“How tall is he?”

“Five-eight.”

Males tend to embellish their actual height, and measurements taken from corpses are often inaccurate. The extra inch wasn’t a problem. Raines fit my profile. But Larabee knew that. So why was he calling?

“Didn’t Mrs. Flowers give you my prelim?” I asked.

“I wanted your take.”

“Given what you say, there’s nothing to exclude him based on physical characteristics.”

Birdie recurled into a very small ball.

“What about PMI?” Larabee wanted to know how long I thought the John Doe had been dead.

“Other than Molene’s speculation that the drum came from a sector of the landfill active during the late nineties, and the fact that the thing is old and rusty, I’ve nothing more to go on. Could be a month. Could be a decade. But I doubt it was less than a week.”

“Do you have a gut?”

“You were right about the asphalt. It created an airtight envelope and kept scavengers away from the body, so the vic is in pretty good shape. But the drum is toast. Given its condition and location, I think the guy was 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.