was missing, along with most of his front teeth—injuries that I assumed he had incurred when his face smacked the instrument panel upon impact. He’d been wearing a woolen watch cap and a double-breasted navy peacoat when he died. Both were now moth-chewed and hanging from his body in tatters. He’d also been armed. The butt of what looked like a .45-caliber, semiautomatic Colt Model 1911A protruded from the right pocket of his coat.
None of that, however, gave me as much pause as what I saw next, and left me wondering what the hell I’d gotten myself into.
Lying beside the wreckage, just forward of the airplane’s crumpled nose, was the dead body of a young man. His arms and legs were outstretched, like he’d been making a snow angel.
Lifeless green eyes stared up at a cloudless sky. Around the torso was snow dyed black with blood. Goose feathers poked out from three dime-size bullet holes in the front of his down-filled, shiny black parka.
“Anybody recognize him?” Wood asked.
“His name’s Chad,” I said, staring down at the young man’s face. “He worked at the Tahoe airport.”
FIVE
T he terrain wasn’t flat or clear enough for the El Dorado County sheriff’s Jetranger to put down, so the helicopter pilots landed in a meadow about a quarter mile to the west. The homicide investigator assigned to the case hiked in the rest of the way.
Wood showed him where he’d found fresh prints of climbing boots that tracked across a crusty patch of snow, away from the crash site, then accompanied him to Chad’s body.
The investigator walked slowly around the corpse, pausing periodically and squatting on his haunches to assess it from different angles, like he was lining up a putt. He was in his mid-thirties, on the stocky side, with sandy, close-cropped hair and a requisite cop moustache that hadn’t quite grown in yet. He wore jump boots, green uniform pants bloused at the calves, a tan uniform shirt, and a green tactical vest under a green sheriff’s parka. A badge was stitched in gold on the chest, just below his name tag: Streeter.
He snapped on a latex glove and tugged gently on the kid’s left hand, which was bent awkwardly inward at the wrist, palm up, fingers outstretched. There was little give in the fingers indicating Chad had probably been dead at least twelve hours—the time it takes humans to reach maximum stiffness after death, depending on their individual physiology and ambient air temperatures. Yet one more thing you learn hunting terrorists.
“Anybody touch anything?” the investigator wanted to know. “Move anything? The body? Inside the plane? Anything?”
All three search and rescuers adamantly shook their heads no.
“Good. Let’s keep it that way. We’ve got patrol units scouring the area for suspects. I’ll get the forensics team up here A-SAP.” Streeter stood, rubbing his chin with the heel of his hand, and peered in through the broken cockpit window at what was left of the pilot. “Whoa. I’d say this dude’s definitely been up here awhile.”
“Since October, 1956,” I said. “I’m guessing the plane was somewhere out of the LA area.”
Streeter turned and gave me a “Who the hell are you?” look.
“This is Mr. Logan,” Wood said. “He was the pilot who spotted the wreck yesterday.”
“Why 1956?” Streeter said.
“There’s a bunch of old newspapers wadded up in the rear of the plane—copies of the Los Angeles Times. All the ones I saw were from October ’56. ‘Cincinnati’s Birdie Tebbetts Named National League Manager of the Year.’ ‘Soviet Troops Invade Hungary.’ ”
Streeter wasn’t happy with me. He asked me my name again. I told him.
“You went inside the plane? You contaminated the crime scene, Mr. Logan.”
“I touched nothing, disturbed nothing. All I did was take a look. I’d suggest you do the same, Deputy. There’s something you really need to see.”
I pointed out the side of the plywood crate, lying on the ground
None of that, however, gave me as much pause as what I saw next, and left me wondering what the hell I’d gotten myself into.
Lying beside the wreckage, just forward of the airplane’s crumpled nose, was the dead body of a young man. His arms and legs were outstretched, like he’d been making a snow angel.
Lifeless green eyes stared up at a cloudless sky. Around the torso was snow dyed black with blood. Goose feathers poked out from three dime-size bullet holes in the front of his down-filled, shiny black parka.
“Anybody recognize him?” Wood asked.
“His name’s Chad,” I said, staring down at the young man’s face. “He worked at the Tahoe airport.”
FIVE
T he terrain wasn’t flat or clear enough for the El Dorado County sheriff’s Jetranger to put down, so the helicopter pilots landed in a meadow about a quarter mile to the west. The homicide investigator assigned to the case hiked in the rest of the way.
Wood showed him where he’d found fresh prints of climbing boots that tracked across a crusty patch of snow, away from the crash site, then accompanied him to Chad’s body.
The investigator walked slowly around the corpse, pausing periodically and squatting on his haunches to assess it from different angles, like he was lining up a putt. He was in his mid-thirties, on the stocky side, with sandy, close-cropped hair and a requisite cop moustache that hadn’t quite grown in yet. He wore jump boots, green uniform pants bloused at the calves, a tan uniform shirt, and a green tactical vest under a green sheriff’s parka. A badge was stitched in gold on the chest, just below his name tag: Streeter.
He snapped on a latex glove and tugged gently on the kid’s left hand, which was bent awkwardly inward at the wrist, palm up, fingers outstretched. There was little give in the fingers indicating Chad had probably been dead at least twelve hours—the time it takes humans to reach maximum stiffness after death, depending on their individual physiology and ambient air temperatures. Yet one more thing you learn hunting terrorists.
“Anybody touch anything?” the investigator wanted to know. “Move anything? The body? Inside the plane? Anything?”
All three search and rescuers adamantly shook their heads no.
“Good. Let’s keep it that way. We’ve got patrol units scouring the area for suspects. I’ll get the forensics team up here A-SAP.” Streeter stood, rubbing his chin with the heel of his hand, and peered in through the broken cockpit window at what was left of the pilot. “Whoa. I’d say this dude’s definitely been up here awhile.”
“Since October, 1956,” I said. “I’m guessing the plane was somewhere out of the LA area.”
Streeter turned and gave me a “Who the hell are you?” look.
“This is Mr. Logan,” Wood said. “He was the pilot who spotted the wreck yesterday.”
“Why 1956?” Streeter said.
“There’s a bunch of old newspapers wadded up in the rear of the plane—copies of the Los Angeles Times. All the ones I saw were from October ’56. ‘Cincinnati’s Birdie Tebbetts Named National League Manager of the Year.’ ‘Soviet Troops Invade Hungary.’ ”
Streeter wasn’t happy with me. He asked me my name again. I told him.
“You went inside the plane? You contaminated the crime scene, Mr. Logan.”
“I touched nothing, disturbed nothing. All I did was take a look. I’d suggest you do the same, Deputy. There’s something you really need to see.”
I pointed out the side of the plywood crate, lying on the ground
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