The Fractal Murders Part 19

Applying those criteria to a financial market, the authors pointed out that in a financial market, each day's price depends, at least to some extent, on the previous day's price. Moreover, markets appear to show self-similarity at different scales. For example, a study of foreign-exchange markets had established that the difference between price movements over one day and two days is, on average, the same as the difference between price movements over one year and two years.

Because market patterns appear to be fractal, a growing number of observers believed market behavior could be predicted. n.o.body claimed fractal geometry could be used to predict market performance with precision, but many felt it could provide guidance as to trends. To make it work, you need vast amounts of data showing every trade on your chosen market for several years, a library of past patterns, and a computer program to compare the geometry of the data with the past patterns. You also need a device to compare your data with your theory to find the coincidences-a neural network.

Underwood had written about neural networks. I hadn't considered it significant at the time, but I was beginning to see a pattern of my own. I bid Wanda and Zeke farewell, then drove home.

It was unusual for my message light to be flashing at eight A.M., but I played the message, then phoned Scott.

"What's up?" I asked.

"You want the great news or the good news?"

"Start with the great news," I said.

"I think I found our boy."

"What's the good news?"

"He lives about six hours away."

"How'd you find him?" I asked.

"He responded to my message using the name Karl Gauss. He highly recommended a series of articles by Thomas Tobias."

"That would be Karl Gauss of Mora, New Mexico?"

"Yeah."

"Might as well head down there and get his story," I said.

"You want company?" he asked.

"Sure."

"When do you want to leave?"

"How about this afternoon? We'll spend the night with Crazy Uncle Ray and visit 'Karl' first thing in the morning."

19.

WE GOT A LATE START Tuesday, and that meant we'd be approaching Crazy Uncle Ray's shack at night. Probably unannounced. I'd left a message at the store in town, but there was no way to know whether he'd received it. My mother's youngest brother lives five miles out of Blanca, Colorado. Population 272. About four hours southwest of Denver. Not far from where Jack Dempsey grew up.

Ray is fifty-nine years old. He spent forty of those years as a drunk, but sobered up five or six years ago and bought five acres on a land contract. He pays $75.00 a month. The property is located in the shadow of scenic Blanca Peak; the view is wonderful, but the only vegetation consists of cacti and yucca plants. There's no water, no electricity, and no phone.

"You think this is it?" Scott asked. It was dark out, but the outline of a shack was visible in the distance off to the right. It looked familiar.

"I think so," I said. We were stopped on what might charitably be called a dirt road. I let the dogs out one last time because we'd be leaving the road and there would be no place they could romp without risking stickers in their paws. After a few minutes, I got them into the truck, then shifted into four-wheel drive and guided the vehicle over the scrub until we were fifty yards from the structure. Ray had built a "cabin" out of plywood. A former merchant seaman, he had always dreamed of owning land and being self-sufficient.

I gave the horn two long bursts, climbed out of the truck, and yelled his name. A flashlight beam moved inside.

"Who dat?" he yelled.

"It's Pepper," I shouted.

"Pepper, dat you?"

"Yeah, Uncle Ray, it's me."

"C'mon up he'yaw," he shouted. I climbed back into the truck and drove toward the shack. Ray had spent most of his life in New Orleans, so "here" sounds like "he'yaw." As we neared the shack, I saw him holding a large-gauge shotgun.

I exited the truck and shook hands with my uncle. I didn't smell any booze. My mother likes me to check up on him once in a while. "You remember Scott, don't you?" I asked.

"Why sho I do," said Ray. They shook hands. "Son, how you doin'?" Ray's about five-seven and might weigh one-forty dripping wet. His hair is gray and he always sports a bristly crew cut. He hadn't shaved in a day or two and his face was covered with stubble.

"Real well," said Scott. We followed Ray inside. It has never been my dream to live in an eight-by-twelve plywood shack, but if I had to, I'd want Ray to build it. He's a magician with tools. His place is airtight, which keeps the snakes out, and he's even got a wood stove. He lit a lantern and offered water. His water supply consists of a few dozen gallon jugs he fills in town. We accepted the water and sat down. Scott and I took the folding chairs; Ray sat on the bottom bunk.

