The Stones Cry Out

by Sibella Giorello

  "That might do it,” I said.

  Placing a hand over my eyes to block the sun, I gazed at the rim of the opening. Several blue fibers were waving from the craggy surface. I felt a sudden thrill and thanked God -- twice, three times, endlessly -- and yanked off the fibers with four tape swatches. Scanning the brick a second time, I saw a curly fiber. Darker than blue. It wormed through the red aggregate stone, its surface shiny with a white clot at one end.

  Hair.

  "Raleigh, how much longer?" Boo asked.

  "Sure, let’s come back another time."

  "I'm just saying. John's about to have a stroke."

  I didn't even bother to look down. "Do you have a flashlight?"

  “No.”

  “Cell phone?”

  I waited until his phone came zipping down the line in a nylon pouch.

  "Hurry."

  "Boo, I’m not having a party here."

  I shined the phone’s LCD screen into the cavity and waited for my vision to adjust. At the back of the dark crevice, a bird's nest had been disturbed, the twigs and moss scattered from the round shape. I moved the phone forward inch by inch, raking the light across the bricks.

  On the right side, I saw red fibers. Thicker than the other fibers I’d found. Setting the phone just inside the opening, I tore off a piece of tape and stretched my arm inside in the crevice, slapping the tape against the rock. When I pulled it off, the red fibers covered the sticky white surface. A lot of them. I folded the tape in half and dropped it into my bag.

  "Okay," I looked up at Boo. “Beam me up."

  He shook his head. "You’ll have to rappel."

  “What?” I looked down. My shoulders were throbbing, my hands were raw. And the crowd wanted blood. "Why?"

  "Because it's safer, that’s why. Just start walking out the rope, Raleigh. I already radioed Harvey. He's packing up his equipment. We'll meet you and John down there."

  All the giddy joy from finding evidence suddenly got kicked to the curb by fear.

  Taking the rope, I let the smooth weave slide through my stinging fingers. And as I walked down the side of the building, the crowd’s voices rose to my ears. So did John's voice, full of urgency.

  "Come on, Raleigh! Hurry!"

  My legs wobbled as I stepped onto the sidewalk. Behind us the megaphone was barking more commands. "Stand back! Stand back from the door! Stand back!"

  I was trying to unknot the harness but my fingers weren't working right. John shoved my hands away. He was breathing like a locomotive and when the knots were gone he started wrapping the rope around his elbow and shoulder, gathering it in a frantic loop. With shaking hands I managed to unclip the evidence bags, then turned around.

  Crowds made me nervous. All crowds. But this crowd saw us as the enemy.

  We were cops. Come to persecute a dead black man.

  "What are you waiting for -- get moving!" John yelled. "Or we’re the next flight off that roof!"

  The double doors to the factory burst open. Boo and Harvey were running, moving with the bulky efficiency of SWAT guys. Behind them, a cop was chaining the door again, locking it. The crowd was closing in and we huddled on the sidewalk. I clutched the evidence bags like newborns, moving close to Harvey’s MP-3.

  "Harvey, you go in front," Boo directed. "Make one line. Straight for the cruisers. Raleigh, follow Harvey. John, walk behind her. I’ll bring up the rear. You two get in the first cruiser. Harvey and I will take the backup vehicle, making sure you get out of here. Whatever you do, do not stop moving forward. Understood?"

  We nodded.

  “Get back!” the megaphone screeched. The officer's voice was coming too fast. "Get back -- get back!"

  With Harvey as the prow, we sliced forward through a sea that wanted to drown us. Cradling the evidence, with John's heavy hand on my left shoulder, his fingers tightening, I tried to keep my head down, hunching over the bags. But hands were flying in front of my face, close to my eyes. And the words. Ugly words. Hitting my ears, landing like grenades. I glanced up. Beyond Harvey a cop beside the cruiser grabbed the back door handle. He flung his other hand out, a futile attempt at crowd control. The words kept coming, sibilant and cruel, slipping into my ears.

  Then something struck my face. The slimy warmth slid down my cheek. I wanted to wipe it off, but I couldn't risk letting go of the evidence. I dipped my cheek, trying to rub the spit off my face.

