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.
WILLIAMS 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.
Williams and Randall cooled their heels in reception while the boss and I showered and changed from surgical scrubs. The four of us then gathered in Larabee’s office.
Our visitors wore identical frowns. Annoyed at having to wait? Unhappy with developments in the investigation? With life in general? Because of their arrogance, I couldn’t have cared less.
Larabee’s face was also unnaturally stiff. Lack of sleep? Or had the autopsy revealed something disturbing?
As usual, Williams lasered straight to the point. “What did you find?”
Larabee stiffened at the man’s brusqueness. “Death due to exsanguination resulting from massive cranial trauma and decapitation.”
“Did the body show any defensive injuries?”
If the question surprised Larabee, he didn’t let on.
“I observed bruising in the right wrist area and a slight abrasion on the back of the right hand. Both injuries appeared to have occurred shortly before death. I cannot conclusively attribute them to any specific cause.”
“Anything else?”
“The stomach and intestinal linings were severely inflamed. I noted internal bleeding, widespread irritation of the mucous membranes, and early signs of vascular collapse and multiorgan failure. The stool that I collected contained blood.”
“So Gamble was sick.”
“He was probably suffering from excessive thirst, a sore throat, perhaps difficulty swallowing. He may have had nausea, abdominal cramping, vomiting, diarrhea, or a combination of these symptoms. It’s possible he was experiencing general weakness, perhaps drowsiness and disorientation.”
“What’s your diagnosis?” Williams asked.
“The configuration could mean many things. I’ve taken samples. Until I have tox results, I can’t be sure.”
Larabee paused a moment before continuing.
“What I find noteworthy is that the pathological fingerprint presenting in Wayne Gamble is identical to that which presented in the landfill John Doe.”
What the flip? The landfill John Doe had been poisoned with ricin. Was Larabee suggesting the same thing had happened to Gamble?
The special agents locked eyes for what seemed a very long time. Finally Williams nodded.
Randall withdrew a paper from the pocket of his really dark suit. Half rising, he tossed it onto the desk.
As Larabee read, my mind flew in a zillion directions. I pictured the empty water bottles, the tissues, and the Pepto in Gamble’s car. The man had called me and I’d blown him off. Once more, I had to hammer back the guilt.
“So.” Larabee looked up and gave a slow roll of his shoulders. “What now?”
“GAMBLE’S SYMPTOMS FIT WITH ABRIN POISONING, AM I CORRECT?”
Abrin? I was expecting ricin.
“Yes,” Larabee said.
“What can you tell me about it.” Williams laced his fingers and dropped his hands onto his genitals.
“Abrin is also known as agglutinin or toxalbumin. It’s a highly toxic lectin found in the seeds of Abrus precatorius, the rosary pea.”
“How does it work?”
“Like ricin, abrin attacks cells from the inside, inhibiting protein synthesis and causing the cells to die. As the toxin penetrates the body, more and more tissues are destroyed. This leads to organ failure and eventual death.”
“How quickly?”
Larabee shrugged one shoulder. “Hours or days. It depends on the dose and the route of exposure.”
“Route of exposure?”
“One could touch a surface on which abrin particles or droplets have landed, or particles or droplets could land on the skin or in the eyes. One could inhale abrin if it’s in the form of a mist or powder. One could ingest it if it’s in food or water.”
“That’s it?”
“I suppose pellets, or abrin dissolved in a liquid, could be injected into a person’s body.”
“How common is accidental exposure?”
“Not common, though it happens.”
“Give me a scenario.”
“Rosary pea seeds are used to make jewelry and percussion instruments, mostly in India or Indonesia. I think the products are illegal in this country. Anyway, there have been cases in which broken seeds have exposed the wearer.”
“So, in all likelihood, it would take a deliberate act to obtain abrin, either from rosary pea seeds or from some other source, and use it to poison someone?”
“In all likelihood. Now, I want to know—”
“If ingested, how much is required to kill a human being?”
“Very little.”
Williams curled his fingers in a “give me more” gesture.
“One seed would probably do it.” Larabee tapped the paper on his blotter. “Now. My turn. How was this sample obtained?”
Williams answered with carefully chosen phrasing. “Early this morning, Special Agent Randall and I entered an unlocked vehicle licensed to Wayne Gamble and collected a coffee mug clearly visible through an open window.”
“Your lab has an amazingly fast turnaround time.” I couldn’t help myself.
“This case has top priority.”
“Why is that?”
“The FBI has obtained information that”—Williams paused for another vetting—“bumped our request to the front of the queue.”
“This is your interpretation of normal professional exchange?” Disdain chilled my words.
Larabee had had it. Before Williams could respond, he jumped in. “Dick with this office, you’ll wish you were working a coal mine in Guizhou province.”
Williams and Randall exchanged another of their Men in Black glances. Then Williams graced us with a crumb of an explanation.
“Ted Raines works at the CDC but supplements his income with part-time employment at Emory University. The project on which he is a lab technician is funded by the U.S. Army Zumwalt Countermeasures to Biological and Chemical Warfare program. The project’s research focuses on the fate and mobility of environmentally dispersed phytotoxins.”
“Such as ricin and abrin,” I said.
“Yes.”
“So Raines has access to these substances.”
“Theoretically.”
For a full minute we all let that percolate. Down the hall, I heard my office phone ring.
I broke the silence. “The landfill John Doe showed signs of ricin poisoning. Wayne Gamble shows signs of abrin poisoning. Cindi Gamble a
nd Cale Lovette disappeared in 1998. Ted Raines has now vanished. You believe these facts are interrelated?”
“That is correct.”
“How?”
“The FBI would very much like to know.”
“Why did the FBI order my John Doe torched?” Larabee spat the letters as though they were a bad taste on his tongue.
“That is hardly a fair assessment.”
“Why was the Lovette-Gamble file confiscated?” I asked.
“I cannot confirm bureau involvement in that.”
“You had that one all loaded up.” Larabee was growing more steamed with each of Williams’s evasive replies. “Tell me, then. What is the FBI doing to resolve this whole mess?”
“The bureau is working with local law enforcement to determine Mr. Raines’s whereabouts.”
“Probably six feet under, like Gamble and Lovette and the poor slob from the landfill.”
Williams ignored Larabee’s outburst.
“With the consent of Mr. Raines’s wife, experts are searching the hard drive from his home computer. Unfortunately, his laptop goes with him when he travels. Mr. Raines’s cell phone records are also under scrutiny.”
“Unfortunately, his cell phone goes with him when he travels.” Larabee’s sarcasm had the atomic weight of lead.
“We have established that Raines’s mobile was not used after Monday last week. A call was made from Charlotte to the Raines’s home landline. We are also looking at the GPS on Raines’s second vehicle.”
“Which, unfortunately, was in his driveway when the poor schmo fell off the planet.” Larabee stood, anger barely in check. “This is bullshit. Get back to me when you’re ready to share what you learned by stealing my stiff.”
Williams and Randall rose, smiled tightly, and took their leave.
Back in my office I had not one but two phone messages. Both were unexpected.
I returned the calls in the order in which they came in. And slammed into yet more anger.
“Galimore.” Curt.
“It’s Dr. Brennan.”
“Oh. Sorry. Didn’t check the caller ID.”
“I was surprised to hear from you. Figured you’d be completely jammed up with the situation at the Speedway.”
“They’ve turned me into a goddamn traffic cop!” Galimore sounded furious. “The bastards won’t let me anywhere near the garage area. Did you know there’s some question Gamble died by accident?”