founded NASCAR, the National Association for Stock Car Auto Racing.
France’s idea was simple. NASCAR would establish racing series, sort of like baseball leagues or football conferences. In each series, a group of drivers would compete in a set number of events and follow a common set of rules. At the end of each season, using a uniform scoring system, one champion would be crowned.
Out of chaos came order.
Today NASCAR sanctions the Sprint Cup, the Nationwide Series, and the Camping World Truck Series. There are also some touring competitions, but I’ve no idea their names.
In 1948 the first NASCAR race took place in Daytona Beach, Florida, using the beach for one straightaway and a narrow blacktop highway for the other. Fourteen thousand fans showed up.
NASCAR’s top races were originally known as the Strictly Stock Car Series; then for twenty years as the Grand National Series; then for thirty-plus years as the Winston Cup Series. It was the NEXTEL Cup Series from 2004 to 2007 and has been the Sprint Cup Series ever since. In 2007 nearly 250 million viewers tuned their TVs to watch Sprint Cup events. Those numbers place NASCAR second only to the NFL in popularity.
A lot of the players set up shop in Charlotte.
In May 2010 the NASCAR Hall of Fame opened its doors just a few miles from where I was sitting. The project cost the Queen City two hundred million dollars and hosted ten thousand visitors its first week of life.
All because Americans love their cars and their booze.
I know the names of some drivers. Jimmie Johnson, Jeff Gordon. And some former drivers. Richard Petty, Junior Johnson. Hell, many of them live in and around my zip code. Otherwise, that’s the extent of my NASCAR knowledge.
Normally I’d have skipped the Race Week hype in favor of NBA playoff coverage. Because of the landfill John Doe, I flipped to the racing section.
That day the Charlotte Motor Speedway was hosting a barbecue. That night, in addition to the All-Star Race, events would take place, the nature of which was a mystery to me.
I skimmed the paper’s front and local sections. There was no mention of Raines or the landfill John Doe.
I ate some cornflakes. Gave Birdie the milk leavings. Took my bowl and cup to the sink, rinsed, and placed them in the dishwasher. Wiped the table. Watered the small cactuses that live on my windowsill.
The clock said 10:08.
Out of excuses for further delay, I phoned Summer.
“Hello. I’m Summer’s answering machine. Please tell me your name. I’m sure Summer would love to call you back.”
Eyeballs rolling, I disconnected and dialed the number Larabee had provided.
Wayne Gamble picked up on the first ring.
“This is Dr. Brenn—”
“Any news?” In the background I could hear the roar of engines and the tinny sound of electronically enhanced announcements.
“Dr. Larabee will perform an autopsy this morning. But I can tell you that the victim from the landfill is male.”
“I’m being followed.” Gamble spoke in a hushed, clipped way.
“Sorry?” Surely I’d heard incorrectly.
“Hang on.”
I waited. When Gamble spoke again, the background noise was muted.
“I’m being followed. And I’m pretty sure my back door was jimmied last night.”
“Mr. Gamble, I realize you’re anxious—”
“It happened then, too. To my parents, I mean. I used to see guys hanging around outside our house. Odd cars parked on our street or following us when we drove.”
“This occurred when your sister disappeared?”
“Yes.”
“Did your parents tell the police?’
“My parents contacted the Kannapolis PD and the Cabarrus County Sheriff. And the FBI. Maybe the Charlotte PD. The local cops had asked Charlotte for help. No one took them seriously. Everyone wrote it off as paranoia.”
“Why the FBI?”
“The feds took part in the investigation.”
“Because?”
“It was the nineties. Lovette was hanging with right-wing wackos.”
It took me a moment to grasp Gamble’s meaning.
In 1995 Timothy McVeigh blew up the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City. In 1996, during the summer Olympics, a bomb exploded in Centennial Olympic Park in Atlanta. In 1997 the target was an abortion clinic in Sandy Springs, Georgia. That same year bombs were planted at the Otherside Lounge, a lesbian bar in Atlanta. A year later it was an abortion clinic in Birmingham, Alabama.
