Read Online The Breaking Point: A Body Farm Novel by Jefferson Bass - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jefferson Bass
Tags: United States, Suspense, Literature & Fiction, Thrillers, Crime, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Contemporary Fiction, Thrillers & Suspense
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identify my husband’s body, if it’s been found. To help search for it, if it hasn’t been.”
Prescott shook his head slowly, seeming pained. “Ma’am, I’m very sorry, but I can’t let you do that.”
“Why not? I’m trained in search and rescue. I’m also a paramedic. Not that I think Richard could have survived this crash.”
“How did you get the sheriff’s office to fly you up here?”
“Our organization has a good partnership with the sheriff’s office,” she said. “We often work together. Quite closely.” Prescott frowned. “Mr. Prescott, I’m here to help any way I can. Even if it’s just to identify the body.”
He held out his hands, palms up. “Mrs. Janus, we haven’t even started the search. It’s not safe yet. I can’t put you at risk. And once we do start, we’ll be collecting forensic evidence—evidence we’re counting on to tell us what happened last night. You wouldn’t want any of that evidence to be overlooked, or damaged, or destroyed, would you?”
“No, of course not. But—”
Their dispute was interrupted by the whine and whump of the helicopter revving. Prescott looked puzzled for a moment. Then, as it became apparent that the chopper was about to take off—without Mrs. Janus—his expression changed from confusion to fury. “What the hell, ” he snapped, then whirled and barked at the agent standing beside him. “ You. Get on the radio with the sheriff’s office. Tell them to tell that pilot—” The helicopter lifted off. “Shit. You tell them to get that helicopteron the ground—right here, right now—to pick her up. Or I will come down on them like the wrath of God.”
The young agent pushed past me into the command center, and I could hear a terse exchange of voices. Sixty seconds later, the helicopter returned. It hovered directly over the cluster of federal agents, its downdraft buffeting them and yet somehow leaving Mrs. Janus—standing twenty feet from them—unruffled. Then it edged sideways and touched down. Without a word, Carmelita Janus turned, strode toward it, and climbed back into the copilot’s seat.
As the machine leapt up again—buffeting the agents once more on its way out—I noticed something I hadn’t noticed before: a second helicopter, hovering a hundred yards away. The cabin door was open; perched on the sill, his feet propped on a landing skid, was a man—a man with a boxy black object balanced on one shoulder. A cylinder projected from the front of the box; at its center, I saw a glint of blue: the reflection of a telephoto lens, watching and recording the scene that had just transpired. Judging by the logo emblazoned on the side of the helicopter, Fox News viewers across San Diego—or across the entire nation—would soon be seeing Mrs. Richard Janus being banished from the site of her husband’s smoldering jet, her brave offer to help spurned by the heartless forces of the FBI. I felt sorry for Prescott; his Bureau bosses might well—and his media critics surely would—take him to task for being so unsympathetic . . . or for being caught on camera. At the same time, I couldn’t help admiring Mrs. Janus’s moxie and resourcefulness. Her maneuver could end up complicating our work, though, I realized, especially if it increased the pressure for us to work fast.
“Damn,” said Prescott.
O Brother, I thought, you can say that again .
“Damn,” he repeated. “Damn damn damn .”
AN HOUR HAD PASSED SINCE CARMELITA JANUS FLEW off, but the cyclone of grit and grouchiness she’d stirred up continued to swirl long after the helicopter had vanished. Prescott spent some quality time fussing into his phone; I heard the word “grandstanding” at least three times; I also heard him say, “I want to know everything there is to know about her husband’s life insurance. How much? Does it pay double for accidental death? Is there a suicide exclusion? Most important—is she the sole beneficiary?” There was more
Prescott shook his head slowly, seeming pained. “Ma’am, I’m very sorry, but I can’t let you do that.”
“Why not? I’m trained in search and rescue. I’m also a paramedic. Not that I think Richard could have survived this crash.”
“How did you get the sheriff’s office to fly you up here?”
“Our organization has a good partnership with the sheriff’s office,” she said. “We often work together. Quite closely.” Prescott frowned. “Mr. Prescott, I’m here to help any way I can. Even if it’s just to identify the body.”
He held out his hands, palms up. “Mrs. Janus, we haven’t even started the search. It’s not safe yet. I can’t put you at risk. And once we do start, we’ll be collecting forensic evidence—evidence we’re counting on to tell us what happened last night. You wouldn’t want any of that evidence to be overlooked, or damaged, or destroyed, would you?”
“No, of course not. But—”
Their dispute was interrupted by the whine and whump of the helicopter revving. Prescott looked puzzled for a moment. Then, as it became apparent that the chopper was about to take off—without Mrs. Janus—his expression changed from confusion to fury. “What the hell, ” he snapped, then whirled and barked at the agent standing beside him. “ You. Get on the radio with the sheriff’s office. Tell them to tell that pilot—” The helicopter lifted off. “Shit. You tell them to get that helicopteron the ground—right here, right now—to pick her up. Or I will come down on them like the wrath of God.”
The young agent pushed past me into the command center, and I could hear a terse exchange of voices. Sixty seconds later, the helicopter returned. It hovered directly over the cluster of federal agents, its downdraft buffeting them and yet somehow leaving Mrs. Janus—standing twenty feet from them—unruffled. Then it edged sideways and touched down. Without a word, Carmelita Janus turned, strode toward it, and climbed back into the copilot’s seat.
As the machine leapt up again—buffeting the agents once more on its way out—I noticed something I hadn’t noticed before: a second helicopter, hovering a hundred yards away. The cabin door was open; perched on the sill, his feet propped on a landing skid, was a man—a man with a boxy black object balanced on one shoulder. A cylinder projected from the front of the box; at its center, I saw a glint of blue: the reflection of a telephoto lens, watching and recording the scene that had just transpired. Judging by the logo emblazoned on the side of the helicopter, Fox News viewers across San Diego—or across the entire nation—would soon be seeing Mrs. Richard Janus being banished from the site of her husband’s smoldering jet, her brave offer to help spurned by the heartless forces of the FBI. I felt sorry for Prescott; his Bureau bosses might well—and his media critics surely would—take him to task for being so unsympathetic . . . or for being caught on camera. At the same time, I couldn’t help admiring Mrs. Janus’s moxie and resourcefulness. Her maneuver could end up complicating our work, though, I realized, especially if it increased the pressure for us to work fast.
“Damn,” said Prescott.
O Brother, I thought, you can say that again .
“Damn,” he repeated. “Damn damn damn .”
AN HOUR HAD PASSED SINCE CARMELITA JANUS FLEW off, but the cyclone of grit and grouchiness she’d stirred up continued to swirl long after the helicopter had vanished. Prescott spent some quality time fussing into his phone; I heard the word “grandstanding” at least three times; I also heard him say, “I want to know everything there is to know about her husband’s life insurance. How much? Does it pay double for accidental death? Is there a suicide exclusion? Most important—is she the sole beneficiary?” There was more
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