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The World’s Worst Four-N-Sick Geologist

Don Maurer

    Forensic science has engulfed the Country. Colleges and Universities offer courses leading to certificates and degrees. Quintessential endorsement of this is reflected in a frenzy of TV shows.
    And it came to pass that there was CSI: Crime Scene Investigation (Gack!) which begat CSI: Miami (Double Gack!!) which in turn begat CSI: New York (Triple Gack!!!). and CSI: New Orleans (Quadruple Gack !!!!), defying spontaneous generation long ago discarded by scientists, a number of tepid pretenders vainly desiring improved Nielson Ratings emerged. Currently the armed services has joined the chorus represented by NCIS. No worthy broadcasting network can maintain currency without a forensic science program.
    We are csi-ied to death awaiting the crushing effect of CSI: Disneyland starring a cloying, squeaky voiced rodent vigorously brandishing a hand held magnifying glass. Linguistic purists may wince at the Mike Tyson verb csi-ied, but until CSI: Disneyland comes on line to titillate insatiable appetites, TV suits will frantically race for priority with proposed CSI: Island Survivor and CSI: Fear Factor.
    Forensic science draws on a variety of disciplines (chemistry, physics, biology, engineering...). An early inclusion to this menu was geology which leads to the protagonist of the piece. Let’s join this redoubtable practitioner of forensic geology.
     With the gravitas of someone reciting The Gettysburg Address Paxton Lumpkin ponderously exclaimed, “Forensic science is the application of scientific/medical knowledge to legal matters...
    “...as in the investigation of crime,” Demosthenes Jones (DJ) his confidant of many years patiently recited. “You’ve mentioned that several times before,” Jones wearily offered. Lumpkin took umbrage at Jones for interrupting one of his favorite bromides.
    “Well,” Paxton testily said, “it deserves repeating that ...”
    “...whenever two objects come into contact with each other, there is always a transfer of material; yes the Locard Principle,” DJ doggedly completed.
    Pausing dramatically for a moment Paxton continued. “Are you aware that Sir Arthur
    Conan Doyle’s creation Sherlock Holmes ...”
    “...was portrayed as the first public consulting detective applying sciences to criminalistics? We’ve covered that one also Lumpkin.”
    Paxton Lumpkin glared at Demosthenes depriving him the pleasure of pontificating on some of his comforting clichés.
    “Excuse me Paxton. I’d love to pursue this further but my stomach’s rumbling. Breakfast awaits.”
    “How thoughtless of me,” Paxton generously acknowledged. He was not a cynical person. Still, he detected, no pun intended, a note of insincerity in his companion’s voice. He sensed Jones had put him off, clearly recognizing that the public didn’t share his passion and dedication for forensic geology, until they sorely needed its service. After all. He had memorized the entire canon of Sherlock Homes cases preparing for his vocation. It was his sworn duty, maybe not legally sworn, to fight crime and the forces of evil wherever he found it or whenever it sought him out.
    Several miles away another scene was unfolding. “Is he still out there?” Police Chief Irwin Sousè whispered. Deputy Marvin Gardens stopped sharply at the Chief’s door, surprised by the hushed voice emanating from behind several large filing cabinets. As the only other officer in Hardly Normal, Wisconsin’s Police Department nothing should have surprised him anymore. Still, the inexplicable invariably reared its head.
    “Oh! It’s you Chief.” Who else would it be in a two man department? “Didn’t see you back there. Did you lose something?” Probably his mind, Gardens pettily thought... “Is who out there,” he remembered to solicitously ask.
    “Don’t play games with me deputy. You know who. How many times have I told you not to answer a question with a question. It’s unprofessional.”
    “Sorry Chief. If you mean Paxton Lumpkin. He’s come and gone. Told him you were meeting with the Mayor discussing security for the Founder’s Day Festival. Wanted to show you a new investigating tool.”
    “Deputy Gardens! Hardly Normal doesn’t have a Mayor nor do we celebrate a Founder’s Day.”
    “No problema Chief. Paxton doesn’t know that. Thought it would keep him off your back.”
    “Man’s a menace. Going to drive me to drink. With a name like mine I have to be very careful avoiding any reference to liquor in a town still committed to Blue Laws.
    My name’s French you know. Accent grave over the e.”
    “Oh! Just like that old movie The Bank Dick. There was a bank security officer with the same name as yours Sousè. Only everyone ignored the accent grave and called him Sousè which he was of course. He would try to explain...”
