Kathy Reichs - Flash and Bones

“There was a time we lobotomized freaks like him.”

“Those were the days.”

Slidell missed my sarcasm. “Well, that’s last season’s pennant race. Here’s a good one. Bogan’s almost sixty, and the asshole’s never left the Carolinas.”

“I guess stock car racing was all the universe he needed. That and his plants.”

Slidell shook his head.

“I keep seeing Bogan’s den in my mind,” I said. “The place was a shrine to NASCAR. Model cars, auto parts, clothing, signed posters, a zillion framed pictures. Yet not a single snapshot of Cale.”

“Freak,” Slidell repeated.

“Here’s the craziest part. The dumb wang claims to love NASCAR history but knows little of it. Women have been pushing the accelerator since before Bogan was born.”

“Yeah?”

“Sara Christian drove in the inaugural Strictly Stock race at the Charlotte Motor Speedway. You know what year that was?”

Slidell shook his head.

“1949. qualified at number thirteen, finished fourteenth in a field of thirty-three.”

“Get out.”

“Janet Guthrie participated in both the Indianapolis 500 and NASCAR. In the late seventies she drove in thirty-three cup-level races. At the 1977 Talladega 500, she outqualified the likes of Richard Petty, Johnny Rutherford, David Pearson, Bill Elliott, Neil Bonnett, Buddy Baker, and Ricky Rudd. And not one of them said anything derogatory or resentful, at least not publicly.”

“She win?”

“Turn one, first lap, another car’s driveshaft went through Guthrie’s windshield. After it was replaced, the engine blew.”

“Ouch.”

“Louise Smith. Ethel Mobley. Ann Slaasted. Ann Chester. Ann Bunselmeyer. Patty Moise. Shawna Robinson. Jennifer Jo Cobb. Chrissy Wallace. Danica Patrick. And that’s hardly the full list. Women drivers are still a small minority, but they’ve always been there. And the numbers are growing each year. Did you know that approximately forty percent of NASCAR fans today are female?”

“How’d you get to be such an authority?”

I waggled my book.

“Ain’t that grand.”

“What’s going to happen to Lynn Nolan and Ted Raines?” I asked.

“Shacking up for naughty boom-boom is adultery for him, alienation of affection for her, but those gripes are largely for family courts. No one ever prosecutes.”

“She and lover boy were the unfortunate victims of bad luck and bad timing.”

Neither of us laughed at my joke.

Slidell toed the pansies bordering the brick walk. Suspecting he had more to say, I waited.

On the boom box, Dr. Hook segued into “Freaker’s Ball.”

“What the hell is that?”

“Birdie’s favorite group.”

Slidell shook his head at the puzzle of feline taste, then, “Just FYI. Padgett didn’t tell Galimore about Lovette quitting the Patriot Posse.”

“She didn’t?”

“The guy she talked to was FBI. Retired now. It’s in the file.”

“They finally let you see it?”

“Ain’t the specials special?”

“I’m still not clear on how Galimore ended up in that shed.”

“Bogan saw him poking around Gamble’s trailer before the race Friday night. He told him he’d remembered something that could shed light on what happened back in ’ninety-eight, said Galimore had to go with him to see it. Galimore had no reason to be suspicious, so he went along. In the shed, Bogan nailed him with a dart. The dose was enough to knock Galimore out but not enough to kill him, as Bogan intended.”

“Thanks for letting me know that Padgett’s dark-haired cop wasn’t Galimore.”

“Don’t mean the guy ain’t a douchebag.”

“Galimore is aware he failed a lot of people. Says he was focused on his own problems back then.”

“A cop don’t get that luxury.”

“No. And he’s beating himself up with guilt.”

Slidell didn’t respond.

“I understand how you feel.” I spoke gently. “But it is possible that Galimore has changed.”

A moment passed as Slidell studied the pansies. Then, “I did a little checking. When Galimore got tagged, there was a guy living in his building name of Gordie Lashner. Two months after Gali-more went down, Lashner got popped for dealing smack, ended up doing a fifteen-year swing.”

“You think it was Lashner’s money in Galimore’s storage bin?”

“All I know is Lashner’s a lowlife.”

“You’ll look into it?”

“I ain’t saying I think Galimore was framed.”

“Just the unfortunate victim of bad luck and bad timing.”

Same joke. Same reaction. Not so much as a smile.

Slidell watched a cyclist pedal past Myers Park Baptist across the way. He made no move to leave.

Dr. Hook started singing about Sylvia’s mother.

When Slidell spoke, his words surprised me.

“I took a fern by the hospital.”

“For Galimore?”

“No. For Dr Friggin’ Pepper.”

“That was a very nice gesture,”

I said. “I didn’t visit his bedside or nothing like that.”

“Still, it was a considerate thing to do.”

A beefy finger shot the air. “The fern business stays between you and me.”

I pantomimed a key on my lips.

“Don’t want people thinking I’m going all gooey.”

“Bad for the image.”

Slidell pulled an object from his pocket and tossed it to me.

“Galimore had that sent over to my office. Note said it was something you asked him for. Said he never had a chance to give it to you.”

The object in my lap was a NASCAR cap. On its bill was a signature scrawled in black Magic Marker. Jacques Villeneuve .

A grin tugged the corners of my mouth. Lieutenant-détective Andrew Ryan, quebec cop and Villeneuve groupie, would be thrilled.

“So.” Slidell straightened his phony cool-guy shades. “Erskine Slidell still your favorite badass?”

“Yes, Detective.” My grin widened. “You are still my favorite Charlotte badass.”

FROM THE FORENSIC FILES OF DR. KATHY REICHS

In this bonus Q & A, the scribe behind Tempe Brennan takes questions on NASCAR, extremist groups, Tempe’s love life, and the difference between writing a novel and penning a script for the TV show Bones on FOX.

1. Flash and Bones begins with the discovery of a body in a barrel of asphalt in a dump next to the Charlotte Motor Speedway, and characters from the racing world become implicated in the drama. What drew you to NASCAR as a backdrop? Are you yourself a racing fan?

Prior to writing Flash and Bones, I had only passing knowledge of auto racing, having attended one event way back in the gray dawn of history. But almost every Charlottean knows a player in the game—be it a team owner, a mechanic, a sponsor, or a driver. It’s hard not to get caught up in the excitement each May and October when hundreds of thousands converge on our burg for big races. Like Daytona or Darlington, Charlotte is an epicenter for the sport. And, as Tempe explains in the book, stock car racing originated with bootlegging in the Carolina mountains during Prohibition.

I ended up writing NASCAR into the novel because of my longtime friend Barry Byrd, himself a huge racing enthusiast. Each time I began a new Temperance Brennan novel Barry would suggest that NASCAR would provide a rich background for a story. I finally realized he was right. Barry offered to introduce me to Jimmy Johnson and his team, to take me to the track, to include me with the gang attending the All-Star Race and the Coca-Cola 600.

Barry followed through on his promises. I met track owners and managers, sports journalists, pit crew chiefs, and fans who had driven their Winnebagos from Portland, Houston, Teaneck, and Nashville. Thanks to Barry and the Smith family I enjoyed a top to bottom tour of the Charlotte Motor Speedway. My fascination with the adjacent landfill was, I fear, a source of some dismay.