The Fractal Murders Part 17

"Who manufactured it?"

"Taurus."

"Taurus five-shot," I said. "That ought to narrow it down."

"Bet your a.s.s," he said. "What can I do for you?" I told him about Tobias's articles and asked if he could use his influence to run my thirty-four names through the driver's-licensing agencies in nine western states. "That'll take some time," he said.

"'Even a journey of one thousand miles begins with a single step.'"

"That's profound," he said. "You come up with that on your own?"

"I think it was Lao-tzu or Confucius," I said, "but it might have been Charlie Chan."

"I'll do what I can," he said. That was all I could ask. I turned my attention to the task of calling directory a.s.sistance.

Excluding Alaska and Hawaii, there are nine states located entirely in the Mountain or Pacific time zones. By my count there were twenty-nine area codes. Multiply that by thirty-four names and I might have been looking at 986 calls to directory a.s.sistance. Fortunately, several companies had recently started offering nationwide directory a.s.sistance.

It was a h.e.l.l of a way to spend a morning and it made for some interesting conversations. "I need a listing for a Joseph Fourier."

"What city?"

"Every city. I want every listing." Pause.

"I'll have to charge you for each listing, sir."

"I figured you would," I said. "That's okay." And so it went.

Most of the operators refused to search more than one or two names per call, so I had to call back each time I wanted listings for a new name. The woman who answered when I asked for every Rene Descartes in America must've known something about mathematics because she hung up on me, but I hit redial and drew someone else.

By noon I had the information I wanted. The sun was out, but I didn't feel like a long run, so I rode my bike up to the high school and ran a series of sprints. Races are measured in meters now, and most tracks are four-hundred-meter ovals, but I pretend one lap is a quarter mile. We used to call them 440s. Half a lap was 220 yards. I did some of those too, then ended with ten sprints between the goal posts. The process wore me out, but it felt good.

I had no sooner arrived home than the phone rang. It was Gumby. "What are you doing this afternoon?" he asked.

"What do you want me to do?" I replied. I was dripping with sweat, and Wheat was doing his best to lick it from my calves.

"Polk somehow found out this math professor hired you and told Dittmer. Polk's got him convinced you're a loose cannon."

"You want me to meet with Dittmer?"

"I think it would be a good idea. I told him you were a professional, but he'd like to meet you."

"This afternoon?"

"That'd be great."

"Four o'clock?"

"Perfect."

"I'll work out with my brother, and see you at four."

I got cleaned up, let the dogs out for a few minutes, then headed down the mountain to Denver. It didn't take a genius to know that the agent in Walla Walla had contacted Polk to let him know I'd taken a look at Fontaine's probate file, but how had Polk learned the ident.i.ty of my client? If Polk knew someone had hired me to investigate the three deaths, I suppose Jayne Smyers was the most obvious candidate.

I saw no suspicious yellow Ryder trucks in the vicinity of the federal building, so I figured it was safe to fulfill my promise to meet Gumby at four. The nearest open meter was three blocks away. Between the sprints and my workout with Troy, three blocks was about as far as I cared to walk.

I entered the building, pa.s.sed through the metal detector, and noted the President's smiling mug. I didn't vote for him, but I thanked G.o.d it wasn't Al Sharpton, Tom DeLay, or any one of a dozen other boneheads I could have named. I got off the elevator on eighteen and entered the Denver regional office of the FBI. A black receptionist sat behind a thick gla.s.s barrier. Pretty in a 1960s sort of way-like a young Diana Ross. I picked up the phone on my side of the barrier. "May I help you?" she asked.

"Pepper Keane," I said. "Here to see Tim Gombold."

"Please be seated," she said. "Someone will be with you shortly." Very professional, which is not always the case when you enter a government office.

I selected a recent Newsweek from the magazine rack and sat down on one of the tan leather couches. After ten minutes a side door opened and Gombold appeared.

"Sorry about this," he said. He handed me a visitor's badge and I clipped it to my lapel. I wore a black suit, white shirt, silver tie, and black wing tips. You don't need a color consultant to select your clothes when you've been blessed with black hair that has a white stripe.

