The next morning I woke crazy-early, the same questions swirling in my brain. While making coffee, I turned the TV to the morning news. Flicked channels. Every station was reporting on Gamble, speculating less on how he had died than on how his death would affect the upcoming race and season.

To calm my nerves, I took my coffee to the garden to watch daybreak over the roof of Sharon Hall. It wasn’t much of a dawn. The sun was just a fuzzy bronze disk behind overstuffed clouds. Looking at the anemic performance, I thought not even Kipling could turn it into poetry.

At seven I left for the MCME.

And again encountered the Fifth Estate. Cars and vans packed the lot, and reporters and news crews stood talking in small clusters. I recognized the locals. WBTV. WSOC. WCCB. Others were anyone’s guess.

I noticed that Larabee’s car was parked in its usual slot. Hawkins’s truck was also present.

When I got out of my Mazda, cameras went to shoulders and mikes went to mouths. I heard murmured words, my name, then the questions began.

“Dr. Brennan, can you tell us anything about what happened?”

“When will Dr. Larabee finish the autopsy?”

“Why were you at the Speedway?”

“Word is Gamble’s body was mutilated. Can you comment—”

Ignoring the onslaught, I wormed my way through the crowd, hurried up the steps, and entered the building. The glass door swung shut, cutting off the barrage of voices.

Larabee had Gamble on a table in the main autopsy room. He and Hawkins were already finishing the external exam.

“You were up with the birds,” I said.

“Some dickhead called my home at five this morning.”

“How did he get your number?”

Above his mask, Larabee’s eyes made the point that my question was stupid. It was.

“You’ve heard of high-profile?” Larabee said. “This one’s going to be in the stratosphere.”

“Any issues with ID?”

“Not really. Gamble’s wallet was in his pocket. The other mechanic was right there with him. Guy’s name is Toczek. Still, I’d like you to reconstruct as much of the dentition as you can. We’ll shoot X-rays, do a comparison just to be safe.”

“You have dental records?”

“They’re coming.”

“Any reason to doubt Toczek’s story?”

“Williams and Randall didn’t think so. They grilled him so hard I thought the poor bastard would puke on his shoes.”

“I suspect we’ll have the pleasure of their company in the very near future.”

I was right. Mrs. Flowers announced their arrival at eleven-fifteen.

I was placing the last of Gamble’s cranial fragments into a boiler basket for final removal of flesh. Hawkins was shooting X-rays of his teeth. Larabee was stitching the Y on his chest.