    “Give it a break deputy,” Chief Sousè nastily snarled. “Lumpkin left me a list of local crimes. Wanted me to prioritize them... Some kids at the Peter Moses designed Burning Bush Golf Course drove up on some greens. Did a couple of poppa-wheelies. Broke a few green flags. Busted some ball washers.”
    Chief Sousè continued. “Another group pushed a couple of porta-potties into a drainage ditch. Unfortunately one was occupied. Harlan Headcheese was inside gawking early Carmen Electra slides with a view finder. Got so excited he jammed his eye. Harlan’s okay though. Clinic’s cleared him.”
    “Did they recover the slides?” Gardens innocently asked.
    “Not funny Marvin... Local farmers reported some missing fruit. Lumpkin thinks we’re on the verge of a crime wave.”
     “In Hardly Normal hardly anything normal happens. The theft of some fruit before
    Halloween doesn’t qualify as a crime wave.”
    “Most Hardly Normalians know that. Still, Lumpkin thinks it’s a precursor of some sort of agricultural conspiracy... Marvin. You be sure and keep me posted on Lumpkin’s comings and goings. Don’t want to be blindsided by that knucklehead.”
    “You’ve got it Chief. You can count on me.”
    Meanwhile the object of their attention Paxton Lumpkin was feverishly working his computer reviewing Inbox messages. “Demosthenes. Glad you’ve returned. Matters are moving rapidly. Dropped off a list of crimes for Chief Sousè to prioritize. Expect his answer momentarily... Sousè is a peculiar name for a Police Chief. Doesn’t exactly engender a warm feeling of confidence in his behavior or judgment. Sure are some strange people in law enforcement.”
     “Anyway. To more important matters. Demosthenes. They’re getting bolder and
    bolder. I’m moving this caper to the top of our list. Let’s call this the case of the Plundered Pumpkins? ... Pumpkin Predators? ...I’ve got it. Pumpkin Pirates. Catchy huh?”
    DJ remained silent at Lumpkin’s lame attempt at a bon mot.
    “The games afoot my friend. I’m off to interview the victims about this heinous crime. Are you coming with me?”
    “Don’t think so Paxton. The down homers don’t understand our “speshul” relationship. They get a little uneasy when we appear together in public. By the way old boy. You’re over doing the Sherlock Holmes shtick. Holmes didn’t originate The games afoot. Conan Doyle took it straight from King Henry the Fifth.
    When did DJ study Shakespeare Paxton mused. “Well it’s probably better you remain here and answer any important e-mails,” he said aloud. If Demosthenes could only write better, he’d be my Boswell or dare I say it W‘‘n, Paxton thought to himself.
    Meanwhile out on the highway. “Where’s Chief Sousè?” Gardens anxiously barked at the town’s dispatcher.
    “Chief Sousèeeee,” the dispatcher exaggeratedly replied, “is playing golf with the
    Mayor.”
    Gardens had neither the time or inclination to correct the snotty dispatcher’s ignorance about the non-existent Mayor.
    “What’s the problem deputy?”
    “Paxton Lumpkin’s the problem. Chief Sousè wanted me to keep tabs on him.Get me through Chief’s phone. ...Chief? Deputy Gardens here. Sorry to bug you on your R and R. Thought you should know. Lumpkin’s going house to house questioning every farmer who may have lost some pumpkins. He’s even demanding they scrape some soil off the bottom of their remaining pumpkins. Something about clay analysis... Yeah! Folks are getting testy with him. Had to restrain the president of the Garden Club from clocking him with a potted hosta. Should I cite him or better yet arrest him for disturbing the peace? ...You don’t want to make a martyr out of him... Just keep an eye on him... Defuse the citizens’ ire. That’s a good one Chief... Sorry.”
    Recognizing the value of defusing the Chief’s anger he asked. “How’s your round going? ...You’re tied after 16 holes and the Mayor just hit his drive into the rough. Hey! Now you’re saying it... You know? Mayor. We don’t have a... Sorry Chief,” Gardens mumbled. “Over and out.”
    Gardens met Lumpkin at a turn around. The latter’s car was full of small, labeled plastic bags with clay samples and a variety of small to large gourds. “Good to see you again deputy. Glad to see you’re on the job. My work’s done here now. No! Please don’t thank me,” Paxton shrugged modestly. “Helping to fight crime is its own reward. The Questers were a little put out. And the Meals on Wheels crowd was down right huffy when I went through their cooking pots. Still, after I explained the nature and magnitude of the problem, they were more cooperative quickly turning their pumpkins over to me for examination. Many thought that I probably needed them more than they did. “Whatever pleases you Paxton just plumb tickles us to death,” they shouted. “How bout that for an enlightened citizenry?”
