Badwater (The Forensic Geology Series)

by Toni Dwiggins

  I glanced around. Soliano was coming to a halt nearby. We had nearly reached the road and if someone hadn’t stopped us we would likely have kept going to put another stretch of distance between us and the spill. Suited figures were converging on the area. A figure with binoculars jammed against his face plate was shining a spotlight across the slope to the ravine. Two others, down below, shined lights on the cask in the scrub brush.

  I turned back to Scotty. “You said...”

  “Hang on a sec.”

  Long as you want.

  He began at my feet, tracing my boots with the wand.

  I stared at his bent hood, my heart hammering.

  He shook his head and stood.

  “Scotty?”

  “Stand straight. Feet apart. Arms out, palms up. Stand still.”

  I complied, straining to hear the Geiger counter. Was it crackling? Was it screaming bloody murder?

  Scotty skimmed the probe along my body. He did my arms first and then jumped to the top of my head, zigzagging across my face, then switchbacking down my torso. He took his time, agonizingly slow, and he was stone silent and everyone, I noticed, was stone silent. Soliano, a silent statue like me, was being metered by a suit with the RERT logo.

  “Turn around,” Scotty told me. “Feet apart. Arms out.”

  I turned. Two suited figures were nearby. I identified Hap Miller by the yellow tape on his tank with his last name in black marker. He was monitoring one of the CTC workers—in his health physics capacity, I assumed. Miller spoke, loud enough to break the eerie silence. “Enlighten me, Chung, why you came charging into a contaminated zone before it’s been stabilized?”

  The worker extended his middle finger. “Wasn’t roped.”

  “You’re living proof,” Miller said, “that Mama Chung slept with a jackass.”

  And then all was quiet again. I listened to the voice in my head going over every wrong step until I thought I would scream. I wished Scotty would speak. Anything at all. I turned my head and said, “How’d you get into this business?”

  “Stand still.”

  I froze.

  He was silent for so long I thought he wouldn’t answer, then he did. “Was a lifeguard at San Onofre, beach in front of the nuke plant. Back before it closed. Plant had a spill and RERT showed up. Lifeguards in hazmat. I thought cool job, no sharks.”

  “Just rads, huh?”

  “Huh.” He said no more so I shut up. I’d gotten used to the hiss of my air and the wheeze of my breathing and I listened to that until he banged me on the shoulder and said, “No worry.”

  I turned fully to face him. “So I’m not...?”

  “You’re not crapped up.” He was reading his meter. His frown showed through the mask. “But I gotta say this is real weird. We gotta figure this out real fast. I mean, this stuff should be hot and you walked right through it and I didn’t get any reading off your booties.”

  “Scotty!”

  We turned. The guy with the binoculars approached, signalling. Scotty took the binocs and for the first time turned his attention to the spill. He yelled, “Shine another spot!” A second spotlight hit the spill, turning the white ashy powder even whiter.

  “That’s not resin beads,” Scotty said. “What in hell’s going on here?”

  6

  I stood at the edge of the newly-roped hot zone but in truth I’d already crossed over.

  There is a line, in working a case, that separates the professional from the personal and in most cases I’ve worked the personal seeps in here and there. A victim who looks like a guy I dated in high school. A microwave in the kitchen at the scene that is the same make as the microwave in my kitchen. And that’s fine, that familiarity, that human link. That’s fine unless the personal balloons to blot out the professional and gets in the way of doing the job. When I’d stepped in what I thought was the shit fifteen minutes ago the personal had swelled nearly to bursting.

  I needed to get back on the safe side of the line. I needed to find out what I’d stepped in. Put a name to that white ashy stuff, objectify it, and get it the hell out of my personal space. And so I waited while the hazmat professionals secured the scene so Walter and I could take our turn.

  Hap Miller was out there, taking charge of the CTC dump property in the scrub brush. Miller metered the breached cask and called out “not hot,” shaking his head like he did not believe it.

  I had a clear view of the cask. Ashy stuff spilled out near the lid. Looked just like the stuff I’d stepped in earlier, uphill in the ravine. The stuff trailed from the ravine down to the cask, where it had come to rest in the brush. I pictured, again, the radwaste truck tumbling down this hill, shooting out casks. This cask must have been breached upon impact, trailing white ash as it tumbled.

  This cask was supposed to contain highly radioactive resins. But it did not. So said Hap Miller’s Geiger counter. So said Scotty Hemmings, when he took his first look at the spill: that’s not resin beads.

  This cask was an enigma.

  Scotty was now examining the lid, which jutted askew. “Looks like the hold-down bolts came loose. Could be the top wasn’t torqued.” He gave Walter and me his considered thumbs-up.

  I gave a glance downhill where CTC workers were recovering another cask. So far—so Miller had said—the other casks held precisely what they should.

  I returned my attention to the enigma cask. Walter and I approached.

  What had I been thinking? It looked nothing like a tin can.

  It was a steel cylinder, about four feet long and three feet in diameter. It had flanged collars and lifting lugs. A severed tie-down cable spooled from one of the lugs. I could not help reading the yellow labels on the steel skin: IXResin, Radioactive III. Contents: Cs-137, Co-60, Pu-239, Sr-90, Be-7. Whoa. The labels said this stuff was tripleX hot but, in fact, the contents were not as advertised.

  Whatever it was, it was not hot and we were encased in protective clothing and therefore there was no worry.

  I squatted at the breached lid assembly.

  Scotty was behind me. “What in hell is that stuff?”

  Big spotlights washed the scene. The lid opened like a surprised mouth, baring rubbery gasket gums. White ashy stuff spewed from the mouth and dusted the ground. Stuff that had nearly given me heart seizure. Now, as I studied it, I knew what it was. And it made no sense. I fumbled my loupe out of the kit and looked through the high-power lens.

  “What is it?” Miller this time.

  Trivial to ID but just to be sure I looked again. Pearly, with a nonmetallic luster. Walter was beside me with his own lens, shaking his head like he could not believe it.

  “Geologists?” Soliano now.

  I said, in wonder, “It’s talc.”

  ~

  On the way back to the RERT van Walter said, “Characteristics?”

  Straight to work, then. Good enough. So, what do the characteristics of talc tell us about this scene?

  I began. “Firstly, of course, talc is the softest mineral.” Baby soft; I could vouch for that. “Streak white, luster pearly, cleavage basal, fracture lamellar, particle size...uh, extremely fine...” And what did this tell us so far? “I’ve got nothing,” I admitted. Too much adrenaline. Too little sleep. Thoughts scattering like a puff of talc.

  Well then, how about dispersion for a defining characteristic? I knew it well. Me, age nine, 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 three, 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 and months that follow I want to find out how a rock is evidence that helps solve a crime.

  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.”

  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 toss her onto 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 like 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 h
e 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?