Killer Dust (14 page)
Authors: Sarah Andrews
Olivia kept her gaze on me. “It is nothing,” she murmured.
I watched her attack her grilled chicken with force and precision, wondering if she thought of me any differently from the meat on her plate. In that moment, I decided that I would indeed work on Miles Guffey’s project, but not as a groveling graduate student massaging the dry dust of data under the tutelage of a master. No, I would attack the project solely and precisely as a crime scene, because it was now clear to me that, in one way or another, it was exactly that.
Back at the USGS, I got to work. I spoke with Miles Guffey and made a list of all scientists who were in any way connected to the project, and then interviewed a few of them so I could make thumbnails summarizing each investigator’s involvement, both by specialty and by degree of professional commitment. If someone’s career was hanging on the line, I wanted to know it. If someone was trying to discredit someone else, I wanted to make a mark by that name. If someone was feeding me a ration of shit, I most certainly wanted to know it and document it and understand what that meant, especially if that someone was Miles Guffey. Or Olivia Carmen “Puru” Rodréíguez Garcia, God bless her many names.
A ration of shit.
Shit
was the word. Don’t ever ask a girl raised on a ranch in Wyoming to confuse a cow flop with a cherry pie. And this was not your lone meadow muffin lying all by itself out there on the range; no, this was the whole pile of manure stacked up in the feedlot with steers stomping around in it snorting and mooing. I had not asked to go there, not really, but as long as I was now up past my belt buckle in it, I was going to take control of it or go down trying.
Shit
was the word. Don’t ever ask a girl raised on a ranch in Wyoming to confuse a cow flop with a cherry pie. And this was not your lone meadow muffin lying all by itself out there on the range; no, this was the whole pile of manure stacked up in the feedlot with steers stomping around in it snorting and mooing. I had not asked to go there, not really, but as long as I was now up past my belt buckle in it, I was going to take control of it or go down trying.
And somewhere out there, doing something that neither he nor Tom in their infinite wisdom had deigned to tell me about, Jack was languishing in the same pile of shit. To
stretch the metaphor just a little farther, he may have climbed into this shit thinking he could transform it into something useful like compost, but by the time he had turned up at Nancy Wallace’s, he’d gotten it all over him, and it did not look or sound or smell good.
No mira, oye, o huele
.
stretch the metaphor just a little farther, he may have climbed into this shit thinking he could transform it into something useful like compost, but by the time he had turned up at Nancy Wallace’s, he’d gotten it all over him, and it did not look or sound or smell good.
No mira, oye, o huele
.
So I sat on a stool at the big drafting table in Miles Guffey’s office as he ran around the building harassing his underlings, and I contemplated shit. I reminded myself that I had to use my brains as much as my sensory organs. I could not wade into the pile of shit past my eye sockets, or I’d be no good to Jack and no good to myself.
I was reasonably sure that some of the shit belonged to the fabled not-doctor Guffey himself, regardless of his reputation as a top scientist, and I was not convinced for a minute that things were “essackly” as they were being represented.
I was running on raw intuition, which by my lights is something that pops up where experience meets information. Geology is a highly intuitive science, because geologic information—the data we collect, or phenomena we observe—are fragmental, incomplete, discontinuous, and often downright ambiguous. Slavish adherence to the scientific method alone does not get the job done. We must constantly run our data through a fey part of our mental machinery, matching it to previously observed patterns, moving back and forth with it in time and space until the themes and variations emerge. We compare what’s happening now with evidence of past events and project these patterns into the future. Geology is thus an historical science, and as with any study of history, the context of events is everything, and as context evolves, so does our understanding of it.