    “After I perform clay analyses from the bottom of the pumpkins and soil samples from local pumpkin patches, Chief Sousè will get a complete report. Until we have all the data it’s premature to speculate, but at first blush the magnitude of this foul deed may be even bigger than I first imagined. The folks in Bridgeville, Delaware planning their annual Punkin Chunkin Contest have to be alerted. Hardly Normal commonly provides some of their pumpkins. The Bridgeville folks are p-r-e-t-t-y picky about the quality of pumpkins used.”
    “Have to get cracking. Keep up the good work. Please tell Chief Sousè I’ll see him at the very first opportunity... Could he be a closet drinker? With a name like that one can’t be too sure.”
    “No Lumpkin. He’s not.” Gardens rapidly replied momentarily feeling guilty consciously misleading the public by deliberately mispronouncing the Chief’s name. “I’m sure the Chief will be looking for you,” Gardens guardedly answered.
    While sampling the pumpkin patches Lumpkin had found some discarded eaten apples.
    “Calls for a cast of teeth marks on the apple cores,” he noted in his data book. Returning to his house he informed DJ. “After that. I’ll need dental casts for... everyone in town. That could be challenging... Perhaps if we convince Chief Sousè or better yet the Mayor to provide a dental cast the rest of the town will follow suit.”
    “Maybe the Chief. Certainly not the Mayor,” DJ offered.
    “We could run them through the cafeteria at Sasquatch High School,” Paxton enthusiastically added. “I’m sure the Principal would cooperate with such a public cause.” He vaguely recalled his earlier days with Ms. Ana Konda who used to languidly drape her expansive self around him while complimenting his teaching. Of course this behavior wasn’t deemed harassment then. If he hadn’t been so dedicated to crime fighting, his life might’ve been very different with the sultry, slinky, seductive Ms. Konda.
    “You might want to think this one through Paxton. Supplies? Dental Technician? Peoples’ schedules? Some of them might take exception to this.”
    When thwarted, confused or even happy Lumpkin characteristically turned to his ukulele for solace, singing “The Kind Kangaroo.” He’d prefer to play the violin like his icon, but he just didn’t have the motor skills to master it and had lost his ear not unalike a famous Dutch painter.
    “Oh the kind kangaroo/ Said oh what shall I do?
    If I had a cradle/ I’d rock it.
    But I think that after all/ My baby’s too small.
    So I’ll carry it around in my pocket.”
    Jones characteristically fled when Lumpkin played and sang.
    Back at the Police Station action picked up. “Chief. Some guy on the phone. Won’t give his name. Wants to talk only to you.”
    “Who’s this?” Chief Sousè growled. “Better be good. Got a lot on my plate now,” turning from his pasta. “That’s a pretty good one if you ask me” he whispered to Gardens. “Don’t need any crank calls now.”
    “This is Special Agent Pharki Donatus calling from the FBI Investigation Laboratory. Am I speaking to Police Chief Irwin Sousè?”
    “Nooooo! You’re speaking to Police Chief Irwin Sousè. That’s Sousèeee.
    Would you like people mispronouncing your name Special Agent Pharki-Don’t-on-us?”
    Special Agent Donatus was stunned momentarily rebuffed by this rude, rural humor.
    “What kind of name is that?” the Chief demanded. “Sounds Bolshe to me.”
     “My father was an amateur paleontologist. Named me after a 340 million years old fossil snail called “Pharkidonatus.”
    “Must have thought a lot of you,” Chief Irwin snidely offered. “No! Don’t even go there. Don’t want to know the names of your brothers and sisters. This is a family community and we don’t cotton to vulgar talk like that.”
    Donatus managed to contain himself. But the latter wasn’t finished yet.
    “How does a guy named after a 320 million years old fossil snail get a fancy job with the FBI?”
    “That’s 340 million years,” Donatus corrected.
    “Standards must really be slipping,” Chief Sousè added. “Maybe there’s something to the government’s spoil system.”
    Gathering his composure Special Agent Donatus took the initiative. “Chief. We got off on the wrong foot.”
    “He’s probably left footed and goes clockwise in circles,” the Chief said quietly to Gardens.
     “Let’s try again. May I call you Irwin,” Donatus smoothly petitioned.
