When I dig around in my
top desk drawer, marveling at the personal history contained in its collection
of keys, pens, pencils, combs, letter openers, and paper clips (some from various
countries, as a whole revealing the evolution of paper clip design), and
retrieving Broderick Burkholder’s business card, I’m not playing the game in a
completely honest way, although “honesty” in this case has to be defined in
totally pure academic terms. To be completely honest, I would do a detailed
analysis of all these plastic bags, write a technical report, deliver that
report to DCI, and wait for them to respond. The contents of bag number 83172941336120305245
alters that approach. I manage to find my phone, a Motorola Droid 4G, and tap
in Burkholder’s number.
“Burkholder here. Got
something for us, Marshall?”
I have never called
Broderick Burkholder, so there is no reason for him to have my mobile number in
his phone, unless he put it there, having gotten that number in some way known
only to DCI and other spooks. It’s almost noon on a Saturday morning and he’s
at work, at least mentally. We’ll see how ready he is to go to work physically.
“Good morning,
detective Burkholder. Got something to write on?”
“Go ahead.” He’s as
ready, and efficient, verbally as I imagine him to be in every other way.
“Sample number
83172941336120305245 has something in it that is interesting. I don’t want to
know how you got it, or where it came from, but the material in it is probably
from Oklahoma. If I had to make an educated guess, I’d put it somewhere down in
southwestern Oklahoma.”
There’s silence on the
other end. Then “okay.”
“A slightly less
educated guess is that it’s from somewhere around a surface pit that’s supposed
to hold fluid from a drilling operation. However, it has a collection of pieces
that would not occur together in a single formation, or even in a dirt sample
from some field. So it’s mixed in a way that suggests several different
underground sources.”
More silence. Then
“You free to travel,
Marshall?”
“Maybe; it depends.”
“What are you doing
tomorrow?”
“Sunday?”
“Sunday.” There’s a
pause. “You folks go to church?”
“I can’t remember the
last time we went to church.”
Well, I do remember our
wedding, and I remember last fall actually being in a church, talking to a
pastor about renting space for classes when our building was sealed off
following Stitcher’s murder.
“Good,” says
Burkholder. “I’ll be down there about ten.” Detective Burkholder is not much of
a talker. I assume he’s equally as efficient in other aspects of his job. His
next comment is more conversation than I’m ready for this morning. “Applied for
that concealed carry permit?”
“It’s Saturday
morning.”
“We talked about this
yesterday. You can start the process online.” There’s his typical three-to-five
second pause. “We can probably expedite the process.”
“We’ll discuss it
tomorrow.”
I am not ready to carry
a weapon. I am not qualified to carry a concealed pistol and, with a little bit
of somebody’s good judgment never will be. Gideon Marshall and a concealed
firearm is, in my opinion, a public health hazard, and not the least of that
hazard is to Gideon Marshall. And I am not ready to go to Oklahoma if that’s
the plan for whatever trip Burkholder is imagining. Dinner conversation at El
Calor this evening will be interesting. Mykala can practice her Oklahoma
“shee-ee-it” and I can assess the tamales, in anticipation of comparing them to
those I’ll have in the next few days if I end up heading south. I don’t ask him
if he knows how to find our house or whether, like officer Branch, he drinks
decaf.
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