"Don't worry about it," I said. I followed him through a maze and into the main workroom, then down a hallway to Dittmer's office.

The door was open. Gombold knocked on the door, then stepped in and said, "Sir, this is Pepper Keane." Dittmer was tall and lean, with broad shoulders. Wearing a short-sleeved broadcloth shirt. Early fifties. Weathered face, intense blue eyes, square jaw. Sandy hair, almost as short as mine. No smile. Everything about him said tough hombre.

"Bo Dittmer," he said as he stood and extended his arm. He sounded like he might be from the South. Not the Deep South; more like Virginia or one of the other border states.

"Pepper Keane," I said. We shook hands, and I noticed a long scar running the length of his forearm. His paisley tie hung loose around his neck. He motioned for me to sit down. Gumby sat next to me and stared out at the mountains. Dittmer had a corner office with a magnificent view of downtown and the Rockies.

"Agent Gombold speaks highly of you," he said.

"I pay him well," I said.

"Tim tells me you're taking a second look at a case we worked."

"That's right," I said. Stacks of files covered his desk, some nearly a foot high. An American flag on a wooden pole stood behind one corner of the desk. His walls boasted his college degrees, numerous army and FBI awards, and a number of photographs depicting him shaking hands with political heavyweights from both parties.

"I can't say I like the fact that you've become involved in the case," he continued, "but it's a free country and if this lady professor wants to pay you to dig around, I can't stop you." I said nothing. "I give you credit for finding that reference to Underwood in Fontaine's textbook, though," he added. "It's not enough to warrant reopening the case, but that was good work." He seemed sincere.

"Thanks."

"My concern," he said, "is that you don't create a panic in the press or in the mathematical community as you go about doing whatever it is you're going to do. Rumors get started, next thing you know Pierre Salinger's on the f.u.c.king Internet claiming the bureau's engaged in a cover-up."

"I've been pretty discreet so far," I a.s.sured him.

"I appreciate that," he said. "Can you tell me what else you've learned?"

I gave him the highlights, leaving out our discovery of Thomas Tobias because I didn't want him asking how I'd obtained Tobias's name. The conversation took about twenty minutes.

"Any leads on the gun?" he asked.

"No," I said. "They know it was a Taurus five-shot, but the serial number had been filed off." He just nodded and switched topics. "Tim says you were a marine?"

"Judge advocate," I said.

"You like it?"

"Loved it," I said.

"Why'd you leave?" Strange question given that I'd just met the man, but the question had been asked before and I knew how to respond without revealing my battle with depression.

"That's a good question," I said. "If I'd stayed in, I'd be four years away from retirement." He nodded. It was my turn to switch topics. "How about you," I asked. "You must have been in the service." I pointed to the awards on the wall.

"Army. Seventy to seventy-four."

"Vietnam?"

"Yeah, and parts of Cambodia and Laos. The lines were a bit fuzzy in those days. You ever in combat?"

"Nope."

"A lot of good men died," he said, "but sometimes I miss it. I swear, there are times I'd rather be back in the jungle than sitting behind this desk with baby-faced bureaucrats riding my a.s.s." Gumby glanced at me as if to say, See, I told ya. "But, that's my problem," Dittmer added, "not yours."

He ended our conversation at precisely four forty-five. He promised he'd consider reopening the case if I came up with something concrete. To his credit, he never mentioned my prosecution of the agents involved in the Big Crow case.

"Thanks for stopping by," he said as we stood. "I'm glad we had the chance to meet."

"Me too," I said. We shook hands again, and he turned his attention to some papers on his desk, leaving us to see ourselves out.

"That went well," Gumby said.

"Think so?"

"Yeah, you convinced him you know what you're doing, and that's all he wanted. And I think he likes the fact that you're prior military."

"Good."

"I'll walk you out," he said. He led me through the maze and into the main work area. There were dozens of desks, federal agents working diligently at many of them. It was a symphony of fluorescent lights, telephones, fax machines, copiers, and typewriters. As we approached the other end of the room, Polk came around a corner and nearly walked into us. A tall man with immense shoulders, blond hair, and movie-star looks, Polk is six-five and must weigh two-forty.