    “Sure. If I can call you Pharki,” Irwin smugly countered winking at Marvin.
    Assuming the air had been cleared Donatus continued. “Irwin. Do you know Mr. Paxton Lumpkin? Does he live in Hardly Normal? Can you tell me something about him?”
    It was the Chief’s turn to be silent. Oh my God and Justin Bieber. What’s Lumpkin done now he asked himself. Aloud. “Yes. I know Lumpkin. Lived here all his life. Considered a bright guy. Science teacher at Sasquatch High. Wheels came off the wagon after Coach Lombardi of blessed fame stepped down. Packers faded for a while and so did Lumpkin. Never recovered from the loss of the glory years. Packer fans are very rabid. Starr. Hornung. Favre. Rodgers. Well! Maybe not Favre. Still, he made the Green Bay Hall of Fame. The Frozen Tundra and all that stuff. Fancies himself as some sort of crime fighter using Four-N-Sicks.”
    Failing to contain himself Donatus hurried to say. “That’s forensics Chief.
    Look Irwin. Let me level with you. Mr. Lumpkin’s been sending e-mails to investigative institutions and prominent crime fighting personalities all over the world. Demanding information. Soliciting evidence. Offering unsolicited advice on crimes and situations he knows absolutely nothing about or has any statutory or legal right to. He’s falsely using the Bureau’s name as a portal for his activities. Washington takes a very dim view of this. Assistant Deputy Director Hobart Heaver has charged me with ordering Mr. Lumpkin to strike his false flag and to cease and desist these illegal and irresponsible activities.”
    “Very heavy stuff indeed Special Agent. Lumpkin’s small potatoes or pumpkins,” Chief Sousè smiled for the first time in a while.
    “Irwin. You don’t know the half of it. My staff has tried to contact him by phone or e- mail. The only response they’ve received is from a Demosthenes Jones, Mr. Lumpkin’s assistant or partner. According to my staff Jones seems smart and on top of things. However, he hasn’t managed to corral Mr. Lumpkin. Do you know Mr. Demosthenes Jones or DJ?”
    “Not really. Never had the pleasure to drink with... I mean socialize with him.
    Talked to him several times on the phone. Does what he can with Lumpkin. Still, I wouldn’t really count on him in a pinch.”
    “Irwin. I really need help with this. Someone named Sam Spade contacted Mr. Lumpkin informing him that there was increased criminal activity in Roswell, New Mexico. Spade said the local police thought it was due to illegal aliens. Mr. Lumpkin agreed. Only maintaining they were from another galaxy. Spade and the police were dumb-founded. Thought Mr. Lumpkin was a looney tune. To top this he even asked them to send some rocks from the crime scenes. They agreed thinking it would be good fun at Mr. Lumpkin’s expense. Lumplin informed them the rocks were fulgurites.”
    Chief Sousè remained silent not wanting to reveal his ignorance of fulgurites.
    Donatus continued as if reading Irwin’s mind. “A fulgurite is the product of sand melted by lightning strikes. Mr. Lumpkin maintained the fulgurites were produced by exhaust from UFO rocket engines. He’s totally misapplied a natural process providing false confirmation of UFO landings at Roswell. According to Mr Lumpkin the police should be rounding up extra-terrestrial aliens not terrestrial ones.”
    “The New Mexico Governor’s chewing on the President’s ear to immediately send troops to anticipate an invasion from outer space. Since acting FBI Director Orville Peacock’s office is being indicted for security leaks, he wanted nothing to do with illegal, extra-terrestrial aliens from Roswell. He slickly, I mean efficiently handed the assignment off to Assistant Deputy Director Heaver. The latter didn’t exactly enjoy his visit with the President.”
    “Took him to the woodshed huh? Well. Lumpkin’s the limit sometimes,” Chief Sousè lamely offered.
    “The Chinese see this differently,” Donatus cannily baited the Chief.
     “What do the Chinese have to do with Paxton Lumpkin?” Irwin swallowed the bait.
    “We ah... co-opted some e-mails between Lumpkin and Mr. Charlie Chan in Hong Kong.” Finally realizing what he’s been dealing with Donatus dropped the honorific of Mr. for Lumpkin. “The Chinese became suspicious about their rice bowls and teacups. Chan asked Lumpkin for help. Turns out the rice bowls and teacups were counterfeit. Take my word for it.
    Chinese know a real teacup from a sub-standard one made in the U.S.”
    “Particularly if the labels read Made in the USA Chief Sousè shrewdly added.
