Flash and Bones (20 page)

Larabee entered and sidestepped toward the garage’s far end, his back to the wall. I did the same, opposite and facing him, the Chevy between us.

I noted familiar smells blending with the stench of gasoline and oil. Urine. Feces. A sweet coppery odor.

Again, icy guilt gripped my chest.

Shake it off
.

I’d gone maybe five feet when I felt slickness below the soles of my sneakers.

I looked down.

It seemed more blood than could come from one human body. The pool stretched from wall to wall and half the length of the floor.

Breathing through my mouth, I continued.

When I reached the car’s hood I understood the reason for the hideous carnage. And the reason for my presence.

Wayne Gamble’s body lay off the right front tire, supine, legs crooked to his left, arms outstretched and tossed to his right.

Wayne Gamble’s head had been detached when the Chevy fired forward with great speed and force, slamming his head and neck into the garage’s back wall, crushing them. On impact, bone and brain matter had exploded in all directions.

Feeling a tremor beneath my tongue, I swallowed and drew several deep breaths.

Emotions in check, I dropped onto my haunches for a better look. Larabee did the same on the other side of the car.

I could see stuck to the mangled metal that had been the Chevy’s hood and engine front more bloody tissue, tufts of hair, isolated teeth, and bone fragments that included segments of upper and lower jaw, with dentition in place, and several large sections of skull.

“No chance of a visual ID,” Larabee said.

“No,” I agreed.

“He got family?”

“Not that I know of. His parents are dead.”

As Larabee watched, I took photos.

“I wouldn’t let them move the car until you’d had a chance with this mess.”

“Good call,” I said, pulling on the latex gloves. “If there’s no relative who can provide DNA for comparison, the dentition might be critical for a positive ID, even though we have anecdotal evidence who this is. What happened here?”

“Gamble was working with another mechanic, performing some test where you lift the rear wheels up, then rev the accelerator to hell and back. I forget what it’s called, but apparently it really stresses the engine.”

Larabee watched me tweeze up a molar and place it in a Ziploc.

“The other guy left to pee and grab coffee. Says he was gone maybe twenty minutes. When he got back, the car was against the wall, Gamble was down, and his brain was hamburger. His phrasing, not mine.”

“The rear wheels must have made contact and engaged, and the car fired forward, smashing Gamble’s skull against the concrete.”

“Yeah. Body position suggests he was leaning over with his head between the wall and the front grille. Only the guy says there’s no way something like that can happen. Says he and Gamble run this test before every race. Swears it’s safe.”

“So is swimming. Still, people drown.”

“Amen.”

Every few minutes Reno would shout through the open door, anxious to cue the tow truck.

“What’s with Reno?” I asked Larabee, voice low.

“Stupak’s people no doubt want immediate access to the car to see if it can be repaired for the race or if they need to go to a backup.”

“Seems cold. What time was he found?”

“Just past nine.”

“Jesus. Word travels fast.”

“You’ve got that right. News teams were already shouldering for real estate when I arrived. Apparently some reporter cold-called Stupak’s trailer and questioned one of his kids who happened to be there.”

“That’s ghoulish.”

“You need me for anything?”

“Anything new on Ted Raines?”

“Not yet. Legally we can’t get dental records until an MP actually turns up dead. But Raines’s wife allowed the Georgia authorities to search his computer’s hard drive and his cell phone records.”

I nodded. My thoughts weren’t really on Raines at that moment.

“I’m good here,” I said.

“I’m going to step out to talk to Hawkins.”

For the next hour and a half, I collected what I could reach, gently teasing teeth and bone shards from the engine block, or plucking them from the wheels, undercarriage, walls, and ceiling.

As I tweezed, packaged, and jotted identifying information for each specimen, sound bites looped in my mind. Gamble insisting he was being followed. Claiming someone had broken into his trailer. Saying he was about to confront his pursuer.

Had this been an accident? Or were we looking at a murder?

It was one a.m. when I finally emerged from the garage. My work was done. Larabee would now continue with examination and recovery of the remains.

While I’d been collecting what remained of Gamble’s head, the assemblage outside had grown. Galimore had arrived with the Speedway’s director of operations and several more security personnel.

Sandy Stupak had also appeared. He, Hawkins, and Larabee were discussing ways to tow the Chevy with the least amount of damage.

As I listened, it became clear that their concerns differed. Larabee
and Hawkins were eager to preserve the body and its surroundings. Stupak was worried for his #59 car.

I was placing my jars and Baggies in the transport van when I heard the crunch of tires, followed by the thunk of a car door.

I turned.

And couldn’t believe who was walking toward me.

W
ILLIAMS AND RANDALL WORE THE SAME BLUE SUITS AND TIES,
white shirts, and stern expressions they’d featured when ambushing me on Saturday.

“Evening, Special Agents,” I said when they were ten feet out.

Both looked surprised. I think.

“Dr. Brennan.” As before, Williams did the talking. “Nice to see you. Though not under these circumstances.”

“What
are
these circumstances?” I asked.

“That’s what we’re here to ascertain.”

“Good word, ‘ascertain.’ ”

“Yes. May I ask why a forensic anthropologist was needed here?”

“I managed to get most of Gamble’s head.” I hooked a thumb toward the van at my back. “The small pieces are in Ziplocs. The big hunks are in jars.”

Randall lost control. Blinked.

Williams’s face remained carefully neutral. “Could you elaborate?”

I did.

After a long pause, Williams spoke again. “You’ve been in recent contact with Mr. Gamble, isn’t that correct?”

“He came to my office last Friday, wondering if the landfill John Doe could be his sister. He phoned me several times after that, but
we only spoke once. Detective Slidell and I interviewed him here around nine this morning.”

“As part of your reinvestigation of the Gamble-Lovette disappearances?”

