“These assholes have gone too far!”
“Which assholes?”
“They won’t get away with this.”
“Get away with what?”
“The goddamn FBI torched our John Doe!”
THE BUZZING IN MY PHONE WAS SO AGITATED THAT SLIDELL kept glancing my way. Again and again I gestured his eyes back to the road.
Peppered with expletives, the story came out.
Through multiple calls, many threats, and the intervention of the chief ME in Chapel Hill, Larabee had finally pried loose information on the whereabouts of MCME 227-11. Since the presence of ricin suggested the possibility of bioterrorism, the landfill John Doe had been confiscated under a provision of the Patriot Act and taken to a lab in Atlanta. There the body had been re-autopsied and new samples collected.
Far from standard protocol but understandable.
Then the bombshell.
Due to an unfortunate combination of circumstances, including a mix-up in paperwork, understaffing, and an error on the part of an inexperienced tech, instead of back to the cooler, the landfill John Doe had accidentally been sent for cremation.
Larabee was livid. Before disconnecting, he threatened complaints to the governor, the Department of Justice, the director of the FBI, the secretary of Homeland Security, the White House, maybe the pope.
I decided it was a bad time to mention the Rosphalt.
As Slidell maneuvered through rush-hour traffic, I told him about the fate of the John Doe.
“That smell right to you?” I asked.
“As right as a barrel of week-old fish.”
Slidell said nothing further until we were parked beside my car at the MCME. Then he grasped the wheel and rotated toward me. “What’s your take, Doc?”
I ticked off points on my fingers.
“A couple vanishes in 1998. Family and associates disagree with a task force finding that the two left voluntarily. The missing couple has ties to and is last seen at a motor speedway. Years later a body turns up in a barrel of asphalt. That barrel is discovered in a landfill adjacent to said speedway, in a sector and layer dating from the late nineties to 2005.”
I moved to my other hand.
“The asphalt in the barrel contains an additive commonly used at speedways. An autopsy finds that the body is contaminated with ricin, a poison once favored by anti-government extremists. The male member of the missing couple belonged to a right-wing militia. When the ricin is reported to the FBI, the body is confiscated and destroyed.”
Slidell was silent for so long, I was certain he was about to blow me off. He didn’t.
“You’re thinking the landfill John Doe is connected to the Gamble-Lovette disappearance?”
I nodded.
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who was the stiff?”
“I don’t know.”
“Lovette?”
“The age indicators are off, but I can’t rule him out.”
“What about this guy Raines from Atlanta?”
“The barrel looked way too old. And the sector it came from doesn’t fit with a recent body dump.”
“But your voice is telling me you can’t rule him out, either.”
“No. I can’t.”
Again Slidell went quiet. Then, “Maybe Cindi Gamble’s baby brother isn’t crackers after all.”
“About a cover-up back in ’ninety-eight?”
Slidell ran a hand over his jaw. Did it again. Then, “Those fucking suits picked the wrong cop to screw with.”
“What do you propose?”
“First off, another heart-to-heart with your NASCAR buddy.”
I was approaching my kitchen door, lugging a Harris Teeter bag, when a silver Rx-8 turned in to the circle drive at Sharon Hall. Thinking it was probably my ex, and not thrilled with the prospect of another go-round concerning Summer, I paused.
