Flash and Bones (25 page)

“Back the attitude down a notch.”

“Then give me some answers.”

“I’ll speak to you tomorrow.”

Next I phoned Galimore.

Got no answer.

Between the anonymous threat, Summer’s idiocy and Pete’s gloominess, the call about Eli Hand, Williams’s arrogance, and Galimore’s disappearing act, sleep was elusive when I went to bed.

My mind kept juggling pieces, repositioning and twisting to make them interlock. Instead of answers, I ended up with the same questions.

I knew from Williams’s reaction that the landfill John Doe would turn out to be Eli Hand. Who was he? When had he died? Why did his body show signs of ricin poisoning?

Abrin was found in Wayne Gamble’s coffee. How had it gotten there? Surely Gamble had been murdered. By whom? Why?

Cale Lovette had associated with right-wing extremists. Had they helped him vanish? If so, how had he managed to skim under the radar all these years? Had they killed him?

Descriptions of Cindi Gamble did not jibe. Was she smart, with NASCAR potential, as Ethel Bradford, Lynn Nolan, and J. D. Danner suggested? Or dull, a poor driver, as Craig Bogan said? Was she in love with Cale Lovette? Or terrified of him?

Accounts given by Grady Winge and Eugene Fries disagreed. Was one of them simply in error? Was one of them lying? Why?

Had Owen Poteat actually seen Cale Lovette at the Charlotte
airport ten days after he disappeared from the Speedway, or was this deliberate misinformation? If so, why? Had someone paid him? Who?

Ted Raines was still missing. Raines had access to ricin and abrin. Was Raines involved at all?

I kept trying to find a connection. Just one. That connection would lead to another, which would lead to another. Which would lead to answers long overdue.

When I finally drifted off, my rest was fitful. I woke repeatedly, then dozed, dreaming in unrelated vignettes.

Birdie, walking on a table set with glassware and swirly pink fabric. Galimore, driving a blue Mustang with a green sticker on the windshield. Ryan, waving at me from very far off. Slidell, talking to a man curled up in a barrel. Summer, teetering down a sidewalk in skyscraper heels.

When I last checked the clock, it was 4:23.

E
XACTLY THREE HOURS LATER THE LANDLINE JOLTED ME AWAKE
.

“You good?”

“I’m fine.”

“Last night turned ugly.” Galimore sounded like he’d logged less sleep than I had.

“I’m a big girl. I’m fine.”

“You hear back from that tool?”

“No. But I heard from someone else.”

I told him about the Eli Hand call and about my conversation with Williams.

“You’re going to stay put, like I said, right?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m waiting for a call from Oprah.”

“You should put together an act. Maybe take it on Comedy Central.”

“I’ll think about that.”

“But not today.”

“Not today.”

Galimore sighed in annoyance. “Do what you gotta do.”

“I will.”

I was making toast when the phone rang again.

“Williams here.”

“Brennan here.” Sleep deprivation also makes me flippant.

“The number you gave me traced to a pay phone at a Circle K on Old Charlotte Road in Concord.”

“So the caller could have been anyone.”

“We’re checking deeds for properties located within a half-mile radius.”

“That’s a long shot.”

“Yes.”

“Who’s Eli Hand?”

“Due to your recent involvement in the situation, I’ve been authorized to share certain information with you and Dr. Larabee. May we meet this morning?”

“I can be at the MCME in thirty minutes.”

“We’ll see you then.”

It was take two of the previous day’s scene. Larabee was seated at his desk. The specials were side by side in chairs on the left, facing him. I was to their right.

Williams began without being asked.

“Do you remember Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh?”

Williams was asking about a 1980s Indian guru who moved several thousand followers onto a ranch in rural Wasco County, Oregon, and established a city called Rajneeshpuram. The group eventually took political control of the small nearby town of Antelope and renamed it Rajneesh.

Though initially friendly, the commune’s relations with the local populace soon soured. After being denied building permits for expansion of Rajneeshpuram, the commune leadership sought to gain political control by dominating the November 1984 county elections.

“The bhagwan and his crazies wanted to win judgeships on the Wasco County Circuit Court and elect the sheriff,” I said. “But they weren’t certain they could carry the day. So they poisoned restaurant salad bars with salmonella, hoping to incapacitate adverse voters.”

“Exactly,” Williams said. “
Salmonella enterica
was first delivered through glasses of water to two county commissioners and then, on a larger scale, to the salad bars. Seven hundred and fifty-one people got sick, forty-five of whom were hospitalized. The incident
was the first and single largest bioterrorist attack in United States history.”

“I remember,” Larabee said. “They finally nailed the little creep right here in Charlotte. It was national news.”

Larabee was right. Back in the eighties, few in the country had heard of a quiet southern city called Charlotte other than for its school integration and mandatory busing. The arrest conferred notoriety, and the citizenry got a kick out of it.
We Bagged the Bhagwan
T-shirts did a booming business.

“In 1985 a task force was formed, composed of members of the Oregon State Police and the FBI,” Williams continued. “When a search warrant was executed, a sample of bacteria matching the contaminant that had sickened the town residents was found in a Rajneeshpuram medical laboratory. Two commune officials were indicted. Both served time in a minimum-security federal prison.”

Williams looked pointedly at me. “A third disappeared.”

“Eli Hand,” I guessed.

Williams nodded.

“Hand was a twenty-year-old chemistry major at Oregon State University. In the spring of 1984 he fell under the influence of the bhagwan, dropped out of school, and moved to Rajneeshpuram.”

“Just months before the salad bars were spiked.”