“It’s hardly a formal reinvestigation.”

“Yes. Did Mr. Gamble say anything to lead you to believe he might be despondent?”

“Despondent? How is that relevant to what we have here? You’re not seriously suggesting he could have killed himself?” I wasn’t believing the question.

“I’m not suggesting anything. During your conversations, did Mr. Gamble express concern about anything? Other than his sister, of course.”

“He felt there might have been a break-in at his trailer. And that he was being followed.”

Again I felt the gut-wrenching guilt.

“Go on,” Williams urged.

“Today he left a message saying he was going to confront the guy.”

“Had he discovered the identity of the person surveilling him?”

“Obviously he thought he had. Otherwise, how could he confront the guy?”

“Do you recall anything else?”

“Not really.”

“Think, Dr. Brennan.”

I shrugged. “He was feeling lousy.”

“How so?”

“He thought he had the flu.”

Did I imagine it? Or did Williams and Randall both stiffen?

“May I ask why the FBI was needed here?” I borrowed a line from Williams’s playbook.

“As I stated during our initial conversation, the FBI very much wants to know what happened to Cale Lovette and Cindi Gamble. The young woman disappeared under suspicious circumstances. Her brother has now met a violent death. Shortly after you reopened her case.”

“I haven’t the authority to reopen a case.” It came out more defensive than I intended.

“You take my meaning.”

I did. And couldn’t disagree. So I said nothing.

“While the bureau has confidence in the competence of local authorities, Special Agent Randall and I have been asked to remain active in the investigation. Any help you can offer will be much appreciated.”

Williams let that hang out there a moment, but I didn’t bite.

“Thank you. We’ll want to see you and Dr. Larabee when he’s finished the autopsy.”

“So you can steal Gamble’s body?” Snarky, but the guy’s prim superiority was pissing me off. And I was exhausted.

“I assume that will take place tomorrow?”

“I don’t determine Dr. Larabee’s schedule.”

Williams did that maybe-smile thing with his lips. Then he and Randall strode into the crowd, blue and red lights slashing their somber dark suits.

Before leaving, I told Larabee about Williams and Randall. He said he planned to autopsy Gamble first thing in the morning. I said I’d be there.

While I was driving home, then lying in bed, different scenarios played in my head. Most, when prodded, showed serious fault lines.

Gamble killed himself. But how could he drop the wheels from the position in which he was found? Plus, the man had given no indication of suicidal intent. He was actively pursuing his job and seeking to learn about his sister.

Gamble fell, dislodging the car from its jack. But I’d read that a NASCAR cup car must weigh a minimum of 3,400 pounds. How could something that heavy accidentally be knocked loose? And it was the rear wheels that had to hit the ground for the car to surge forward. Gamble was at the front.

Gamble made an error. It happens. He was feeling unwell. But what kind of error?

Gamble’s coworker had accidentally caused his death, then lied about being elsewhere. Why? Was the man afraid of losing his coveted position on Stupak’s pit crew?

Gamble was murdered. He believed someone was following him, was intent on confrontation. Had his suspicions been more than paranoia?

One uncertainty blossomed again and again, drowning out other thoughts like a drunken uncle at a family gathering.

Was I somehow responsible for Wayne Gamble’s death, or at least responsible for a killer remaining unknown, because I had not returned a call in which Gamble might have identified the person?

The next morning I woke crazy-early, the same questions swirling in my brain. While making coffee, I turned the TV to the morning news. Flicked channels. Every station was reporting on Gamble, speculating less on how he had died than on how his death would affect the upcoming race and season.

To calm my nerves, I took my coffee to the garden to watch daybreak over the roof of Sharon Hall. It wasn’t much of a dawn. The sun was just a fuzzy bronze disk behind overstuffed clouds. Looking at the anemic performance, I thought not even Kipling could turn it into poetry.

At seven I left for the MCME.

And again encountered the Fifth Estate. Cars and vans packed the lot, and reporters and news crews stood talking in small clusters. I recognized the locals. WBTV. WSOC. WCCB. Others were anyone’s guess.

I noticed that Larabee’s car was parked in its usual slot. Hawkins’s truck was also present.

When I got out of my Mazda, cameras went to shoulders and mikes went to mouths. I heard murmured words, my name, then the questions began.

“Dr. Brennan, can you tell us anything about what happened?”

“When will Dr. Larabee finish the autopsy?”

“Why were you at the Speedway?”

“Word is Gamble’s body was mutilated. Can you comment—”

Ignoring the onslaught, I wormed my way through the crowd, hurried up the steps, and entered the building. The glass door swung shut, cutting off the barrage of voices.

Larabee had Gamble on a table in the main autopsy room. He and Hawkins were already finishing the external exam.

“You were up with the birds,” I said.

“Some dickhead called my home at five this morning.”

“How did he get your number?”

Above his mask, Larabee’s eyes made the point that my question was stupid. It was.

“You’ve heard of high-profile?” Larabee said. “This one’s going to be in the stratosphere.”

“Any issues with ID?”

“Not really. Gamble’s wallet was in his pocket. The other mechanic was right there with him. Guy’s name is Toczek. Still, I’d like you to reconstruct as much of the dentition as you can. We’ll shoot X-rays, do a comparison just to be safe.”

“You have dental records?”

“They’re coming.”

“Any reason to doubt Toczek’s story?”

“Williams and Randall didn’t think so. They grilled him so hard I thought the poor bastard would puke on his shoes.”

“I suspect we’ll have the pleasure of their company in the very near future.”

I was right. Mrs. Flowers announced their arrival at eleven-fifteen.

I was placing the last of Gamble’s cranial fragments into a boiler basket for final removal of flesh. Hawkins was shooting X-rays of his teeth. Larabee was stitching the Y on his chest.