Flash and Bones - Kathy Reichs [35]
Joe Hawkins.
I clicked on.
“Hey, Joe.” Sluggish.
“Forensics called with a prelim on the goop from the barrel. Good old asphalt, just like we thought.”
“Not very useful.”
“Maybe no, maybe yes. The sample contained an additive called Rosphalt, a synthetic dry-mix material made by Royston. Provides waterproofing, skid resistance, protects against rutting and shoving, thermal fatigue cracking, that kind of thing. ”
“Uh-huh.” Stifling a yawn.
“Rosphalt comes in three types. One’s used mainly for roadways and tunnels, another’s used on airport runways. You still there?”
“I’m here.” Though struggling to stay awake.
“Your sample contained the third type, R50/Rx. That one’s used mostly by motor speedways.”
My brain reengaged. “At the Charlotte Motor Speedway?”
“Knew you’d ask, so I gave a call out there. The track has some pretty steep banking. What with the sun and cars screaming around the curves, the asphalt can heat up, go liquid, and sink right down. They use Rosphalt to provide better holding power.”
“I’ll be damned. So the asphalt in the barrel probably came from the Speedway.”
“Seems logical to me. The track’s right there.”
“Thanks, Joe.”
I disconnected and told Slidell. “The Rosphalt connects the landfill John Doe to the track.” I was totally pumped.
“Whaddya saying? The victim was killed at the Speedway, stuffed in a barrel, sealed in, and dumped at the landfill?”
“Why not? Thirty-five-gallon oil cans are common at speed-ways.”
While Slidell was gnawing on that theory, my phone sounded again. This time it was Larabee.
“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