brace against a mountain laurel, bend, and vomit.
     Larke fixed us with a sincere Sheriff of Mayberry gaze, shifting his

eyes from Crowe to me.
     “You ladies are making a very difficult job infinitely easier. Words

can’t express how much I appreciate your professionalism.”
     Shift.
     “Sheriff, you keep things squared away here.”
     Shift.
     “Tempe, you go on and