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in there a while.”
    “He have anything with him? Clothes, personal items, maybe a social security number?”
    “Zip.”
    “Guess I can rule out natural death.”
    “Did Hawkins manage to get prints?” I asked.
    “Six. I’ll have them run through AFIS.” The Automated Fingerprint Identification System, a national database.
    “Can Raines’s wife get dental records?”
    “I wanted to be sure there was a point before asking.”
    “Was he a smoker?”
    “I’ll find out.”
    “You’re doing the autopsy this morning?”
    “As soon as I hang up.”
    I remembered the man in Larabee’s office the previous afternoon. “Who was the next of kin?”
    “Big guy, arms like caissons?”
    “Yeah.”
    “He wasn’t family. That was Cotton Galimore, head of security for Charlotte Motor Speedway.”
    That surprised me. “What’s Galimore’s interest?”
    “Damage control.”
    “I’m sure you’ll explain that.”
    “Think about it. Raines tells his wife he’ll be at events connected with Race Week. He goes missing. A body turns up spitting distance from where two hundred thousand fans will be parking their butts.”
    “NASCAR wants to avoid distractions. Especially negative distractions.”
    “NASCAR. The Speedway. The Chamber of Commerce. I can’t name the prime mover. But if there’s a chance Raines went to the Speedway and ended up dead, the powers that be want to spin the situation in the best light possible. Galimore was ordered to get the lowdown.”
    Birdie got up, arched his back, and began nudging my chin with his head.
    “I’ve got to go,” I said.
    “One other thing.” I heard paper rustle. “A guy named Wayne Gamble has left four messages for you.”
    “Saying what?”
    “‘I need to talk to Dr. Brennan.’ Who is he?”
    “A member of Sandy Stupak’s pit crew.” I told Larabee about Cindi Gamble and Cale Lovette.
    I waited out a pause. Then,
    “You think the age is too far off for our John Doe to be Lovette?”
    “Probably. But I can’t exclude him.”
    “Give Gamble a ring,” Larabee said. “I’m going to need a cold hose for Mrs. Flowers if she keeps taking his calls.”
    Larabee read off a number. I wrote it down.
    “Phone if you need me.” My tone set a new standard for insincere.
    “I’ll do some cutting, see what the John Doe’s got going inside.”
    After disconnecting, I threw on jeans and a tee and headed downstairs. Birdie padded behind.
    While Mr. Coffee did his thing and Birdie crunched littlebrown pellets, I retrieved the paper from the back stoop. Even the
Observer
had gone Race Week–crazy. The front page featured photos of Richard Petty, Junior Johnson, and Dale Earnhardt. Hall of Fame candidates or some such. Full color. Above the fold.
    Point of information. My hometown is Mecca for NASCAR fans.
    Why Charlotte, you ask?
    During Prohibition, moonshiners in the Appalachian Mountains of North Carolina used innocent-looking sedans to distribute illegal hooch produced in their stills. To outrun the cops, they modified their vehicles for greater speed and better handling. Many got a rush driving breakneck down twisty mountain roads.
    So they started racing each other for fun.
    Though the repeal of Prohibition eliminated the need for illicit booze, it seems Southerners had developed a taste for “shine.” Drivers who continued “runnin’” now needed to evade revenuers trying to tax their operations.
    More tinkering.
    More speed.
    More competition.
    By the 1940s, tracks had sprung up all over Dixie. In places like Wilkes County, North Carolina, stock car racing became the hottest entertainment in town.
    But things were messy back then. Schedules weren’t organized, so fans never knew where their favorite drivers would be. Neither cars nor tracks were subject to safety rules. And some promoters were less than honest.
    Bill France, Sr., a driver and race promoter himself, thought this was a lousy way to run a sport. In 1948 he founded NASCAR, the National