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
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
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