Kathy Reichs - Flash and Bones

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.”