    Donatus nearly slipped off his ergonomically correct chair at the unnecessary corroboration. “Lumpkin determined the type of clay and its source tracing it to a factory in New Jersey named The Modest Little Maker of Truly Important Rice Bowls. After informing Mr. Chan, a Chinese special ops unit was sent in to obliterate the factory... Since it was a mafia laundering operation, the Bureau wasn’t too concerned about reproaching the Chinese agents, even though it challenges our Monroe Doctrine of intervention.”
    “Is that some kind of new religion,” Irwin quickly pounced. “What do you call it? A cult?”
    Shrugging that off Donatus continued. “Now the Chinese are running out of cost effective tea cups. A pandemic of epic proportions is emerging. One point eight billion Chinese can’t be wrong. Lumpkin specifically recommended bentonite, a clay weathered and aged from volcanic ash as the clay for their tea cups and rice bowls.”
    Irwin could barely remain awake through Donatus’s screed nearly slipping off his worn leather armchair with the big hole in the seat and the flat ball bearing rollers.
    “Now all this sounds very precise and scientific with your Lumpkin on top of things.”
     “No way is he my Lumpkin,” Irwin murmured.
    “However, after washing the tea cups and rice bowls, they started cracking, crumbling, and leaking. Whole thing came to a climax when the Comintern met celebrating the Chinese New Year. Bunch of embarrassed guys sitting around with rice and tea on their Mao suits and wet trousers. Their headman didn’t think dribble cups were particularly funny. The Chinese take loss of face very seriously.”
    “Sounds like they lost a lot more than that,” Irwin wryly said as an aside to Gardens.
    “As expected with any respectable bureaucracy they looked for a fall guy,”
    Donatus blandly opined. “C. Chan was long gone for parts unknown. So they looked elsewhere. Voila! They contacted their ambassador to the U.S. who contacted State. The Chinese threatened to go public on Ellen DeGeneres, Piers Morgan and O’Reilly. A former Obama oficial didn’t want any “wild” rice thrown her way, if you know what I mean, and contacted the Bureau. She strongly recommended we find the person responsible for the faulty information about the tea cups and rice bowls.”
    “Chief. Bentonite serves as a lubricant for drilling muds. It’s totally unsuitable for ceramics.
    Emerging from a cat nap Irwin responded. “That’s quite a story Pharki. Don’t know how it concerns the Hardly Normal Police Department. Lumpkin hasn’t broken any laws. Gave some bogus information the Chinese should’ve checked out. Can’t bust him because a dim witted Governor of a small, desolate, desert state bought off on spaceships and extra- terrestrial aliens, and a few Chinese big wigs, who got slobbering drunk, couldn’t balance tea cups and rice bowls on their laps.”
     “Chief! Chief! Chief!” Donatus whined. “You have to help us. We’re receiving calls from all over the world involving your man Lumpkin.”
    “Pharki. I never said he was my man.” Irwin loved hurling that stupid name back into his face.
    “You didn’t?” Donatus continued treading water hoping against hope Sousè would throw him a life preserver or at least a line. “The University of Miami’s Collection of Sands of the World called the Bureau. Lumpkin contacted them demanding they replace the USDA and Soil Science of America size grade scale for particle size analysis with the Atterberg size grade scale.
    Paxton thought the American scale was too provincial and nationalistic.”
    “Imagine that?” Sousè muttered. “A whole University dedicated to collecting sand. And I thought those California schools were soft and ditsy. California thinks they’re so smart with their anti-Wisconsin dairy ads. Contented cows. Yeah.”
    “The Center of Forensic Sciences, The Servizio Polizia Scientifica, The Home Office Laboratory, and The Forensic Laboratory Garda Head Quarters called the Bureau. They’ve been deluged with calls and e-mails from a certain P. Lumpkin wanting information or providing unsolicited advice.”
    “Yup! That sounds like Lumpkin.” Better them than me Chief Sousè muttered softly to Gardens. Aloud again. “Did I tell you that he thinks there’s an international conspiracy to steal pumpkins? Calls ‘em the Pumpkin Pirates. Pretty catchy huh?
    I’ll tell you. The folks in Bridgeville are pretty riled up. No pumpkins of the proper size and consistency. No Punkin Chunkin Contest. Heart of what America’s all about.”
    Special Agent Pharki Donatus didn’t want to hear about other peoples’ problems with pumpkins. “All right then. Can you direct me to his house when we arrive?”