There was obviously some history involved in this crime, both geological and personal. Usually, the span of time considered in historical analysis and prediction amounts to eons—hundreds of millions, even billions, of years—and the subject of observation is something inspiring
and uplifting, a grand synthesis that dwarfs the petty scurry of human events. But here I was dealing with something that was occurring within a very short time scale, geologically speaking—a drought in Africa spanning only a few decades, narrowing down to present-time occurrences, topped with the raw stink of something critical that was going to occur within a matter of days. And I was analyzing something that looked and smelled as base and familiar as … well, shit, to stay with the metaphor. Or simile, or whatever it was.
and uplifting, a grand synthesis that dwarfs the petty scurry of human events. But here I was dealing with something that was occurring within a very short time scale, geologically speaking—a drought in Africa spanning only a few decades, narrowing down to present-time occurrences, topped with the raw stink of something critical that was going to occur within a matter of days. And I was analyzing something that looked and smelled as base and familiar as … well, shit, to stay with the metaphor. Or simile, or whatever it was.
Miles had gone on walkabout somewhere else in the building. I sat at the drafting table in his office staring at my page of notes, my mind clicking along in a groove. I was thinking on the fly, moving fast, sucking up information like a dry/wet vacuum. In the back of my mind, I could see that Tom had, as usual, teased and manipulated me into—to throw out just one more metaphor—putting my shoulder to this wheel, or, at least, putting my brain on the project. His penchant for messing with my head had, in the past, always put me into a fair snit of indignation and insubordination, but this time I chose not to waste the energy a snit would consume. It struck me that I must have come to trust Tom, because I felt content to do what I did best and let him feed me what I could handle when I could handle it. And just so long as what
he
fed me wasn’t a shit sandwich, I felt confident that we would, somehow, get the job done.
he
fed me wasn’t a shit sandwich, I felt confident that we would, somehow, get the job done.
But what was the job?
I started over again, approaching through the lens of my specialty, forensic geology. I define that term to encompass two activities: 1) analysis of geologic materials collected at a crime scene, and 2) application of knowledge of the business of geology to understand the
context
of the crime. In the past, I had focused on the second activity. This time, Tom seemed to be steering me into the first. So I would do both.
context
of the crime. In the past, I had focused on the second activity. This time, Tom seemed to be steering me into the first. So I would do both.
The stench that was rising off the controversy over Miles Guffey’s project belonged with 2) business, a perfect example
of why it took a geoscience insider to figure out what was going on in a situation like this. For instance, the outside observer might not understand that it was abundantly unusual for a Center Chief like Olivia Rodríguez to speak to me the way she had at lunch. Her maneuvers had been entirely political and not in the least bit motivated by science. Likewise, Miles Guffey’s grandstanding attempts to gain publicity for his project while trying to answer the question of what had become of Calvin Wheat went far outside the typical avenues of scientific research. Something was rotten in the state of the science, and I wanted to know what it was, if only to know how to dodge around it and save my own professional skin. Because Olivia Rodríguez had a point: There were rules of decorum within the scientific community, and it was important to avoid coming off looking like a pawn on someone else’s chessboard.
of why it took a geoscience insider to figure out what was going on in a situation like this. For instance, the outside observer might not understand that it was abundantly unusual for a Center Chief like Olivia Rodríguez to speak to me the way she had at lunch. Her maneuvers had been entirely political and not in the least bit motivated by science. Likewise, Miles Guffey’s grandstanding attempts to gain publicity for his project while trying to answer the question of what had become of Calvin Wheat went far outside the typical avenues of scientific research. Something was rotten in the state of the science, and I wanted to know what it was, if only to know how to dodge around it and save my own professional skin. Because Olivia Rodríguez had a point: There were rules of decorum within the scientific community, and it was important to avoid coming off looking like a pawn on someone else’s chessboard.
About as I thought that thought, Miles Guffey swaggered back into the room, hands in pockets, eyes wide with some kind of mischief. “Hoo-ee!” he expostulated. “Ol’ Waltrine’s got her undies in a bundle now! You shoulda seen her! She’s going off like Mount Vesuvius!”
I swung around, ready to listen.
Guffey said, “You heard of Chip Hiller’s work?”
Hadn’t Dr. Rodríguez mentioned his name at lunch? “Uh … He’s another dust expert?”