  “What is wrong with you people?” John yelled.

  The words "you people" drew another cry from the mob.

  I leaned forward into Harvey’s back and jumped into the cruiser as the door opened, ducking under the roof. I landed on the bench seat, scooted over for John and immediately grabbed the bottom of my shirt to wipe my face. I closed my eyes, feeling nauseous, and felt John's weight hit the seat. The door slammed.

  My face already stung with the scratches from the brick, but I kept rubbing. Rubbing and rubbing. As the pain grew worse, the top of my head seemed to open, as if my scalp was peeling back and my brain, carbonated with fear, floated out on the hot summer air. My eyes were still closed, and I saw thought bubbles, a cartoon. Scrubbing raw an already raw face while the world beat on the windows and roof. I heard laughter. It sounded odd. Nothing like my real laugh.

  “You think this is funny?” John snapped.

  I shook my head. Not funny. Not funny at all. I told myself to calm down, breathe. But when I opened my eyes, the fists struck inches from my face, stopped by one layer of safety glass. I tried not to laugh again. Biting my lip. Stressed out to the point where some inappropriate response wanted to warble out. It was a character defect, I was sure. The emotional failure of somebody who bottled up her feelings. Eventually they had to spill. Make a mess.

  The cruiser lurched. The bouncing fists still covered the windshield. The siren squawked over and over and the cop kept going, driving the car through an ocean of people until finally the fists moved to the side and we picked up speed. I gazed out the side window. Southside was moving past us in a wake of despair. Inside the car we were silent.

  But the atmosphere shifted as we crossed the Mayo Bridge into downtown Richmond. Safe. Moving away from the epicenter.

  "You okay," John said.

  It wasn’t a question. Not an inquiry. This was an order. John had been with the Bureau more than thirty years. Not the indulgent type. The statement was this: You are okay.

  I nodded.

  But deep inside I was still floating around the edges. Like handfuls of dry silt cast over cold water, suspended before sinking to the bottom.

  "I owe you," I said.

  "You owe me about three hundred times over. And that doesn’t even count Boo. Or Harvey. In fact, I didn't even want to do this. Boo did. Soon as I said ‘ropes’ he didn't hesitate."

  “I couldn't have done it without him."

  "No kidding.” He looked over. “So what did you find up there?"

  The two Richmond cops in the front seat glanced at each other. I watched them through the cage separating the back seat. A quick look passed between then. Immediately, both glanced away, and the driver gazed into the rearview mirror. Into the back seat.

  "Probably nothing," I said.

  Catching my drift, John changed the subject. And now he was laughing. "Wait until you see your face."

  I threw his words back at him. "You think this is funny?"

  "Yeah, I do.” His belly shook with laughter. "And I'll bet you're hungry."

  I was always hungry.

  Except for right now. I felt sick.

  He leaned forward, talking through the cage. "This girl," he told the cops. "I wish I could eat like her and stay that thin. Unbelievable. She’ll put down two cheeseburgers with fries then ask about dessert."

  The cops laughed. I smiled. My stomach churned. My face stung.

  Fifteen minutes later we pulled into the FBI office off Parham Road. The gate guards checked IDs then opened the entrance barrier. The cruiser pulled to the front door and Jo
hn climbed out. I gathered the evidence bags off the back seat.

  “Thanks again,” I told the officers.

  The driver's eyes were opalescent, rimmed with short lashes. When he turned to face me through the cage, I could see what he wanted to know. Like all his brothers in arms, he only wanted one answer.

  Only one: Innocent.

  “Have a nice day,” I said.

  I was scooting across the bench seat when he cocked his thumb and forefinger into the shape of a pistol. Pointing at me, he winked.

  "Watch yourself out there, kiddo."

  Chapter 14

  Once upon a time the Appalachian Mountains stood at Himalayan heights. But the geologic rock cycle was simple and elegant and inexorable, and the grinding Ice Age was followed by rushing flood waters, eroding the peaks into today’s rolling hills. All the mountain sediment – the rock, sand, and silt -- flowed eastward, filling what was once a shallow sea.

