Well then, how about dispersion for a defining characteristic? I knew it well. Me, age seven, choking on a talc cloud, backing away from the changing table. Mom dusting my baby brother Henry’s butt so the diaper won’t rub a sore on his delicate skin. Won’t lead to a bleed.
I shook off the memory. Yeah, talc’s highly dispersible. Tell me something I don’t know.
Walter and I walked on toward the van. Booties scattering gravel.
Memories still rolling, Henry always good for a wallow. Me, age eleven, taking Henry, age five, for a walk. And I’d let him wear his flip-flops and his toes met a rock. Blood. Screams. A crowd gathering. I pocket the rock, hide it. Phone home. Mom and Dad speeding up in the Ford, scooping up my brother. Walter’s there; crowd’s just outside his lab. Walter’s just some adult I’ve seen around town but my parents know him and they pass me off. The Ford squeals away toward the hospital. Walter shepherds me into his lab. I’m awkward with this old guy—he was middle-aged back then but to me at age eleven, he was old. And the old guy listens when I do a core dump—guilt, resentment, worry. I bring out the rock. Call it a shitkicking rock. In actuality, Walter says, that’s basalt. He washes off the blood. He puts it under the microscope. By the time Mom calls from the hospital—Henry’s bleeding stopped, send Cassie home—I don’t want to leave. I want to find out how that rock came from a volcano. And in the weeks that follow I want to find out how a rock is evidence that helps to solve a crime.
And then two months after the stubbed toe, Henry has another accident—this one not survivable—and I find true solace in Walter's lab, where good things get done.
And now, eighteen years later, I’ve got a double masters in geology and criminalistics but at heart I’m still the eager beaver Walter created in his lab. I want to repair the rip in the safety net that allows us to go about our daily lives.
I want to find out if this talc evidence will help solve this crime.
~ ~ ~
In the RERT van we began to strip down to our street clothes.
“We have a puzzle,” Soliano said, easing off his gloves. “And we have here a collection of people with unique expertise. Shall we put our heads together?”
Was that a request? Soliano didn’t strike me as the type to request. More like the type to require.
“Our puzzle,” Soliano continued, “begins with a truck leaving the nuclear plant, carrying a shipment of radioactive resin beads. The truck is bound for the CTC waste repository. En route, there is a crash. I am called to the scene. I make my initial evaluation—attempted hijacking. Mr. Hemmings and his RERT colleagues arrive to monitor the area for radiation hazards. CTC sends its people to recover their property, and its health physicist Mr. Miller to protect its people. My geologists arrive. We investigate. We find, by accident, that one of the casks does not contain resin beads. It contains talc.” He regarded us, one by one, with the same exacting focus. “How is this possible?”
“Alchemy?” Miller said.
“Thank you for the levity,” Soliano said, without a smile. “Let us consider, instead, that we have a ‘dummy cask’—to cover the theft of a resin cask.”
“Jesus,” Scotty said, “you mean a swap?”
“This is possible?”
“Swapped where?”
Soliano considered. “Perhaps at the nuclear plant. Perhaps somewhere along the driver’s route. With the driver, possibly, an accomplice. How would this be done?”
“To start with,” Scotty said, “they’d need a crane to handle the casks.”
“Very well. What else would be needed?”
Walter said, “Talc, evidently. It’s chemically inert, easy to handle...” He glanced at me.
Yeah, I’m on it. Talc’s characteristics. What else do they tell us?
“And where does the perp acquire this talc?” Soliano asked.
I said, “You don’t get that much talc just anywhere. You’d need a source like a mine.” I pictured it. The perp shoveling up talc to fill a radwaste cask—which is a damn misuse of the geology. What kind of scumbag thinks that up?
“And how does the perp acquire the empty cask, to fill with the talc?” Soliano eyed Miller. “This is your cask, I am told.”
Miller raised his palms. “Comes from the dump where I work. We supply the casks to the nuke plant. They fill em, ship em back to us. Cask ain’t mine in the sense of bought and paid for.”
“You quibble. I mean yours in the sense of responsibility.”
