On a mild autumn day with only moderate smog in tt<br >geles Basin， the Coast Aircraft twin-engine Executive flyi]<br >thousand feet was in clear view of the tower. It was from<br >operator， a man named Peterson， that the eyewitness aecou<br > "It could have been a backfire. I don t know. But all o<br >his port engine was on fire， and I mean fire， you know? 1~<br >just smoke. He came over the hills and he flipped up c<br >board wing and started to turn， coming around to head f<br >The fire must have gotten to the main tank， I guess; a<br >blew. Just like that--whooom! Whoever he was， he did<br >chance."<br > The man in the plane had been Joseph McCurdy， Jr.， a~<br >the oldest son and therefore， in effect， head of the<br >McCurdys， a powerful banking and manufacturing famil，.<br >terson was right: he did not have a chance.<br > Burning wreckage from the Executive started half a d<br >brush fires in the hills above Hollywood， but the fires wq<br >brought under control. What was left of Joe McCurdy， e~<br >rubber bag， was carried down the hillside.<br > From the almost obliterated registration number， owner， <br >aircraft was established. A Los Angeles County deputy sh<br >the McCurdy Aircraft plant， and finally reached Walter J~<br >eral manager， who listened in his expressionless way， and<br >"Oh， no["<br > "We ll need positive identification，" the deputy said.<br >kin?"<br > "His son， Marry--Joseph Martin McCurdy III. I ll local<br >tell him." Walter Jordan paused. "Where should he corn.<br >identification?"<br > %~ ，-1~1，~，-，， ~1~1 1-，.~ ~~T~11 ~^^ ~^ "~ " IlY~IJ-^. T^.，-I~--<br >