“Hand was suspected of having helped orchestrate the poisonings. Following the bhagwan’s arrest and deportation, Hand left the commune.”

“And came east?”

“Yes. Convinced his spiritual master had been persecuted, Hand grew increasingly disillusioned with the government. He spent time in western Carolina, eventually joined a group of right-wingers called the Freedom Brigade. When that fell apart, he drifted to the Charlotte area, in time hooked up with J. D. Danner.”

“And his Patriot Posse.”

“Yes.”

“So the FBI had Hand under surveillance?” Larabee asked.

“We were tracking a lot of people back then. Intel had it that Hand and his buddies hid Eric Rudolph for a while.”

“Where is he now?” I knew the answer to that.

“Hand slipped off the grid in 2000.”

“You never found him again,” I said.

“No.”

“But now you have.”

Williams gave a tight nod. “An odontologist says it’s a match.”

That surprised me. “You found dental antemorts?”

“Hand’s mother still lives in Portland. Eli had an orthodontic evaluation when he was twelve. She still had the plaster casts and X-rays. The odont said it was enough for a positive.”

“Hand’s prints weren’t in the system?” Larabee asked.

“He’d never been arrested, served in the military, or held a job that required a security clearance.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “The FBI suspected Hand and the Patriot Posse were planning a bioterrorist attack like the one in Oregon, this time with ricin.”

“Yes.”

“That’s why you were treading eggshells back in 1998.”

“We couldn’t risk setting them off.”

“But it never happened.”

“No.”

“How would Hand get hold of ricin?” Larabee asked.

“We think he may have been producing the toxin himself.”

“
Ricinus communis
grows in North Carolina?”

“Easily.”

We all thought about that.

“So how did Hand end up in a barrel of asphalt?” I voiced the question in everyone’s mind.

“Accidentally poisoned himself? Fell on his head? Got taken out by his pals? We honestly don’t know.”

“What happened to Cale Lovette and Cindi Gamble?” I asked.

“Same answer.”

“Was either of them working inside for the bureau?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Uh-huh.”

I held Williams’s eyes with mine. He didn’t blink.

The small office filled with tense silence. When Williams broke it, his voice was elevated a microdecibel. It was as excited as I’d seen him.

“The long shot paid off, Dr. Brennan.”

“Sorry?” The quick segue lost me.

Williams cocked his chin toward his partner.

One word and I knew why Randall spoke so rarely. His voice was high and nasal, more suited to a Hollywood hairdresser than an FBI agent.

“Alda Pickerly Winge has owned a home on Union Cemetery Road in Concord since 1964. The property is less than a quarter mile from the Circle K from which the call was placed to your mobile last night.”

I felt centipedes crawl my arms.

“Alda is related to Grady?” Stupid. I knew the answer to that one, too.

“He is her son.”

“You think Grady Winge called in the tip on Eli Hand?”

“Winge’s truck is currently parked at his mother’s house. We believe it has been there all night.”

“Who’s Grady Winge?” Larabee asked.

“A Speedway maintenance worker who saw Cindi Gamble and Cale Lovette argue with a man, then enter a car shortly before they disappeared.”

Again the troublesome tickle in my brainpan.

What?

“A ’sixty-five Mustang,” Williams added.

Suddenly, the tickle exploded into a full-blown thought.

I shot upright in my chair.

“A ’sixty-five Petty-blue Mustang with a lime-green decal on the passenger-side windshield. That’s what Winge told Slidell and me at the Speedway last Monday. Can you check his statement from 1998?”

The specials exchanged one of their meaningful glances. Then Williams lowered his chin almost imperceptibly.

Randall got up and went into the hall. In moments he was back.

“A ’sixty-five Petty-blue Mustang with a lime-green decal on the passenger-side windshield.”

“You’re sure that’s what he said?”

“That was his statement verbatim.”

“What are the chances a witness would use the exact same words and phrasing so many years apart?” I was totally psyched.

Williams appeared to consider that. “You think Winge made up his story? Practiced it to be sure he’d get it right?”

“It would explain why the Mustang could never be traced. Think about it. A car that rare?”

“Why would Winge lie?”

No one had an answer.

“Slidell says Winge is as dumb as a bag of hammers,” Larabee offered.

“He’s not a smart man,” I agreed.

“Why tip you about Eli Hand?” Williams asked.

“Maybe Winge was involved in Hand’s death and is feeling guilty,” Larabee tossed out.

“After more than a decade?” Williams sounded skeptical.

“He claims to have found Jesus,” I said.

“You believe him?”

I shrugged. Who knows?

“Maybe Winge was involved in what happened to Gamble and Lovette.” Larabee was hitting his stride. “Maybe he killed them. Maybe he killed Wayne Gamble because the guy was figuring things out.”

We all went still, realizing the implications of that line of reasoning.

Might Winge think
I
was figuring things out? Had he left me the threatening voice mail? Might he be planning a similar “accident” for me?

“We’ve got Winge under twenty-four-hour surveillance,” Williams said. “If he changes his socks, we’ll know about it.”

Williams stood.

Randall stood.

“Until this is resolved, I’m going to ask the CMPD to run units by your town house on an hourly basis.”

“Do you really think that’s necessary?”

“Better safe than sorry.”

Williams stuck out a hand. “Nice job on the Mustang catch.”

“Thanks.”

We shook. Randall did not join in.

“Perhaps it’s best if you lay low for a while.”

What the flip? First Galimore, now Williams.

I made a noncommittal sound.

“I’ll phone if anything breaks,” Williams said.

That call came very, very soon.