“Yowza, I quibble. Responsibility-wise, it’s Milt Ballinger’s cask. He’s dump manager.”
“Christ,” Scotty said, “who cares who’s in charge? If it’s a swap then we got a cask of hot resins running around out there.”
Miller grinned. “On little cat feet?”
“You could try taking this damn serious, Miller.”
Soliano snapped, “Gentlemen.”
Miller bowed and unzipped his suit, rolling it down. I was able to smile and Walter chuckled and Scotty scowled. Soliano studied Miller’s street clothes with distaste. Soliano himself was FBI informal in khakis and a short-sleeve linen shirt. Walter and I wore our lightweight summer gear. Scotty’s street clothes were snug black jeans and a green polo shirt. Miller was in a league of his own. He wore baggy shorts in screaming yellow-orange plaid and his T-shirt had a drawing of Bart Simpson with the caption There’s No Way You Can Prove Anything. Miller didn’t look anything like bug-eyed buzz-cut Bart. Miller had wild red hair, a pale heart-shaped face, and blue eyes set deep as cave pools. But Miller and Bart did share that same no-shit look.
“To complete the scenario.” Soliano waited until he’d regained our attention. “Had the crash not occurred, the driver would have made his delivery of the dummy talc cask—along with the rest of the shipment—to the dump. And the swap would have gone undetected.” He regarded Miller. “This is possible?”
“Perp’d need some serious mojo.”
Walter said, “There might be a way to test the theory.”
“Yes?” Soliano said.
“If the perp does have the necessary mojo,” Walter said, “perhaps he tried the swap before. On a previous shipment. And that time things went as planned and the talc cask did arrive at the dump. In which case, it could be located?”
Miller shook his head. “Too late now. Casks get buried right away, way down deep where the sun don’t shine.”
My gut constricted, down deep. I hated Walter’s idea. Because if the perp tried the swap only once, tonight, and screwed it up—as he clearly screwed up tonight—then there was some hope he’d fail at whatever plans he had for that cask of hot resins.
I got a crazy vision of the cask on little cat feet chasing the stick figure. The stick’s not laughing. Stick’s scared shitless.
I wasn’t laughing either. I dearly hoped the perp was a one-shot screwup with deeply flawed mojo. Because if he’d tried this before, and succeeded, that level of competence did not bode well for our side. I hated Walter’s theory but it was a good one, and testable. I had to give due credit to my mother and brother. I said, “Ever put talcum powder on a baby?”
Silence. Nobody had, it seemed.
Come on, I thought, it’s a defining characteristic. “Talc’s highly dispersible. It gets on the changing table too.” I pictured white talc on steel cask skin. “And then you track it all over the place.”
CHAPTER 7
Jersey wouldn’t sit still.
When Roy Jardine had returned home two hours ago from his reconnoiter, Jersey as usual bounced like a windup toy. He’d petted her, fed her, welcomed her onto his lap when he settled into his Lazy-boy. But she wouldn’t calm down. He’d finally had to set her on the floor so he could work.
She paced. She felt his jumpiness. Normally he’d appreciate that, her understanding him. Poodles were smart as pigs and his bitch Jersey was the smartest poodle he’d ever owned.
“Sit, girl,” he said, and she quieted, giving him her adoring look.
It was l
ike normal—Roy and Jersey holed up at home. His place was a tidy little homestead, a pink stucco box of a house with a red tile roof. Colors like Jersey’s belly. His place was isolated, at the far end of town. And Beatty was a desert town with nothing around it. He blessed hick towns.
Of course once you left Beatty you went into the action zone. Six miles down the highway from Beatty was the CTC dump and beyond that, another six miles or so, was the crash site. Lights, action, busy busy busy.
He got up, checked the front door lock, sat back down. Jumpy as Jersey. He didn’t feel safe at home anymore. Maybe he’d better go to the hideout in case things went critical again.
And they would, one way or another.
Jersey barked. He shushed her. He had work to do.
He picked up the yellow notepad. For the past two hours he’d been chewing over what he had learned at the crash site. Now he was ready to draw up a plan. He made two columns, one marked Enemy and the other marked Roy’s Action Items.