  Today, standing below the cliffs that bordered the Chesapeake Bay, it was possible to find pieces of the Appalachian mountain chain in the sandstone layers, mineral artifacts that traveled more than two hundred miles before being cemented into rock by heat and pressure and time. These deltaic layers were laid down patiently and evenly, forming narrow hue-shifting layers that resembled pages bound in a book. But the marine life from that former sea left fossilized remains which punctuated the fine pages of soil. Most evident were the white carcasses of clams, which looked like a thousand marble typewriters had spit out the letter C.

  My mother was one of those Christians who didn't care for any talk about millions of years. She took comfort in 6 days. Meanwhile most geologists considered six days a complete joke, since they viewed the world through a completely different prism. The idea that God -- whose very existence they debated -- could create heaven and earth in just 144 hours struck them as ridiculous. But over the years I'd been studying earth sciences, I’d come to some of my own conclusions. One: Evolution required more faith than creationism, given the lack of observable evidence and a fossil record that contained holes the size of craters. Two: honest scientists would admit that, even if they didn’t subscribe to creationism. And three: nobody had definitive proof, either way. Nobody. Not this side of heaven. But I agreed with Jonathan Edwards. After observing spiders spinning their webs, Edwards wrote of "exuberant goodness of the Creator." The universe operated on mind-boggling design principles -- and design meant there was a designer. One piece of gravel in a sandstone cliff pointed to significant wrenches in the divine toolbox. Ice Ages. Volcanic eruptions. Plate tectonics. Earthquakes. Meteors, floods, tsunamis—the list went on. Six days? God was certainly capable of it.

  But on Friday afternoon, in the heavy traffic of Interstate 95 to Washington, D.C., people rushed past the dramatic cliffs along the Rappahannock River, and when I finally reached the capitol's D Street exit, I navigated though the city using brakes more than the gas pedal. Where 9th Street intersected E Street, I pulled into the underground parking garage and slid my identification card through an electronic eye, lifting the thick metal grate. Driving under FBI headquarters, I parked and rode the elevator to the third floor, clearing two more electronic eyes before I reached the Materials Analysis unit.

  Of the Bureau's many forensics departments – which included hairs and fibers, paint, duct tape, blood analysis -- mineralogy was the least well-known. The other departments appeared regularly in the news media and on television, but mineralogy literally covered more ground than all of them combined. Diamonds to dust, granite to marble, glass to sheet rock and seashells and even the titanium dioxide in women’s makeup. When a sniper took a shot at the White House some years ago, I was the first forensic technician called to the scene. Glass was made of silica --melted sand -- and by studying the mineral's fractured angles, I pinpointed the location where the shooter stood on Pennsylvania Avenue. The location was later confirmed by ballistics and on-site witnesses.

  But mineralogy also took me places I didn't want to go. My very first case involved a pair of lungs so small the organs were unrecognizable. The lungs arrived with a local PD's homicide report, which said the body of a little girl named Ellie Mullins, age three, was discovered buried under a slag heap. When I examined her lungs, I found soil. Lots of soil. So much soil that it meant one thing: Ellie Mullins was buried alive. Raped, then buried alive.

  After that case I drove home to Richmond. I wanted to talk to my dad; I was having doubts about my job. Rocks and minerals -- yes. But the nightmares that came with knowing a preschooler was violated before she choked to death on coal dust? No.

  My father, a superior court judge, listened patiently.

  "I don't always enjoy being a judge,” he said. “Some cases never let me forget the gruesome details. But we're called to live beyond fear, Raleigh. We can’t hide. We can’t pretend evil doesn't exist. Your job won’t be easy. But will be necessary. Because the stones cry out. And you have an obligation to listen."

  So I stayed in the lab. I stayed until he was murdered. Until I heard louder cries.

  Now, standing in the doorway of the lab, I watched Eric Duncan. My former colleague was hovering over a polarized light microscope with Kerr's Optical Mineralogy open on the desk beside him. The pages of mineral photographs looked shiny under the afternoon sunlight that cut into the room from the north window. When Eric's hand reached for the magnification dial, his fingers palsied. He stopped, shaking out his fingers like somebody flinging water.

  At my knock, he looked up. He had a freckled face that made him seem much younger than his actual age, which was fifty-two.

