Sole Survivor

past midnight in Denver, Joe called all three men whose numbers he'd obtained. The first was the Go-Team meteorologist in charge of considering weather factors pertinent to the crash. His phone was picked up by an answering machine, and Joe didn't leave a message. The second was the man who had overseen the team division responsible for sifting the wreckage for metallurgical evidence. He was surly, possibly awakened by the phone, and uncooperative. The third man provided the link to Barbara Christman that Joe needed.
        His name was Mario Oliveri. He had headed the human-performance division of the team, searching for errors possibly committed by the flight crew or air-traffic controllers.
        In spite of the hour and the intrusion on his privacy, Oliveri was cordial, claiming to be a night owl who never went to bed before one o'clock. “But, Mr. Carpenter, I'm sure you'll understand that I do not speak to reporters about Board business, the details of any investigation. It's public record anyway.”
        “That's not why I've called, Mr. Oliveri. I'm having trouble reaching one of your senior investigators, whom I need to talk with urgently, and I'm hoping you can put me in touch. Something's wrong with her voice mail at your Washington offices.”
        “ Her voice mail? We have no current senior investigators who are women. All six are men.”
        “Barbara Christman.”
        Oliveri said, “That had to be who it was. But she took early retirement months ago.”
        “Do you have a phone number for her?”
        Oliveri hesitated. Then: “I'm afraid I don't.”
        “Maybe you know if she resides in D.C. itself or which suburb. If I knew where she lived, I might be able to get a phone-”
        “I heard she came home to Colorado,” Oliveri said. “She started out in the Denver field office a lot of years ago, was transferred out to Washington, and worked her way up to senior investigator.”
        “So she's in Denver now?”
        Again Oliveri was silent, as if the very subject of Barbara Christman troubled him. At last he said, “I believe her actual home was Colorado Springs. That's about seventy miles south of Denver.”
        And it was less than forty miles from the meadow where the doomed 747 had come to a thunderous end.
        “She's in Colorado Springs now?” Joe asked.
        “I don't know.”
        “If she's married, the phone might be in a husband's name.”
        “She's been divorced for many years. Mr. Carpenter… I am wondering if.” After long seconds during which Oliveri failed to complete his thought, Joe gently prodded: “Sir?”
        “Is this related to Nationwide Flight 353?”
        “Yes, sir. A year ago tonight.”
        Oliveri fell into silence once more.
        Finally Joe said, “Is there something about what happened to Flight 353… something unusual?”
        “The investigation is public record, as I said.”
        “That's not what I asked.”
        The open line was filled with a silence so deep that Joe could half believe that he was connected not to Denver but to the far side of the moon.
        “Mr. Oliveri?”
        “I don't really have anything to tell you, Mr. Carpenter. But if I thought of something later… is there a number where I could reach you?”
        Rather than explain his current circumstances, Joe said, “Sir, if you're an honest man, then you might be endangering yourself by calling me. There are some damned nasty people who would suddenly be interested in you if they knew we were in touch.”
        “What people?”
        Ignoring the question, Joe said, “If something's on your mind-or on your conscience-take time to think about it. I'll get back to you in a day or two.”
        Joe hung up.
        Moths swooped. Swooped. Batted against the floodlamps above. Clichés on the wing: moths to the flame.
        The memory continued to elude Joe.
        He called directory assistance in Colorado Springs. The operator provided him with a number for Barbara Christman.
        She answered on the second ring. She did not sound as though she had been awakened.
        Perhaps some of these investigators, who had walked through the unspeakable carnage of major air disasters, did not always find their way easily into sleep.
        Joe told her his name and where his family had been one year ago this night, and he implied that he was still an active reporter with the Post