folks would never have agreed to her marrying Cale.”
“Why?”
“She was seventeen. He was twenty-four. And rolled with a pretty rough crowd.”
“Rough?”
“White-supremacist types. Hated blacks, Jews, immigrants. Hated the government. Back then I suspected Cale’s racist buddies might be involved. But what would they have against Cindi? I don’t know what to think.”
Gamble shoved the photo back in his pocket.
“Mr. Gamble, it’s unlikely that the person we recovered is your sister. I’m about to begin my analysis. If you’ll leave contact information, I’ll inform you when I’ve finished.”
I passed across pen and paper. Gamble scribbled something and handed them back.
“Should it prove necessary, could you obtain Cindi’s dental records?”
“Yeah.”
“Would you or another maternal relative be willing to provide a DNA sample?”
“It’s just me now.”
“What about Lovette?”
“I think Cale’s father still lives around here. If I can find a listing, I’ll give him a call.”
Gamble got to his feet.
I rose and opened the door.
“I’m truly sorry for your loss,” I said.
“I just keep pedaling to stay out front.”
With that odd comment, he strode down the hall.
I stood a moment, trying to recall news stories about Cindi Gamble and Cale Lovette. The disappearance of a seventeen-year-old kid should have generated a headline or two. Angel Leonitus certainly had.
I could not remember seeing anything on Gamble.
Vowing to research the case, I headed back to the stinky room.
The landfill drum was as I’d left it. I was circling the gurney, considering options, when Tim Larabee pushed through the door wearing street clothes.
Mecklenburg County’s chief medical examiner is a runner. Not the healthy knock-out-three-miles-in-the- neighborhood variety but the train-for-a-marathon-in-the-Gobi-Desert zealot. And it shows. Larabee’s body is sinewy and his cheeks are gaunt.
“Oh boy.” Larabee’s deep-set eyes were pointed at the gurney.
“Or girl,” I said. “Take a look.” I indicated the open end of the drum.
Larabee crossed to it and peered at the hand. “Any idea how much more is in there?”
I shook my head. “Can’t x-ray because of the metal and the density of the fill.”
“What’s your take?”
“Someone stowed a body or body parts, then filled the drum with asphalt. The hand was up top and became visible when the lid came off and the asphalt eroded.”
“Tight fit for an adult, but I’ve seen it done. Any dates on the sector where they found this thing?”
“A landfill worker said that area of the dump closed in 2005.”
“So it’s not Leonitus.”
“No. She’s too recent.”
“As of Monday, we got us another MP. Man came from Atlanta to Charlotte for Race Week. Wife reported him missing.” Larabee was studying the drum. “How will you get it out?”
How will
Great.
Though I’d never freed remains from asphalt, I had liberated corpses from cement. In each case, because fats from the surface tissues had created a nonbinding surface, a small void had surrounded the body. I anticipated a similar situation here.
“The drum is no problem. We’ll cut through that. The asphalt is trickier. One option is to saw at horizontal and lateral planes to the block, then use an air hammer to create propagation cracks.”
“Or?”
“The other option is to chisel away as much asphalt as possible, then dip the block in solvent to dissolve what remains.”
“What kind of solvent?”
“Acetone or turpentine.”
Larabee thought a moment, then, “Asphalt and cement work damn well as sealants, so there might be fresh