"What you boys up to?" he asked. He has a scratchy voice, the result of having smoked Camels most of his adult life. I told him we were on our way to New Mexico to interview a potential witness in a murder case and gave him a thumbnail sketch of the case. There was no point in confusing him with details about such things as fractal geometry.

"Dis fella's prob'bly a drug dealer," he said. "Dat's why he don't want no one to find him." In Ray's world most people fall into one of two categories: drug dealers or devil worshipers.

I asked how things were going, and he said pretty fair. Some "Mexkins" had stolen his bicycle, but he'd finally gotten his privilege to drive reinstated and didn't need it anymore. After a while he started talking about the Bible, and that's when we decided to call it a night. He planned to stay up and read the good book awhile. He insisted we sleep on the bunks. "I'll lay me a sleepin' bag on the flo," he said, "and be just fine."

With no mountains to the east and no trees to provide shade, the morning sun hits Ray's shack early. We were up before six. Ray made coffee on the wood stove and offered some tiny cans of franks and beans, but we said we'd get breakfast on the road. "Y'all be careful," he said. "These drug dealers'll kill ya for five dollahs." That's one of his favorite expressions. In Ray's world, pretty much anyone would kill ya for five dollahs.

We'd been on the road an hour. Moving along in silence at a pretty good clip and sipping coffee. "Who the h.e.l.l was Karl Gauss?" I asked after we had crossed into New Mexico.

"He was like the John Elway of math and science two hundred years ago," Scott said. "He invented number theory. He applied mathematics to gravitation, electricity, and magnetism. He helped build the first telegraph. He even predicted the path of an asteroid that was hidden behind the sun. You ever hear of the Gaussian distribution?"

"I went to law school to avoid learning such things."

"He basically invented the bell curve."

"And the bell curve does what?"

"It describes any random process. If you flip a coin a hundred times, it may come up heads two or three times in a row and it may come up tails two or three times in a row, but by and large you won't see many runs like that. The flat tails of the curve represent those rare extremes and the bell portion represents the more typical occurrence."

"Thanks for clearing that up," I said.

"Don't make fun of statisticians," he said. "They'll kill ya for five dollahs." I smiled and guided the truck off I-25 and onto State Highway 120.

Mora sits thirty miles north of Las Vegas, New Mexico. It's in the mountains, on the edge of the Santa Fe National Forest. Most of the buildings on the main street were adobe structures. My map indicated a population of 4,264, but the streets were empty. We found a hole-in-the-wall restaurant and had an early lunch. We were the only non-Hispanics in the place. We appeared to be the only non-Hispanics in town.

Our address for Gauss was Route 1, Box 66. That didn't help much, so we stopped at the post office and asked directions. The postmaster, an older Hispanic man with a laid-back manner, drew a map and wished us a nice visit.

"So what's the plan?" Scott asked as I drove out of town. "We just gonna stroll in there and ask him if he killed three people?"

"Something like that," I said.

"If it's all the same to you," he said, "I think I'll take old Betsy with me." He began loading his .45 automatic. My Glock was already loaded. I don't have a name for it.

Gauss lived in an old adobe place about two miles south of town. A quarter mile off the main highway on a dirt road. The nearest neighbor a quarter mile away. I slowed down as we neared his home. n.o.body visible in the yard or in the house, no cars in the driveway. One mountain bike on the porch. The front yard small, but manicured. A ceramic donkey pulling a cart filled with flowers stood in the center of the closely cropped lawn. To one side was an enviable vegetable garden protected by chicken wire, but the rest of the land wasn't being used. A shallow irrigation ditch ran along the edge of his property on the side where the garden was. I continued past his house for about a mile, then turned the truck around and brought it to a stop beside a field where cattle grazed.

"This place is so tranquil," Scott said.

"It is," I agreed. I put my shoulder holster on, then donned a light jacket so my Glock wouldn't be immediately visible. Scott had no holster. I put the truck in gear and headed back. When we were within three hundred yards of the house, I stopped the truck, killed the engine, retrieved my binoculars from behind the driver's seat, and scanned the residence.

"See anything?" Scott asked.

"Just one guy walking back and forth inside the house a few times. Too far away to say for sure whether it's him." We sat there for forty-five minutes. When it was apparent there was only one man in the house, we decided to get it over with. I fired up the truck, put it in gear, slowly drove the final three hundred yards, and guided the truck into the gravel driveway.

