“We’re assuming there might be some connection between the incident that brought the plane down and the reason they were flying out there in the first place.”
I laid the slip down on top of the others. “And what if there isn’t? And the odds are all in that favor, by the way.”
“I don’t think there is any connection, sir.” She straightened up and regarded the index on the computer screen. “But this is what bothers me. There are a limited number of people who live anywhere near that quadrant of the county. The shot must have been fired in fair proximity to the crash sight. As Francis said, Philip Camp couldn’t have lived long with his heart pumping blood through a two-inch tear in his aorta. And there is no evidence that suggests that Sheriff Holman was able to grab the control yoke and do anything with it. He certainly didn’t swing it over to his side.”
“What a terrifying ride downhill that must have been,” I muttered.
Estelle walked around the desk and approached the big map of Posadas County that was framed on the wall. She placed her hand over the area north of Cat Mesa. “Charlotte Finnegan said that the plane was flying a repeating pattern in this area.” She traced with her index finger eastward along the back of the mesa to the blue line that indicated County Road 43, running north-south. “First this way, then circling north to within easy sight of the Finnegans’ place, then back to the west again…toward the Boyds’ place.” She put her hands on her hips and turned to look at me.
“Those are the only two ranches in that immediate area, sir. There’re federal lands scattered about, and some state sections. And then there’s Newton, that little settlement just out of the county, about eight miles north of the Boyds’. Maybe four or five houses there, at the most.” She turned and put one finger on the map over Finnegan’s ranch and another finger over Boyds’.
“Those two places mark the north boundary, on the east and west ends, of the pattern that Charlotte said the plane was flying.”
“And to the south is just the back side of the mesa,” I said. “That’s Forest Service land.”
“And so far, they haven’t found any sign of campers up there, or kids from town, or anything else. There’s a family right about here”—she tapped the map—“around by Parson’s Bench, cutting on a commercial firewood plot. Last night I asked Dale Kenyon and his staff to cover that area in case someone might have seen the plane go down. Dale says the folks cutting wood were the only ones up there as far as he knows. They didn’t remember seeing anything.”
“And if they were listening to a chain saw, they wouldn’t have heard anything,” I said.
Estelle frowned, regarding the wall map for a long minute. Her lower lip was pooched out in an expression that she must have learned from her two kids. “You know what bothers me?”
I grinned. “You’d be surprised if I said ‘yes,’ wouldn’t you?”
She shot a quick glance at me, and the right eyebrow went up. “What?”
I shook my head. “I was just sitting here thinking that if Charlotte Finnegan actually did hear what she said she heard—and that might be open to question, too—then the gunshots had to come from somewhere west or southwest of where she was standing. If what she calls backfiring was actually gunshots, that is. The wind was kicking hard and the sound wouldn’t carry against it much. I don’t know the physics of it, but it seems to me that wind noise would cancel a lot. The gunshots, if that’s what they were, couldn’t have been too far away.”
“Exactly,” Estelle said, and she turned back to the map. “If Charlotte heard them while she was standing here, then it makes sense that they came from somewhere over this way.” She drew her hand westward, stopping with her palm over the Boyd ranch.
“I talked to Johnny Boyd,” I said. “We spent most of the night and day together. He
I laid the slip down on top of the others. “And what if there isn’t? And the odds are all in that favor, by the way.”
“I don’t think there is any connection, sir.” She straightened up and regarded the index on the computer screen. “But this is what bothers me. There are a limited number of people who live anywhere near that quadrant of the county. The shot must have been fired in fair proximity to the crash sight. As Francis said, Philip Camp couldn’t have lived long with his heart pumping blood through a two-inch tear in his aorta. And there is no evidence that suggests that Sheriff Holman was able to grab the control yoke and do anything with it. He certainly didn’t swing it over to his side.”
“What a terrifying ride downhill that must have been,” I muttered.
Estelle walked around the desk and approached the big map of Posadas County that was framed on the wall. She placed her hand over the area north of Cat Mesa. “Charlotte Finnegan said that the plane was flying a repeating pattern in this area.” She traced with her index finger eastward along the back of the mesa to the blue line that indicated County Road 43, running north-south. “First this way, then circling north to within easy sight of the Finnegans’ place, then back to the west again…toward the Boyds’ place.” She put her hands on her hips and turned to look at me.
“Those are the only two ranches in that immediate area, sir. There’re federal lands scattered about, and some state sections. And then there’s Newton, that little settlement just out of the county, about eight miles north of the Boyds’. Maybe four or five houses there, at the most.” She turned and put one finger on the map over Finnegan’s ranch and another finger over Boyds’.
“Those two places mark the north boundary, on the east and west ends, of the pattern that Charlotte said the plane was flying.”
“And to the south is just the back side of the mesa,” I said. “That’s Forest Service land.”
“And so far, they haven’t found any sign of campers up there, or kids from town, or anything else. There’s a family right about here”—she tapped the map—“around by Parson’s Bench, cutting on a commercial firewood plot. Last night I asked Dale Kenyon and his staff to cover that area in case someone might have seen the plane go down. Dale says the folks cutting wood were the only ones up there as far as he knows. They didn’t remember seeing anything.”
“And if they were listening to a chain saw, they wouldn’t have heard anything,” I said.
Estelle frowned, regarding the wall map for a long minute. Her lower lip was pooched out in an expression that she must have learned from her two kids. “You know what bothers me?”
I grinned. “You’d be surprised if I said ‘yes,’ wouldn’t you?”
She shot a quick glance at me, and the right eyebrow went up. “What?”
I shook my head. “I was just sitting here thinking that if Charlotte Finnegan actually did hear what she said she heard—and that might be open to question, too—then the gunshots had to come from somewhere west or southwest of where she was standing. If what she calls backfiring was actually gunshots, that is. The wind was kicking hard and the sound wouldn’t carry against it much. I don’t know the physics of it, but it seems to me that wind noise would cancel a lot. The gunshots, if that’s what they were, couldn’t have been too far away.”
“Exactly,” Estelle said, and she turned back to the map. “If Charlotte heard them while she was standing here, then it makes sense that they came from somewhere over this way.” She drew her hand westward, stopping with her palm over the Boyd ranch.
“I talked to Johnny Boyd,” I said. “We spent most of the night and day together. He
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