    “Sure. I’ll have Special Deputy Marvin Gardens escort you there.” Irwin winked at Marvin knowing he liked the special deputy part. The latter grinned enthusiastically.
    “Irwin. We want to play this in low key, if you don’t mind. No convoy of police cars. Flashing lights. Wailing sirens. Just me and Agents Bowersox and Zuckerman.”
    “Sounds like a law firm. How come your partners aren’t special like you? Something wrong with them?” Donatus didn’t deign to answer another bucolic broadcast.
    “Have it your way,” Sousè grandly acquiesced. Irwin was secretly pleased to rid himself of this officious feebie dork and that whacko Lumpkin without incurring a public relations disaster for the Police Department. Chief Sousè would be seriously chagrined; no pissed, if he knew what normal Hardly Normalians thought and publicly expressed about him and the Department.
    Several days later. “Hello in there. This is FBI Special Agent Pharki Donatus. We want to talk to Paxton Lumpkin.” After a slight pause he heard a voice from behind the door.
    “Pharki Donatus! Well make Clint’s day. I’ve never met anyone named after a 360 million years old fossil snail. Your father must have been an amateur paleontologist.”
    “Well actually it was a 340 million years old fossil snail,” Donatus conscientiously answered. In fact he was incredulous that someone knew the origin of his name and further that his father was a paleontologist, or an amateur one. “Am I speaking to Paxton Lumpkin,” Donatus queried.
    “No you’re not,” came the teasing reply. “This is Demosthenes Jones.”
    Donatus looked gratefully at agents Bowersox and Zuckerman and whispered,
    “Now we’re getting somewhere. Look Mr. Jones please let us in and get Lumpkin.”
    “No can do. Paxton’s indisposed right now. Maybe I can help you.”
    Donatus was disappointed at DJ’s response. “Are you aware that criminal authorities from Canada, Italy, England, Ireland, China, the State of New Mexico have filed complaints with the Bureau against Lumpkin?”
    “Well. I knew Paxton was e-mailing a bunch of people, but I was unaware of any trouble.” During the conversation Paxton silently joined Jones behind the door.
    “Why don’t you tell us; I mean me about it,” Jones nodded slyly to his friend.
    “Lumpkin told Toronto he was going to provide evidence for a class action suit against Canadian asbestos mines,” Donatus intoned.
    “Sounds very serious to me,” Jones somberly responded.
    “He equated Canadian white asbestos with South African blue and western Australian brown asbestos as major causes of mesothelioma.”
    DJ interjected, “Risks from white asbestos are less than that from the other two sources.”
    How in the name of Monica Kazaza did Jones know about white asbestos, Donatus mused. “This nonsense suit could cause the Canadian Government hundreds of millions in unnecessary cash settlements.”
    Demosthenes quietly chided Paxton. “How could you confuse those varieties of asbestos?”
    “Easy. I was busy that week. The case of the Maltese Marbled Godwit took up most of my time.”
     “Italy’s in an uproar,” Donatus continued. “Lumpkin charged Italian officials with bilking the public. Some vandal chipped off a piece of Michelangelo’s David illegally sending it to Lumpkin who determined the rock was made of Solenhofen Limestone.”
    “Therefore, according to Paxton the David was a fraud because the original was sculpted from Carrara Marble,” Jones finished.
    Donatus was momentarily startled by Jones’s erudition. “But it was... Carrara Marble and Lumpkin was... wrong,” Donatus sputtered.
    “How could you confuse an organic sedimentary rock with a metamorphic one?”
    Demosthenes whispered to Paxton.
    “I was deep in my experiments producing home made-plum brandy,” Paxton cheerfully offered. Demosthenes just rolled his eyes.
    “Ireland’s pubs are dying out because they’re drying out,” Donatus continued.
    “Some son of Erin sent Lumpkin a piece of the Blarney Stone from Blarney Castle, Blarney Ireland.”
    “That’s an awful lot of blarney Special Agent Pharki,” DJ gleefully interjected. Jones and Paxton giggled at DJ’s rejoinder.
    “The same guy claimed an outbreak of food poisoning there. After examining the rock sample Lumpkin discounted food poisoning. Attributed the trots to kissing the Blarney Stone which contained traces of arsenic. Moreover he charged the people managing the venue with perpetuating a fraud. According to Lumpkin the original consisted of sandstone. The combination of a “poisoned rock” and a “fraudulent stone” basically killed tourism in the area producing a huge lack of confidence in the integrity of the Irish Chamber of Commerce. The loss of hundreds of thousands of pounds has the Irish fighting mad...”