I stepped out of the truck and Scott did likewise. He tucked his pistol into his jeans, at the small of his back. We were dressed casually, but looked as respectable as might be expected given that we'd spent the night with Crazy Uncle Ray and hadn't showered that morning.

The front door was a solid slab of dark wood. I knocked. Two strong knocks. I heard footsteps. The door opened. "May I help you?" the man asked. He matched the description of Tobias. Early thirties. Just under six feet. Much thinner than I'd expected; one-forty at the most. I took one look at him and knew he wasn't the killer.

"Mr. Gauss?"

"Yes." He had stringy brown hair and a pale complexion. He wore chinos, a white polo shirt, and old penny loafers. No socks.

"My name's Pepper Keane," I said as I handed him a card. "This is Scott McCutcheon. We're private investigators. May we come in?" He studied my eyes and realized I knew his true ident.i.ty.

"I suppose you'd better," he said. I scanned the room, but there didn't appear to be anyone else in the house. He gestured for us to enter. "Would you like something to drink?" he asked. "I can offer water, tea, or lemonade." He was soft-spoken and deferential.

"No, thanks," I said. The living room boasted a hardwood floor, but a large Navajo rug covered much of it. The matching sofa and chairs had been constructed from aspen logs and the cushions were covered with a bright Southwestern fabric. Jayne Smyers would've loved it. I sort of liked it myself.

"What can I do for you gentlemen?" he asked. He sat in one of the chairs. I went to the sofa. Scott walked back into the kitchen to make sure n.o.body else was in the house, then claimed a chair across the room to make sure Gauss/Tobias was between us.

"We know you're Thomas Tobias," I said. He looked down for several seconds.

"I can't imagine who might have hired you to find me," he finally said.

"We weren't hired to find you," I said. "We're looking into the deaths of some mathematicians, and your name came up."

"My name?" He seemed genuinely surprised.

"Did you know Paul Fontaine?" I asked.

"Of course," he said.

"Carolyn Chang?"

"Sure," he said, "she was at Nebraska."

"Donald Underwood?"

"What's this about?"

"They're dead," I said.

"All of them?"

"Yes."

"Murdered?"

"Two were murdered," I said. "Underwood's death might have been a suicide. We're not sure." I gave him time to process it.

"They each specialized in fractal geometry, didn't they?"

"Yes."

"And you're searching for people who worked with all three of them?"

"Worked or studied with them," I said.

"How did you find me?" he asked.

"It wasn't that hard," Scott said. A little hostile. I don't think he'd figured it out yet.

"You think I killed these people?" he said, incredulous.

"We have to check every lead," I said. "Just give us a rational explanation for the disappearing act. If it's not related to our case, we're out of here."

"I have AIDS," he said. He crossed his left leg over his right.

"I'm sorry," I said. There were purple lesions on his skin. I saw Scott's hostility fade.

"I'd been HIV positive for some time, but when the symptoms began to appear, I decided to live my dream. Buy a place in the Southwest, plant a garden."

"You couldn't do that as Thomas Tobias?"

"I'm gay," he said. "Mother's a devout Christian. She never accepted my lifestyle. I don't have any other relatives. I didn't want to spend my last years listening to her sell me religion. I just wanted to start over. It's better this way." I didn't know what to say. "Don't feel sorry for me," he said. "My medications are working. I have friends here. It's a good life."

I told him about our case and how we'd tracked him down. "You worked hard to find me," he said. "I'm sorry it was all for naught."

"It wasn't," I said. "We've eliminated you as a suspect." I stood and Scott followed suit.

"Would you like to stay for lunch?" he asked. "I'm preparing vegetable soup and salad."

We'd already eaten, but he seemed to want our company, so we accepted his offer. Though New Mexico's growing season is long, he'd constructed a small greenhouse behind his home to enable him to garden all year long. The soup and salad, he explained, were made with vegetables he'd started inside and transplanted a month ago. His pride in his vegetables was obvious.

When we had finished, I asked him to keep what we'd told him to himself. He said he would and asked us not to reveal his whereabouts to his mother or anyone else he'd known. We gave our word and climbed into the truck for the long trip home.

"What's Heidegger got to say about that?" Scott asked.