"What's he doing here?" Polk said to Gumby, making no effort to hide his contempt for me. His sleeves were rolled up and he wore a leather shoulder holster with a .357 in it. A combination Robert Redford and Dirty Harry.

"Surprised to see you here, Pokey," I said. "I thought they still had you working the Kennedy a.s.sa.s.sination."

"Kill anyone lately?" he asked. "I never understood how you figured it was okay to kill people, but not animals." Polk is a big hunting enthusiast-birds, deer, big game-and I'd given him plenty of grief about it over the years.

"Just some people," I said.

"Same old Pepper," he said. "If it wasn't for your tendency to indict federal agents, I'd shut that smart mouth of yours once and for all."

"I'm not a prosecutor anymore," I said as I set my briefcase down. "Let's do it right now."

The room was silent. Every agent and secretary was locked in on us. Polk stepped toward me, but Gumby stuck out his hand and said, "C'mon, guys." Polk's left fist was clenched and his face was the color of boiled lobster.

"Go ahead, Pokey," I said, "take a swing at me. I've been waiting twenty years for you to get up the courage."

We stared at each other, then he brushed past me and said, "Your day's coming, a.s.shole."

"Focus on the gra.s.sy knoll," I shouted as he walked away. "That's the key."

17.

I CAN'T BELIEVE ANYONE would name their son Isaac Newton," said Bobbi. Of the 157 listings I'd obtained from directory a.s.sistance, there were three Isaac Newtons. One in Vermont, one in New Jersey, and one in Ohio.

"Who's George Boole?" Bobbi asked as they continued scanning the notes I'd prepared. Of the thirty-four mathematical names I'd chosen to work with, that was the most common. I had telephone listings for twelve George Booles.

"Boolean algebra," I said.

"What's Boolean algebra?" Bobbi asked. She wore cut-offs and a red sleeveless top that accentuated her ample bustline.

"It's a system of symbolic logic," Scott said. He was focused on my notes, so it came out sounding like her question had been a distraction.

"Oh, that's right," she said. "I remember learning that when I studied for my broker's license." She elbowed him playfully. He smiled, put my notes aside, and reached for a bagel.

"Thank G.o.d these guys all have unusual names," he said. He wore a white tank top and green running shorts.

"There was one named Henry Smith," I said, "but I decided not to bother."

It was nine o'clock on a Sat.u.r.day morning. We were in Scott's kitchen eating bagels from Moe's and enjoying Bobbi's gourmet coffee. Aspen Blend, or something like that. Bobbi was in the process of updating the kitchen, so the wallpaper had been stripped from the walls. Buck and Wheat played in the backyard. Outside, it was shaping up to be a gorgeous day.

Inside, it was shaping up to be a tedious day. In addition to the 157 phone listings, Gilbert had faxed seventy-two driver's license abstracts. I handed those to Scott, then began to spread cream cheese across a garlic bagel.

"Why the red and green marks?" Bobbi asked. I'd sorted the abstracts into two categories.

"Red means the license was issued before Tobias disappeared. We can forget those people."

"How many green ones are there?" Scott asked.

"There were seventeen," I said, "but I eliminated ten based on age, race, or height." Tobias was thirty-five years old and white. His employment application had listed his height as five-eleven. I'd culled any man under twenty or over fifty. I'd also cast aside anyone shorter than five-seven or taller than six-three.

"These are just the Western states?" Scott asked.

"Yeah," I said. He put the abstracts aside and poured more coffee for all.

When she'd had her fill of bagels and coffee, Bobbi carried her dishes to the sink and said, "You boys have fun today. I'm off to the farmer's market." Boulder hosts a farmer's market every Sat.u.r.day from May through October. She gave Scott a peck on the cheek. He responded with a pat on her rear and asked her to buy some fresh corn. We heard her Porsche start, then resumed our discussion.

"I showed you mine," I said, "now show me yours."

"I took your suggestion," he said. "I monitored the math and science forums every night this week, but they were deader than dead. I spent four hours on-line last night and found one chat room open. There were two people in it."