Davis ordered white coffee, Marquez a double espresso, and Echevarria a latte, and when all of it arrived a certain measure of civility was restored. Couples in fine Italian clothes weaved between sidewalk planters, and hanging flowerpots all around them burst waves of color. Take away the equatorial heat, Davis thought, and they might have been in Milan or Barcelona.
“I have never seen such a case,” Marquez reflected.
“Neither have I,” agreed Davis. “We’ve got two passengers missing and three fatalities with gunshot wounds.”
Echevarria asked Davis, “Have you ever dealt with a hijacking before?”
“No, and I’m still not convinced we’re dealing with one here.”
“How can you say that?” argued Marquez. “You heard the examiner’s report. The pilots both died of gunshot wounds. What more proof do you need?”
“To begin with, I’d like to find the captain.”
Davis watched both men closely. Echevarria wore wraparound sunglasses, so all Davis saw were reflections from the street and the glint of the sun. Marquez simply froze, his espresso hovering over the table.
“What are you saying?” asked the policeman.
“I’m saying the man we saw on that gurney was not Blas Reyna.”
Marquez’ eyes narrowed, the tiny cup still hovering.
“I first noticed it at the crash site. Something about the captain’s body didn’t seem right. He had severe injuries from the crash, no doubt about that. But there was almost no blood. With that kind of trauma to the head and face, it should have been everywhere. And there was something else, although it didn’t hit me until later — the guy’s uniform didn’t fit. Not even close. The pants were too long at the ankle, a good four inches, and his shirt collar was so tight the top button had to be left undone. I’ve seen circus clowns with better tailors. Very unprofessional.”
Marquez set down his cup. “And on this you question his identity. That is loco, my friend.”
“No, what’s loco is that the body we just saw was measured out very precisely by the medical examiner to be five foot eight.”
“What is wrong with that?”
Davis produced exhibit number one from his pocket. “In the back of Reyna’s government file is an original airman medical application — I made a copy last night.” Davis laid it on the table. “I think the Spanish word is altura. I’m American, so I had to convert from metric, but math was my best subject in school. According to that document, Blas Reyna is six foot one.”
“That is all?” said Marquez. “You base this incredible accusation on one ancient piece of paper?”
“No, that’s what made me look closer. Next I checked Moreno, the first officer, and he came out at five foot nine — again excuse my units. His paperwork matches perfectly with the examiner’s measurements. Are you with me so far?”
Echevarria appeared relaxed, even entertained, and leaned back in his chair. Marquez nodded uncomfortably as Davis pulled out exhibits two and three. “These are the official photos of the two pilots. Of course, we can only see from the shoulders up, but I’m sure they’re standing against the same wall. If you look at the TAC-Air logo in the background you can see that Reyna is significantly taller than Moreno. So unless Reyna decided to stand on a box for this picture…” Davis let his words hang.
As Marquez looked at the photographs his indignation subsided, and he went back to sipping his espresso. Behind his sunglasses Echevarria had gone blank, like the good poker player he probably was. Davis was sure he had everyone’s attention.
“What about Reyna’s TAC-Air ID?” Davis prodded. “Is that what someone was about to ask? It was found on the body right where it should have been, clipped to his shirt pocket. As it turns out, Reyna was issued a brand-new company ID only a few weeks ago. It lists him as five foot eight.”
The Colombians sat silently.
“Now, I know this is all confusing, but it won’t be hard to find the right answer. Anybody who knew Reyna, a friend or a sister or a chief pilot, could tell you how tall he was. I’m betting six foot one is the answer. If I’m right, the three of us face a very uncomfortable question. Why was his corporate ID recently altered to match the physical characteristics of another man, one who would soon be found in the cockpit of a crashed airliner?”
Marquez thumped his empty cup on the table. “This is ridiculous! You can’t really believe the body we found in the cockpit is not that of the captain!”
Davis pursed his lips and considered it. “Going into that morgue… yeah, that’s what I thought.”
“But now?” Echevarria asked.
Davis took a long draw on his coffee, then removed the last photocopy from his pocket, the Colombian Ministry of Transportation background check on Reyna. At the bottom right of the page was a clear thumbprint. He then pulled the Post-it pad from his pocket, which had the comparative print he’d taken from the body on the gurney. He set the two side by side on the table.
“These are from Reyna?” Marquez asked.
“Yes. One I just took from the body in the morgue, and the other is from Reyna’s file. What do you think?”
Earlier, in a moment when the two officers were sparring, Davis had made his own brief comparison. He was no fingerprint expert, but the results were clear enough. He looked at the policeman, who would have the most knowledgeable opinion.
Echevarria confirmed the obvious. “I would say you have a solid match.”
“I agree.”
“So it is Reyna’s body we saw this morning,” said Marquez.
To which Davis replied, “It seems clear enough by these fingerprints. The one from Reyna’s file matches the thumb on the body perfectly. But last night I noticed something about the background check paperwork. This form with Reyna’s thumbprint, it was filled out fifteen years ago, the day he got hired. Only if you look at the bottom of the page, in very small print in the corner, this government form was revised last year.” Davis let that stand for a moment before surmising, “Add that to the discrepancy in his height, and I’d say there’s only one solution. While it pains me to say it, gentlemen… somebody is tampering with this investigation.”
Echevarria and Marquez exchanged a look. Davis saw concern on the faces of both men, and in that moment he was struck by how widely varied their agendas were. He could almost see their thoughts brewing, see angles being measured. He also knew it was hopeless to try and read them. Davis could only go about his search with a newfound suspicion, checking and double-checking every new fact.
“We will get to the bottom of this,” Echevarria said dismissively.
“Agreed,” said Marquez. “If the body is not Reyna’s, a family member can easily tell us.”
“True,” Davis said. “But if it’s not Reyna, then it opens up two more questions. Why was this done? And—”
“Where is the real Reyna?” Echevarria finished.
Davis nodded.
With cautious words, they all agreed that settling the discrepancy was a top priority. Echevarria finished his drink and was the first to leave.
A subdued Marquez checked his phone for messages.
“Anything new?” Davis asked.
“No, there is nothing — other than the fuel you have thrown onto our fire.”
Davis was contemplating a smart comeback when Marquez added, “I advise you once more to use caution with Echevarria. He is the least trustworthy policeman I have ever dealt with… and here that is saying something.”