In the Enemy column he wrote Sheriff, Fire Department, RERT, CTC, seven unmarked vehicles, one FBI helicopter.
In the Roy column, he wrote Find Out What They Know About Roy Jardine. Find Out What They Are Going To Do Next.
He put aside the notepad in disgust. He’d learned almost nothing. His action items lacked implementation details. Find out how?
He went into the kitchen and got a pint of strawberry ice cream.
Jersey was on his heels.
He took the pint back to his Lazy-boy and fed the first spoonful to Jersey. Pink ice cream on pink dog tongue. He took the next spoonful. Technically, sharing the spoon was unhygienic but he’d been sharing with Jersey for years and never got sick. Of course he bathed her every other day and never let her into anything disgusting like the trash can. He fed her two more bites and then no more. He didn’t want to upset her stomach. “Mine now, girl,” he said, and the smart bitch stopped begging. The ice cream cooled his mouth and sugared his belly and by the time he’d worked his way through the pint he knew what to do.
More recon. Reconnoitering, he meant, but he liked calling it recon. It would have been foolish to write some Rambo action in his Action Item column, just to look ace. He bet outlaws reconned in detail before they launched an operation. At least, the smart ones in the history books did.
The limitation of his recon at the crash site, he realized, was that he’d been too far away. He needed to get close where things were happening to get actionable information. And things would sure be happening at the dump. He pictured it. He’d worked at the dump for three crap years—job eighteen—and he knew exactly what everybody would be doing at any given time. Except this morning. This wouldn’t be a regular morning, this would be an emergency morning. So how should he act? Normal, he thought. Just go into work and act normal. But in reality, doing recon.
Was that doable?
The ice cream soured his gut. What if he was already a suspect? What if the cops were at the dump waiting for him?
Jersey whined. When he didn’t pet her, she started barking.
“Enough, girl.” He had to smack her, lightly, on the rump to shut her up.
Now think Roy. He thought.
He picked up the phone and called his shift mate—not a buddy, Jardine didn’t have buddies—but a dim dude who sometimes swapped shifts with him. Sorry it’s so early but would you mind taking my shift this morning?—I’m hungover. Jardine wasn’t, he’d never been, but this was an excuse any of the guys would buy. What the excuse bought Jardine now was an info dump from his shift mate. Oh Roy, man, ya gotta come in cuz Ballinger’s callin in everybody cuz—shit man you dunno?—and then the dimwit went on to tell Jardine what three other guys had told him.
Roy Jardine concluded he was presumed as innocent as the next guy.
He went to the kitchen and rinsed out the ice cream carton and put it in the trash and washed his spoon and put it in the drainer. Jersey followed, nosing around the trash. “No, girl.” She knew something was up. She knew he wasn’t going to bed and so she wasn’t going to be curling up in her plush dog bed on the floor beside him.
He went back to his Lazy-boy and picked up the yellow pad. Under Roy’s Action Items, he wrote Undercover Recon At The Dump.
He moved into action. He packed up emergency supplies—extra clothing, toothbrush, paste, soap, deodorant, washcloth, all the things he’d need at the hideout. Freeze-dried food, bottled water, and sleeping bag were already stored there.
Jersey sat on his pack and wouldn’t get off.
He squatted beside her. He ruffled her curly topknot and scratched under her chin. He wished he could take her along, but she’d hate the hideout. Too cold, too dark, no soft bed. No ice cream. Easy to get lost. He wished he knew how long he’d be there. He couldn't leave her alone here in the house, and he had no friends, no neighbors, who would take care of her. He scooped her in his arms and carried her into the bathroom. He set her on the sink and turned on the water. She loved to lap out of the faucet. He leaned over and slid his left hand under her belly, hugging her to him. She kept lapping. So thirsty. He felt bad; he hadn’t checked her water dish. He opened the drawer and took out the Buck knife and slid his right hand beneath her chin and made the cut quick and deep. She shuddered but made no sound and went limp in his arms and he held her close while she bled out and the water washed the blood down the drain. When she was finished, he laid her on the counter. He had to use the sink himself, then, to wash away the tears.
