Part 33 (1/2)
”I'll do it now.”
”Good.”
”What are you up to?”
”Not much. Reading through these poems. They're really quite beautiful.”
I could tell she was down.
”Harry, do you remember how we used to cook when Mama was having one of her bad spells?”
”Yes.”
”Let's do that tonight. You and me.”
”You were pretty bossy.”
”Pick a recipe. I'll be sous chef.”
”You'll call the linguist?”
”As soon as we hang up.”
”How about that thing we used to do with chicken and smashed potatoes.”
”Perfect.”
”Will they understand me at that little grocery store on Sainte-Catherine?”
”Speak English. Not Texan.”
”Hee haw!”
”And, Harry.” I hesitated. Yes. ”Keep your head up.”
”For what?”
”Just be careful.”
Rob Potter was finis.h.i.+ng his doctorate in anthropology when I began my grad studies at Northwestern. Older, wiser, he'd been an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on. Not to mention everyone's secret crush. Improbably, before turning to academia, Rob had been a bona fide seventies rock star. Sang at Woodstock. Wore leather jackets and b.u.t.t-molding gold lame pants. Knew Hendrix, Lennon, and Dylan. In Rob's words, he quit the limelight because for him, rock lost its l.u.s.ter after Jimi and Janis died, and he preferred looking ahead to being an aging professor than an aging-or dead-rock star.
While I'd poked bones Rob had pa.r.s.ed language, focusing on its context in other semiotic systems, modalities, and channels. He once explained what that meant. And I understood. Sort of.
Rob was now on the faculty at Columbia. Like me, he'd been pulled into forensics by cops and lawyers in need of expertise. Though we'd worked no cases jointly, we frequently joked about the possibility.
I checked my American Academy of Forensic Sciences members.h.i.+p directory. Rob was listed.
I dialed. He answered. I identified myself.
”I've been thinking about you.”
”I didn't do it,” I said.
”What if you were supposed to have?”
”Then I did it.”
”Glad that's cleared up. Since you're so conscientious, would you consider being program chair for next year's AAFS meeting?”
”Can I think about it?”
”Only you can answer that.”
”I'll think about it.”
”Fair enough. What's on your mind?”
”I have a favor to ask.”
”Not until I know how much money it will cost.”
”Could you a.n.a.lyze two samples of poetry?”
”I could.”
”Would you?”
”Of course. For you, anything. Is this to extract author demographic information, or to test for common authors.h.i.+p?”
”To determine common authors.h.i.+p.”
”Go on.”
”One poem was written by an adolescent girl. The author of the others is unknown.”
”You suspect the poems were penned by the same hand.”
”It's a possibility.”
”Realize that these a.n.a.lyses can take a long time.”
”Whenever you can. But there's a catch.”
”As am I.”
”This isn't an official request.”
”Meaning no money. Or am I to forget the a.n.a.lysis after I give it to you?”