Guffey’s eyes popped with suppressed laughter. “Ah, yeah, I suppose you’d have to call him that. Well, okay, he’s a dust guy all right, but I mean … he’s like a little old lady, fussin’ and fumin’ over how he’s the only one who knows how to work with the stuff. Hell, his sampling protocol is like hitting a piano with a sledgehammer and expecting to get music, but to go and criticize ours—”
Just then Waltrine Sweet marched into the room, her brows down like a visor, neck stiff with rage, fists balled. “I want that man’s testicles on a
platter
!” she roared.
platter
!” she roared.
Guffey told me, “Here’s where you ask, ‘What man’s testicles, Waltrine?’”
I said, “What man’s testicles, Waltrine?”
Waltrine threw back her head and roared. “Chip fucking Hiller’s balls, that’s whose! I want them in a vice! I want to slam them in a car door! I want to serve them to him for dinner with greens and some of the bull
shit
he is trying to feed
me
! That sumbitch thinks he can rip me off like this he’s got—” She drew in a breath. “Another—think—COMING!”
shit
he is trying to feed
me
! That sumbitch thinks he can rip me off like this he’s got—” She drew in a breath. “Another—think—COMING!”
Now I had another reason not to throw any snits: Waltrine’s made mine look amateurish. “He get into your data or something, Waltrine?”
Waltrine leaned toward me, bending almost ninety degrees at the hip. “Data? Did you say raw data? Chip Hiller? Oh, no, you don’t get the picture. This fucker stole whole
paragraphs
of my PAPER!”
paragraphs
of my PAPER!”
I turned to Miles Guffey to get this translated. He said, “Waltrine submitted a paper to a prestigious microbiology journal. The Chipper is trying to scoop her by putting one in first. Only trouble is that it’s a small poof of specialists in this field, so her paper was sent to him for review. So the stupid fucker’s lifted her introductory paragraph just about verbatim, even swiped some of her finer idioms,
and
he thinks his data refute her findings. Only problem is he’s a congenital half-wit who can’t spot a correlation if it ran up and kicked him in the ass.”
and
he thinks his data refute her findings. Only problem is he’s a congenital half-wit who can’t spot a correlation if it ran up and kicked him in the ass.”
“
Only
problem,” Waltrine seethed. “Only
problem
! This is
theft
! Theft of intellectual
property
! You think I’m going to sit around and
take
this? That motherfucker’s got another thing coming, let me tell you! Where I come from, we stick pins into funny little dollies look like sumbitches like
him
!”
Only
problem,” Waltrine seethed. “Only
problem
! This is
theft
! Theft of intellectual
property
! You think I’m going to sit around and
take
this? That motherfucker’s got another thing coming, let me tell you! Where I come from, we stick pins into funny little dollies look like sumbitches like
him
!”
Miles chuckled appreciatively. “And he told Waltrine’s thesis advisor that if she went to work for me, she’d be ‘falling under a bad influence.’ Huh! What’s he call
his
action? Goody Two-shoes goes to church?”
his
action? Goody Two-shoes goes to church?”
I made my hands into a
T
to call time. “Hey, bring me up to speed on something here. What’s this guy Hiller’s overall position on the dust? Is he calling it sterile?”
T
to call time. “Hey, bring me up to speed on something here. What’s this guy Hiller’s overall position on the dust? Is he calling it sterile?”
Waltrine flung her arms out in wild arcs. “He’s got to be snorting some kind of dust up his
nose
the way he goes
on! He claims there are no live pathogens on the dust! But of course he ain’t finding none! He goes out there and sucks the little fuckers so hard he blows them right out the back of the filter paper! He—”
nose
the way he goes
on! He claims there are no live pathogens on the dust! But of course he ain’t finding none! He goes out there and sucks the little fuckers so hard he blows them right out the back of the filter paper! He—”
Miles cut in. “Waltrine’s a little upset. You see, the Chipper’s figgered out some way of getting funding. We haven’t. He’s really only interested in the dust as an abstraction, an intellectual exercise. He’s a linear thinker, can’t see the correlations or the possibilities. He’s been out there in the islands hanging out with his rum buddies, publishing his little papers in some forgotten scientific journal on what little minerals he’s finding on a Monday or a Tuesday, and now
we
come along and make it into front-page news. Messed up his whole day.”
we
come along and make it into front-page news. Messed up his whole day.”