He wrapped her in a towel and carried her to the back yard. He was in a hurry—he really had no time to spare—but he owed her a decent burial. She was a small dog, a toy poodle, and it was not much work after all. He spoke over her grave. “Farewell, girl. I’m sorry. I’m going on a dangerous mission and it’s better this way.”
He gathered his supplies and locked up the house. He drove through Beatty and out onto highway 95.
When this was all over, he decided, he’d get another poodle. A big one, a standard. Definitely not a toy. That would be sacrilege. There could never be another Jersey.
By the time he reached the dump he had put his feelings in order.
Back in the saddle. The Long Lean Dude was going undercover.
CHAPTER 8
I opened the van door and stepped into the ninety-degree glimmer of Tuesday’s dawn at the radioactive waste dump.
With daybreak I could see that we were on a high plain dotted with creosote and sage, which already stung my nose. To the east and west were bald mountain ranges. To the north and south ran highway 95. I toed the ground. A gravelly soil, nearly dry now. No talc seams here. If I found talc at the dump it wouldn’t be native. It would have hitched a ride.
Walter remained in the van, where we had set up a rudimentary lab. He’d said you have the talc, dear—and the heat—and I’ll have the driver’s mud and the air conditioning.
How does he do that? Make it sound like I’m doing him a favor.
But he’d read me right. I wanted that talc.
We’d convoyed here from the crash site—RERT vans, FBI vans, Soliano’s big SUV, Miller’s little CTC sedan. I watched everybody pile out, fan out. FBI agents and Scotty’s RERT team to scour the dump for the missing resin cask, on the theory the perp panicked and dumped it here. Soliano had already called for a Department of Energy helicopter to search from the air, measuring for radionuclides.
Miller came over and gave me a bow. “Welcome to Nowheresville.”
“Not to me. I like the desert.”
“I see that by your hands. I admire a woman who uses her hands.”
My hands are chapped, nicked, the unpolished nails cut blunt. I put them in my pockets. Miller’s gaze moved to my face. I fought the urge to wipe away the sweat. Even a good washing, though, would not erase the marks that the years in the field were beginning to leave, despite my devotion to hats and sunscreen. Still and all, if I had to rate my looks on the geological scale, I’d say I was in the uplift phase. I gave Miller a smile.<
br />
Soliano joined us and Miller led the way. I trailed them, gawking at the scenery.
Earthen embankments rose twenty feet high and extended in rows beyond my field of view. The nearest horizon was a six-foot chain-link fence topped by barbwire. Directly in front of us were the kind of crackerbox buildings that make staff think Nowheresville. Right now, everything glowed. Sunup gilded the dump.
I spotted the CTC logo on a low-slung warehouse with titanic doors. Underneath, the logo was decoded: Closing The Circle Of The Atom.
I got it. I wasn’t sure I believed it, though. There’s at least one cask of radioactive resins deserving of closure that’s not getting buried. And if the swap theory’s right, the perp stole a cask from here to fill with talc. And nobody here even noticed, until the swap was derailed with the crash. This place did not inspire great confidence in me. Maybe it was just the stress of the past few hours but I was thinking, this place promises what it cannot deliver. Closing the circle of the atom? They unleash the power of the atom and then try to put it back into the ground but it’s a sitting duck, there waiting for something to go wrong. What kind of earthquake protection do they have? What kind of scumbag protection?
We passed an embankment with an open trench. It was lined with wooden crates and metal drums six rows deep and ten layers high. A forklift crawled along the trench with a fresh box in its tines, hunting for space for one more.
“That’s the low-rad stuff.” Miller winked. “Booties and gloves and such.”
We moved on.
Ahead was an inner fence with a sign that said Restricted Area, Controlled Access. Miller signed us in at the guardhouse and passed out dosimeters.
Passing through the gate was like going from kindergarten to college. Now, it got serious. The open trench here was lined with concrete vaults. The package being lowered into the nearest vault was hung on the end of cables. Miller steered us behind a huge wheeled crate full of earth. It was labeled Portable Shield.
The Forensic Geology Box Set Page 22
