GEOL 322, Micropaleontology, is a
hoot this morning. Half a dozen of these really bright young people are dressed
up as fossils. One has built an ameba shell; her arms and legs exit where
pseudopods would be located. One of the guys is a Permian ostracod, with spiny
clam-like valves and some kind of a head gear that looks like jointed antennae.
There are a couple of worms, again with antenna hats and rows of spike-like
feet down their sides. These kids have put a lot of work into this one day of
fun. So I say to hell with whatever pontifications I’ve prepared this morning.
Let the animals speak!
“Okay, Chrysalidina, tell us about yourself!”
Chrysalidina if not, of course, her real name; it’s her Halloween
costume. She stands up, and with her arms moving slowly, drifts as on a gentle
ocean current to the front of the room. Her audience is silent with admiration.
“My name is Chrysalidina gradata,” she proclaims; “and I come to you from the
Cretaceous.” She’s eighty million years old. “I was discovered by d’Orbigny,
Alcide Charles Victor Marie Dessalines d'Orbigny, that is, and I now live in
Paris!” She pronounces it Pah-ree and
does a runway twirl. “Never been to the Musé National d'Histoire Naturelle? Non?
Then I give you a tour!”
For the next ten minutes she gives us a verbal tour
of the fossil collections, in French. We are spellbound. And so it goes for the
rest of the class period. One by one, these incredible young scientists regale
their classmates, and their teacher, with similar performances. Fossils speak.
There is simply no way to describe this experience unless you’ve lived it.
At the end, I’m
tempted to say a prayer, a prayer of thanks for having ended up here, in
semi-rural Iowa, in this profession, with these people, doing their thing.
Reality, however, is sitting upstairs, in my office, and its name is detective
Leonard Branch.
“Morning, Dr. Marshall.”
“Good morning, detective Branch.” I honor him with
that title, although we both know it’s as much of an act as Chrysalidina’s trip through the Musé
Histoire Naturelle was forty-five minutes ago. “Evidently we’re meeting at the
Renner house this morning, although to be really honest, I don’t know why I’m
supposed to be there.”
Like hell I don’t know why I’m
supposed to be at Renner’s place on Cherry Lane; I need to take notes and pass
the information along to Elizabeth if there is college property in that house,
part of the official Geology Department inventory. Also, after finding those
cards to Renner, from Mary and Elizabeth, wishing him well in his travels but
warning him of potential health problems, I’m a little less dismissive of
Branch’s speculations about Renner’s demise. Somehow the combination of staff
concern, given those blistering, insulting, and probably illegal letters from
Renner about those ladies’ job performance, simply doesn’t seem logical. If
someone—a supervisor—wrote me those kinds of letters, and I knew they were
absolutely incorrect, I’d tell that person to go to hell and start figuring out
a way to get even.
(BE CAREFUL, DR. RENNER! was the NaNoWriMo project for 2012, the perfect murder at a small liberal arts college in Iowa. It's available on smashwords, kindle, and nook.)
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