  He smiled. But then the smile went away. "What happened to your face?"

  I reached up, touching my cheekbones. My fingers were covered with Band-Aids. "Nothing.”

  I walked into the room, handing him the small box of evidence.

  "For me?" He batted his eyes, feigning appreciation. "Oh, you shouldn't have."

  Digging his heels into the white linoleum, he rolled his chair across the room to his desk. He pulled out the chain of custody forms then opened each film canister packed inside the box. The canisters contained the soil I collected from the roof.

  With a Sharpie he initialed each cap with his initials. ZG. Lab techs never used real initials because different people could have identical initials. It also protected a technician's anonymity. With more and more criminals filing Freedom of Information Acts, the last thing an investigator wanted was his identity attached to a guilty verdict. But Eric's ZG looked strange. A backward S with a drunken C. And he capped the Sharpie using both hands.

  "Let me guess," he said. "You brought me concrete block."

  I was insulted. "It's not that boring."

  "Glass fragments. No -- wait. Safety glass fragments."

  I shook my head. "Think of Richmond, what do you see?"

  "Cobblestones."

  "You're warm."

  "Brick."

  "Bingo. And some mortar."

  "Oh, mortar. Wonderful," he said without a trace of enthusiasm. "I see the Q on your paperwork. No K?"

  Q stood for Question—what is this stuff? Where did it come from? K stood for Comparison. For example, Soil K1 came from the scene of the crime. Soil K2 from the suspect's home. Do the soils match? But since the police, specifically Owler, refused to release any evidence, I didn't have comparison samples. Yet.

  "I'm hoping to get Ks to you soon. Right now I need the mineral composition of the brick and the mineral composition of the soil on the roof. And where the soil might come from."

  "Provenance," he said.

  "I don't use them fancy words no more." I smiled. It hurt my face.

  "You look terrible," he said.

  "Thanks. How long?"

  He reached for the clipboard that dangled by a string on his desk. The backlog. His neck muscles twitched as he read it. "You'll never guess what I got from Iowa yesterday."

  Eric liked guessing games. Probably because his work left no room for gue
ssing. We played this game a lot when I was in the lab.

  "Iowa?” I said. "Then my first guess is Farmer Brown's dirt."

  "Here’s a hint. The local PD wants us to examine tire treads from a 1993 Chevy truck."

  "It backed over a cow."

  "No. The police suspect the driver took a joy-ride. Over the high school football field."

  "Uh-oh."

  "Right, Iowa football? They’re loaded for bear. Or hogs, or whatever the mascot is out there. But they sent me all four wheels and fifty comparison soils. Fifty, Raleigh. From one football field."

  "You should be thankful it wasn't every ten yards."

  He went back to reading the evidence schedule.

  Eric Duncan once applied to Quantico, hoping to become an agent. But one morning he was shampooing his hair and couldn’t get his left hand to work. The next day it was his entire left arm. By week's end doctors diagnosed early stage multiple sclerosis. Eric came back to the mineralogy lab, and had been here ever since.

  "Sorry the workload is overwhelming,” I said.

  "I'm not looking for sympathy." He didn't even look up, tapping the Sharpie against the clipboard. "I see you marked this case an expedite."

  "My supervisor wants it closed yesterday. And . . ."

  I didn't finish the sentence.

  "And what?"

  "She's asking about agent transfers."

  "Monday," he said. "I'll get something to you by Monday."

  I sighed, relieved. "Thank you, Eric."

  "But you have to return the favor."

  “No more blind dates with your friends."

  "How could I know he collected Transformers."

  "The guy talked about Optimus Prime for two hours. Two hours of that is worse than Iowa football."

  "I promise, no blind dates. Just tell me about your life as an agent."

  "That's it?"

  "Start with what happened to your face. Tonight. Dinner."

  I agreed to meet back here later, then walked down the hall to the Hairs and Fibers department, looking for my former colleague Mike Rodriguez. I found him in one of the glass-fronted exam room wearing his safety glasses and white lab coat. In one hand, he held a metal spatula, scraping down a pair of jeans that hung from a metal bar over white butcher paper. The fibers freckled the paper.