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 guessing. 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.
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 guessing. 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.
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