“He’s not with the Survey?” I asked.
“Oh, hell no. He
used
to be with a university. Little tenure, little grants, little mind.” Miles wiped a tear of mirth of his cheek. “They forced him into early retirement. Now he’s with what we politely call an independent institution.”
used
to be with a university. Little tenure, little grants, little mind.” Miles wiped a tear of mirth of his cheek. “They forced him into early retirement. Now he’s with what we politely call an independent institution.”
“What’s his agenda?” I asked.
“His agenda? Oh, hell, I guess his agenda would be to blow me and my little ideas out of the water at any cost. Twenty years he’s been catching dust, and it never occurred to him to look for germs in it. Ol’ Johnny-come-lately Guffey come in and turn his whole world upside down.”
“So who exactly is he working for?” I asked.
Miles stopped laughing.
I asked again. “Where’s he getting his funding?”
Again Miles did not answer. I made a mental note to check Chip Hiller out on my own.
Miles said, “I’m sorry, Em, I shouldn’t go on like this about a colleague. Chip and I go way back. We get along. We—”
Waltrine drew in a big breath, preparatory to venting further rage. “
You
may go back, but
I
do not go back. Cal
Wheat
does not get a
chance
to go ‘way back.’ Cal
Wheat
got thrown off a fucking ship before he got to shove that bastard’s face into his rotten data! And I am not going to
take this sitting still! I am going to go over to NASA tomorrow and blow the
lid
off his petty little sampling protocol! I am going to publish my paper, and the next conference, I’m going to stand up there in front of all our au
gust
colleagues and personally trim his male appendages down to a
nub,
if in fact they are large enough to locate without a microscope!”
You
may go back, but
I
do not go back. Cal
Wheat
does not get a
chance
to go ‘way back.’ Cal
Wheat
got thrown off a fucking ship before he got to shove that bastard’s face into his rotten data! And I am not going to
take this sitting still! I am going to go over to NASA tomorrow and blow the
lid
off his petty little sampling protocol! I am going to publish my paper, and the next conference, I’m going to stand up there in front of all our au
gust
colleagues and personally trim his male appendages down to a
nub,
if in fact they are large enough to locate without a microscope!”
Miles broke into another fit of giggles. “Okay, Waltrine, okay!” He winked at me. “Gives the term ‘microbiologist’ a whole new meaning, huh?”
I said, “So Calvin Wheat had a personal gripe with this guy?”
Miles glanced out the window. Waltrine stared at the floor and tapped her foot. Miles said, “It’s still hard to hear him spoken of in the past tense … .”
Trying to be consoling, I said, “Maybe he’s still alive.”
Waltrine kept her gaze aimed on the floor. Her foot tapping continued.
I asked, “Did Calvin ever work with Chip Hiller?”
Miles said, “Oh, hey, Waltrine! Remember to take Em with you tomorrow.” He grinned. “We got this little buzz going with NASA. We’re using their space imagery to track the dust, and here they’ve got some jockeys going to fly high-altitude missions. We want to put some sampling devices in those aircraft, prove once and for all that the microbes we’re finding aren’t coming from the wet hanky some tourist threw off a passing ship.”
Waltrine clenched her teeth and said, “The wonderful Chip Hiller has the gall to suggest that our data come from foliage surrounding our sampling site. He says that because his is on the upwind end of the island, and ours is on the downwind—”
“Wait,” I said. “You’re sampling on the
down
wind end of an island? Why not the upwind? Why not avoid controversy ?”
down
wind end of an island? Why not the upwind? Why not avoid controversy ?”
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