Wayne Gamble’s head had been detached when the Chevy fired forward with great speed and force, slamming his head and neck into the garage’s back wall, crushing them. On impact, bone and brain matter had exploded in all directions.
Feeling a tremor beneath my tongue, I swallowed and drew several deep breaths.
Emotions in check, I dropped onto my haunches for a better look. Larabee did the same on the other side of the car.
I could see stuck to the mangled metal that had been the Chevy’s hood and engine front more bloody tissue, tufts of hair, isolated teeth, and bone fragments that included segments of upper and lower jaw, with dentition in place, and several large sections of skull.
“No chance of a visual ID,” Larabee said.
“No,” I agreed.
“He got family?”
“Not that I know of. His parents are dead.”
As Larabee watched, I took photos.
“I wouldn’t let them move the car until you’d had a chance with this mess.”
“Good call,” I said, pulling on the latex gloves. “If there’s no relative who can provide DNA for comparison, the dentition might be critical for a positive ID, even though we have anecdotal evidence who this is. What happened here?”
“Gamble was working with another mechanic, performing some test where you lift the rear wheels up, then rev the accelerator to hell and back. I forget what it’s called, but apparently it really stresses the engine.”
Larabee watched me tweeze up a molar and place it in a Ziploc.
“The other guy left to pee and grab coffee. Says he was gone maybe twenty minutes. When he got back, the car was against the wall, Gamble was down, and his brain was hamburger. His phrasing, not mine.”
“The rear wheels must have made contact and engaged, and the car fired forward, smashing Gamble’s skull against the concrete.”
“Yeah. Body position suggests he was leaning over with his head between the wall and the front grille. Only the guy says there’s no way something like that can happen. Says he and Gamble run this test before every race. Swears it’s safe.”
“So is swimming. Still, people drown.”
“Amen.”
Every few minutes Reno would shout through the open door, anxious to cue the tow truck.
“What’s with Reno?” I asked Larabee, voice low.
“Stupak’s people no doubt want immediate access to the car to see if it can be repaired for the race or if they need to go to a backup.”
“Seems cold. What time was he found?”
“Just past nine.”
“Jesus. Word travels fast.”
“You’ve got that right. News teams were already shouldering for real estate when I arrived. Apparently some reporter cold-called Stupak’s trailer and questioned one of his kids who happened to be there.”
“That’s ghoulish.”
“You need me for anything?”
“Anything new on Ted Raines?”
“Not yet. Legally we can’t get dental records until an MP actually turns up dead. But Raines’s wife allowed the Georgia authorities to search his computer’s hard drive and his cell phone records.”
I nodded. My thoughts weren’t really on Raines at that moment.
“I’m good here,” I said.
“I’m going to step out to talk to Hawkins.”
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.