    ...“As it turns out food poisoning was due to Salmonella from a traveling shepherd’s pie vendor and the original stone was a pelitic schist. Paxton was absolutely wrong on both counts,” Jones once again finished.
    Donatus was astonished at DJ’s knowledge of confidential material.
    “Another bad day Paxton on that Irish caper?” Demosthenes whispered to his friend.
    “Yes. How did you know?” Paxton over anxiously replied eagerly seeking sympathy.
    Jones knew Paxton had never had a headache since he had taken up with him. In contrast his cases had produced a never ending series of Excedrin headaches for DJ.
    “Are you still there Mr. Jones, I mean DJ? Would you please open the door and get Lumpkin.”
    “He’s coming. Just be patient.”
    Donatus turned to Bowersox and Zuckerman. To restrain their impatience and maintain their attention he shared the latest info from England. “This mad hatter has to be stopped. Shook up the British which really takes some doing. Lumpkin convinced Ms. Marple that the Punkin Chunkin people claimed there was a conspiracy to corner the market on Halloween pumpkins in the U.S., precluding their one of kind contest, advising her to be on the lookout for similar activity in the U.K. In turn she contacted the Prime Minister. It wasn’t the Iraqi war that did him in, but Lumpkin’s bizarre claims.”
    “Further he told Ms. Marple that as soon as he completed taking dental casts of everyone in Hardly Normal, he would direct Chief Sousè/Sousè, whatever, to make an arrest. Can you believe that? Everyone in town? Then she unaccountably exacerbated the situation by pulling a Goosey Lucy informing contacts on the Continent.”
    Turning to Zuckerman Bowersox quietly asked, “Who’s Goosey Lucy? Are we busting him too.”
    Zuckerman disgustedly hushed his partner. “You’re so dumb. Goosey Lucy’s a she, not a he, and she’s not listed on any wanted circulars.”
    Donatus continued highly agitated. “Lumpkin’s taken a minor crop failure fabricating a global pandemic. We’re not talking Mad Cow Disease, Ebola Fever, Malaria folks. He’s managed to get the attention of 50% of the world about the imaginary plundering of a large, round edible fruit.”
    “How in the name of Martha Stewart and Emeril could you confuse squash with pumpkin?” Jones challenged Lumpkin.
    “Their both in the gourd family. What’s the difference?”
    “This would entirely invalidate the Punkin Chunkin Contest. Making it a laughing stock.
    The squash couldn’t stand up to the demands of the trebuchets, catapults or air cannons. Totally eroding the credibility of distance records.”
    “Moreover, millions of American kids don’t carve Jack-O-Lanterns in squash. If you insert candles, they’ll become barely heated, poorly cooked zucchini. You’re talking about millions of dollars in sales at least in the U.S.”
    As an aside to himself. Am I the only sane one here? Hasn’t it occurred to the FBI that Sam Spade, Charlie Chan, and Ms. Marple are fictional characters and not real detectives?
    Why is the FBI giving any credence to their participation in these cases? Wonder what SAT’s these agents got?
    Paxton gave a wry smile shrugging his shoulders. “Let’s get this over.”
    With that he opened the door.
    The FBI agents rushed into the room. “Paxton Lumpkin I presume? I’m Special Agent Pharki Donatus with agents Bowersox and Zuckerman.”
    Paxton furrowed his brow. “Pleased to meet you. What’s a Pharki Donatus?”
    “Don’t even start,” Donatus abruptly interrupted. “Be advised we’re serving you with a federal order to cease and desist any representation associated with the FBI. Further this order directs you to report to the Department of Homeland Security explaining your contacts and communication with foreign agents.”
    “Ah! They’re taking seriously the galactic visitors at Roswell,” Paxton proudly asserted.
    “On an informal note,” Donatus rambled on, “it was very unwise of you to continually ignore the sage advice of Mr. Demosthenes Jones. By the way. Where is your associate?”
    Paxton looked fondly at DJ. “Awk! Polly wants a cracker,” the latter tried to bluff. “I mean Demosthenes wants a cracker,” he feebly squawked. “Oh for crying out loud. DJ’s out of here.” With that he flew out the open door.
    Donatus was stunned by this unexpected revelation momentarily freezing his hyper-kinetic personality. His career ignominiously flushing down the toilet.
    Bowersox turned to Zuckerman. “That’s a darn smart bird,” he enviously noted. “I wouldn’t mind having one like that.”
