Night Fall

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 upand 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?”