Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [17]
“Yeah.”
“There’s got to be a link.”
O’Connell shrugged. “To be determined.”
“Got to be,” Lazzara repeated. “What were the other planes?”
“Another Dash 8 in Boise, a Saab 34 in San Jose.”
“Saab? Like the car?”
“Yeah. A commuter plane operated by a regional carrier.”
“Survivors?”
“None reported.”
Lazzara pondered whether to mention the eyewitness report. O’Connell spared him that decision. “An eyewitness in California says she saw something hit the Saab shortly after takeoff.”
“I heard that. Play for you?”
Another shrug.
Peter Mullin and his experts came down the narrow hiking trail, followed by volunteers from the Westchester Red Cross office. Mullin had been glad to see them. Having investigated dozens of aircraft accident scenes, his respect for the Red Cross and its support was unbridled. Sometimes, it was only the coffee and encouraging good cheer dispensed by the dedicated volunteers that kept him and his people going through the night.
Mullin was greeted by O’Connell, who introduced Lazzara to the lead investigator.
“Any witnesses?” Mullin asked.
“Not that I know of,” Lazzara said. “We have more agents coming from the city. I told the local police to start canvassing houses in the area.”
“Good.”
The combined NTSB teams from Parsippany and Washington fanned out to examine those areas of the wreckage of particular interest to them, taking pictures as they went. EMS personnel brought the first empty body bags down the hiking trail, and a pastor from a local church arrived on the scene. Mullin thanked the clergyman for coming, but told him he’d have to bestow any blessings from a distance. No one not directly involved in the investigation was allowed beyond the perimeter established by uniformed officers.
Lazzara trailed after Mullin as he slowly, cautiously walked among the twisted, charred wreckage and bodies and body parts, which seemed to Lazzara the product of the bizarre and warped imagination of a macabre performance artist—meant to shock rather than inspire. They stood side by side and looked down at a teddy bear spotted with blood.
“Kids are the worst,” Mullin said.
“Yeah. I have one. A year old.”
Mullin turned at the sound of his name. Two state troopers new to the scene stood at the foot of the trail. Between them was a fisherman wearing a tan fishing vest with multiple pockets over a tan shirt with still more pockets.
“Who’s this?” Mullin asked a trooper.
“He says he saw the accident.”
“You did, sir?” Mullin asked.
“Yes, I did,” Al Lester said. His round face was flushed with excitement and anxiety, and he spoke rapidly. “I saw it happen. I was out in my boat—”
“Maybe we should go someplace else to hear what the gentleman has to say,” Lazzara suggested.
Mullin nodded, and he and Lazzara led Lester up the trail to a small break in the trees.
“Now, sir,” Mullin said, “tell us what you saw.”
Lester looked back and forth between the two men and frowned.
“I’m Peter Mullin, from the National Transportation Safety Board,” Mullin said, realizing that an introduction was needed. “This is FBI Agent Lazzara.”
Lazzara extended his hand to Lester. “Frank Lazzara, special agent in charge of the White Plains office.” Lester took it, did the same with Mullin’s.
“I was out in my boat. I fish most every day, bass mostly, sometimes trout—depends on what lure I use, things like that.”
“I do some fishing myself,” Mullin said. “You saw what happened to the plane?”
“Yes, I did. Oh, yes, I certainly did.”
Lazzara and Mullin waited for him to continue.
“It blew up right where the wing joins with the body. What do you call it, the fuselage?”
“Yes,” Mullin said.
“Plane took off right over my boat. It’s a canoe, actually, an old aluminum one. Grumman canoe. They don’t make them anymore.”
“And?”
“I watched the plane all the way. I guess I always watch ’em taking off ’cause I don’t like the noise. I watched him all the way until… until it blew up.”
“You say it blew up,” Mullin said. “What side of the plane?”
Lester maneuvered his body to come up with the proper angle. “It was—let’s see, it was the