     “It was a Macaw,” Zuckerman confidently replied. “They go. Caw! Caw! Caw!”
    “That’s a crow dummy,” Bowersox challenged. “It was a Toucan. Yes a Toucan.”
    “Toucan do what?” Zuckerman pounced.
    “No! Listen to me! A Toucan is a bird.”
    “That’s what you said the first time,” Zuckerman petulantly countered.
    “Toucan. Macaw. They’re both parrots,” Bowersox struggled to regain credibility and the intellectual high ground, if there was any to gain in this conversation.
    After some thought Zuckerman queried. “Do you think it was Goosey Lucy in disguise?”
    “Will you guys cut that out,” Donatus desperately screamed. “Where’s that dingbat Lumpkin? Our jobs’ at stake here, if we don’t bust him.”
    Taking advantage of Donatus’s shaken state and the amazing exchange between Bowersox and Zuckerman, Paxton Lumpkin quietly slipped out the back door jumping into a hot air balloon. After several minutes Demosthenes Jones easily lighted on Paxton’s shoulder.
    Paxton cheerfully responded. “DJ. I think this is going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
     “Ah! Mon ami. You’re channeling again. The lines from Casablanca and we’ve known each other for years.”
    “Yes so we have,” the other firmly asserted totally oblivious of uttering his original statement. With that he picked up his ukulele which he never left home without and started to sing. “Oh the kind kangaroo/ Said oh what...”
    DJ winced persevering as only a captive audience can do. As they floated along Paxton couldn’t help but point out various cloud types. “Cirrocumulus, Cirrostratus, Crirrus.” DJ was hard pressed not to rain on his friends’s cloud discourse as he had characteristically confused high clouds with low clouds like Stratus, Nimbostratus, Cumulus, and Stratocumulus.
    Earlier Jones had discouraged Paxton’s entrance into meteorology as drifting a little far a field from his specialty in geology. Demosthenes was grateful Paxton hadn’t e-mailed hurricane and tornado forecasts to the National Weather Service, FEMA, and Jim Cantore. The amount of damage his prognostications would’ve produced would be incalculable. It was just a matter of time. Indeed his recent interest in developing an avian flu vaccine had to be scuttled before the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention descended on him.
    “You know Paxton. You may not be cut out for this forensic geology stuff.”
    To himself. We could hope for more Grissom than Holmes at least.
    “Not to worry DJ. Don’t know why a few people got so excited over a few trivial mistakes,” Paxton graciously allowed.
    “Have you ever considered other fields to enter and... to master? After all.
    You’ve attracted a great deal of attention in forensic geology. You’ve done enough to the field to last a life time. Establishing standards of excellence heretofore unattained,” DJ said with a straight face, if a bird could be said to have one.
    “To be sure old man,” Paxton modestly replied, secretly pleased at his friend’s praise.
    “When duty called, I was there.”
     “Yes you certainly were,” DJ firmly answered in his best Oliver Hardy imitation.
    “Funny you should ask about a change of menu. Quilting and apiary in particular the latter comes to mind.”
    “Paxton. Holmes favored bee keeping. I think we should reduce his influence on your mind set.”
“If you say so Demosthenes... Wasn’t that a scream about Macaws and
    Toucans? Those two agents didn’t recognize a Regal Parrot.”
    With that DJ couldn’t resist preening his feathers. “Paxton. This might be a propitious time to renew your relationship with Ms Ana Konda. She’s always had a soothing effect on you.”
    “Would she’d like to ride in my beautiful balloon?” Paxton softly intoned.
    “Sounds strangely like a song. Have I heard it before,” DJ innocently asked.
    Paxton responded with his customary sleepy smile wondering when his friend Harvey was going to drop by providing quality control on his home-made plum brandy. Harvey strangely never seemed satisfied with his sample size. Jones didn’t have to know all his secrets. “Why don’t we wrap up our latest case. I promised Chief Sousè a report on those pumpkins... Okay. Squash. He’s undoubtedly awaiting my call.”

    “Well Marvin. We haven’t heard from that nut case Paxton Lumpkin in some time. Looks like those feebie guys finally busted him. About time they got something right. Not a moment too soon if you ask me. Wonder what happened to his assistant? Hope he didn’t go down with that crazy coot.”
     “Hey Chief! Would you look at that. A guy with a big bird on his shoulder embracing a lady in a hot air balloon. Why! They’re coming right down in our parking lot...”

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