They're Calling You Home

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Three Dr. Shelpenfry’s office building is off Thirty-eighth Street, in an outdated and nearly empty industrial park from the 1990s. The love seat is mauve, and the glass tables with their gold trim seem to hover over the Wedgwood blue carpet, giving the waiting area the feel of a small ship out to sea. Browder is using a swatch of white cloth to clean the lens of his camera as we wait to see the dust scientist. The woman behind the desk is the doctor ’s wife, has to be; she wears the same last name on her white lab coat. and there’s the framed photo of her and the man I assume to be Dr. Shelpenfry, the two of them standing arm in arm near the egyptian pyramids, wearing dark shades and sporting sleeveless flak jackets, tightly cinched fanny packs, and knee-length walking shorts. Many other photographs show the couple surrounded by friends and family, at weddings and beaches, dinner tables and Colts and Pacers sporting events. The storm didn’t follow us from Smallwood to Indianapolis. Instead, the sun’s out, but the time trials at the Indy 500 racetrack are in session, and even this far away the cars sound like distant rumbling thunder, and I have to remind myself there’s not a storm here, that I’m not still in Smallwood. “I can take a picture of him looking in his microscope?” “yep,” I tell Browder. “listen, while we’re waiting, will you run out to the truck and check on Pascal? There are some treats in the glove compartment. Will you give him a few?” I hand the keys to Browder, and he beams with pride. “I’ll be right back,” he tells me, handing me his precious camera. When he slips out the door to the parking lot, the nikon feels strange in my hands, as if it might x-ray my soul. I realize I’m holding it out in front of me, stiff and stupid, but I can’t help it. Browder bounds back inside after a few minutes and gives me a thumbs-up. “he was sleeping, but I gave him four treats.” I hand his camera back. 172 D o u g C r a n D e l l Mrs. Dr. Shelpenfry smiles, then looks behind her at a bulletin board. The office is quiet, and other than the fact that we’re a little early, I can’t see the reason for the wait. “you ever been?” asks Mrs. Dr. Shelpenfry from behind her cubicle; I can only see her round head floating above the wall. “excuse me?” “To the race? have you ever been?” The roaring sounds of Indy cars now seem even closer. “oh yes. a few times, back in college. I don’t know how they do it though.” She nods that detached noggin. “he’ll be right out. he’s on a teleconference with detectives in France.” She smiles, clearly proud of her husband. “Wow, that’s impressive.” “uh-huh, they’ve got a serial killer working the Bastille area again. There was the Beast of Bastille back in the 1990s that slit the throats of young women. he killed eight. They think this new one is a copycat killer. But he apparently is leaving behind very tiny, tiny dust balls on his victims. They’re so little, you’d just think they were wool fibers or something, but george has analyzed them, and they’re actually made up of a minuscule amount of potter ’s earth and cotton, as if you wiped your hands on your pants after, say, working in a greenhouse. you might think you’d cleaned yourself up, but these things still cling to you. They’re about the size of a half grain of sand.” all of her talk has piqued our interest, and I stand up and walk to her counter , lean on it, while Browder asks if he can take her picture. She tells him sure and winks at me. “our new daughter-in-law has a child with Down syndrome from a previous marriage.” Browder snaps three quick photos before Dr. george Shelpenfry appears alongside his wife, who remains seated. “I was just telling Mr. Burke here about our new family,” she tells him. he nods and smiles, extends his hand. I can tell now that the Shelpenfrys are good people. he introduces himself to Browder and agrees to...