“Do we have someone at the morgue named Eli Hand?”

“Not to my knowledge. Who is he?”

I told him about the call.

For a full thirty seconds no one spoke.

“You don’t suppose—”

Larabee finished my sentence. “—it could be a tip about the landfill John Doe.”

“That was my first thought.”

“How do we find out about Hand?”

“Do you have contact information for Special Agent Williams?”

“Hold on.”

I heard a thunk. After a brief pause, Larabee returned and read off a number.

“You think Williams will know something?” he asked.

“I think he’ll know a lot.” “Keep me looped in.”

Williams answered on the second ring.

I identified myself.

If my call surprised him, he didn’t let on.

“Eli Hand,” I said.

The silence went on for so long, I thought we’d been disconnected.

“What are you asking me?” Williams’s tone was flinty.

“Was Eli Hand John-Doeing it at our morgue?”

“I can’t comment on that.”

“Why not?”

“Why are you asking about Eli Hand?”

“I got an anonymous tip.”

“From what source?”

“See, that’s the anonymous part.”

“How did you receive this tip?” Terse.

“On my mobile.”

“Was the phone able to capture the number?”

I gave it to him.

“Who is Eli Hand?”

“I’m not at liberty—”

“With or without any of that famous FBI cooperation, Dr. Larabee and I will find out who Eli Hand is. Or was. And we will find out if Hand turned up dead in a barrel of asphalt in the Morehead Road landfill. Should that prove to be the case, Detective Slidell will find out why.”

“Back the attitude down a notch.”

“Then give me some answers.”

“I’ll speak to you tomorrow.”

Next I phoned Galimore.

Got no answer.

Between the anonymous threat, Summer’s idiocy and Pete’s gloominess, the call about Eli Hand, Williams’s arrogance, and Galimore’s disappearing act, sleep was elusive when I went to bed.

My mind kept juggling pieces, repositioning and twisting to make them interlock. Instead of answers, I ended up with the same questions.

I knew from Williams’s reaction that the landfill John Doe would turn out to be Eli Hand. Who was he? When had he died? Why did his body show signs of ricin poisoning?

Abrin was found in Wayne Gamble’s coffee. How had it gotten there? Surely Gamble had been murdered. By whom? Why?

Cale Lovette had associated with right-wing extremists. Had they helped him vanish? If so, how had he managed to skim under the radar all these years? Had they killed him?

Descriptions of Cindi Gamble did not jibe. Was she smart, with NASCAR potential, as Ethel Bradford, Lynn Nolan, and J. D. Danner suggested? Or dull, a poor driver, as Craig Bogan said? Was she in love with Cale Lovette? Or terrified of him?