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 I get it out?

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 tissue preserved in there. Go with Plan A. Joe can help.”

“Joe’s out on a call.”

“He just got back.” Larabee changed the subject. “Have you examined the new sandpit bones?”

“Everything is consistent with the rest of the skeleton.”

“Music to my ears.” Larabee chin-cocked the drum. “Let me know how it goes.”

I was taking photos when Hawkins entered the autopsy room and strode to the gurney.

Cadaver-thin, with dark circles under puffy lower lids, bushy brows, and dyed black hair combed straight back from his face, Joe Hawkins looks like an older and hairier version of Larabee.

“How we going to crack this sucker?” Hawkins rapped gnarled knuckles on the drum.

I explained Plan A.

Without a word, Hawkins went in search of the necessary tools. I was finishing with overview shots when he returned, dressed in blue surgical scrubs identical to mine.

Hawkins and I donned goggles, then he inserted a blade, plugged in, and revved the handheld power saw.