The Fractal Murders Part 23

"I thought that was a pretty good question myself. So I called the bureau in Denver and spoke with one of the agents. Laid it all out for him. He called back ten minutes later and told me they had Green's gun in their evidence room. Said our forensic people had made a mistake."

"Who'd you speak with?" I asked.

"Some guy named Polk. You know him?"

"Yeah, I've known him since law school. He's one of the ones who worked on the fractal case."

"He never mentioned that, but I suppose they've moved on to bigger and better things." I said nothing because my mind was racing. "I don't know," he muttered, "maybe our people are wrong about the serial number."

"Think so?"

"I'll have them take another look at it."

"Can't hurt," I said. But I knew there had been no mistake.

I called Gombold that afternoon to confirm what I already knew. My stated purpose was to pick his brain concerning the use of E-Prime in Hawkins's most recent article. He agreed it was suspicious.

"So, what's new in your neck of the woods?" I asked when we had finished kicking it around.

"Same old s.h.i.t," he said, "but more of it." He sounded fatigued. "Dittmer has us working extra hours to take up the slack caused by the increase in counterterrorism ops, and some congressman wants us to investigate a waste-removal firm that put Smokey the Bear on its trucks without the secretary of agriculture's permission." I laughed.

"Don't laugh," he said. "That's a federal offense. You can get six months in prison for that."

"Glad you warned me," I said. "Hey, before I hang up, whatever happened with that case where you couldn't find the gun? What was that guy's name, Green?"

"Yeah, Bailey Green. He pled guilty last week. We never did find the weapon, so the U.S. Attorneys agreed not to file a habitual offender rap on him. The powers that be figured that was a small price to pay to keep the missing gun out of the papers."

"Probably just as well," I said. "You don't want to do anything that might alert potential jurors to the fact that the bureau sometimes makes mistakes."

"G.o.d help us if that ever gets out."

"Get some sleep, Tim. You sound tired." I hung up and began writing a list of things to do.

There was no shortage of work. In addition to gathering as much information as possible on Hawkins, I wanted to learn more about Polk. For reasons unknown, he had lied to Gilbert about the missing revolver. And he had tried his best to discredit me with Dittmer when he'd learned Jayne had hired me. So I wanted to dig into his background. On top of all that, the image of Finn sneaking around my house kept making its way into my mind. I tried to let it go, but I wanted an explanation.

Hawkins. Polk. Finn. I'd have to learn more about each of them.

25.

I COULDN'T BELIEVE IT. I actually found a parking s.p.a.ce in the visitors' lot nearest the math building. It was eleven-thirty on a sunny Wednesday morning. The warm weather had returned as quickly as it had vanished, and I had a lunch date with Jayne Smyers.

There were few people in the building. I took the steps to the third floor. Finn was not in his office, but the door was open.

Jayne was seated behind her desk wearing camel slacks and a powder blue top with a scoop neck. Pink lipstick. Finn sat in the chair to her right, Mary Pat in the one to her left. They were talking departmental politics.

"h.e.l.lo, Mr. Keane," said Mary Pat. She wore tan shorts and a yellow oxford-cloth shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

"Am I early?" I asked.

"No," said Jayne, "you're right on time." Finn turned and looked at me, surprised.

"Saw your picture in the paper," I said. "Congratulations." I extended my hand and resisted the temptation to squeeze as if I had been blessed with extra tendons.

"Thanks," he said. He wore navy Dockers, a white short-sleeved shirt, and a maroon tie.

"Yes, Stephen," said Jayne, "that was a wonderful article. We're all so proud of you." Let's not overdo it, I thought.

"Everyone in the department is talking about it," offered Mary Pat.

Finn somehow interpreted all this as an invitation to talk about the race in detail. We listened politely as he recounted his swim-run-bike adventure in far too much detail. When he had finished, I looked at Jayne and said, "Shall we do it?"

"Absolutely," she said with a smile. She reached for her purse, then stood and walked around her desk to my side. It then hit Finn that the two of us had a lunch date, but he did his best to appear indifferent. "I'll be back by one," Jayne announced. I smiled at Mary Pat, gave Finn a polite nod, then gently touched the back of Jayne's elbow as I escorted her from her office. It was a subtle gesture, but I made sure Finn saw it.

"Where would you like to eat?" I asked as I held open one of the gla.s.s doors at the entrance to the building. She stepped through and I followed. The sun was bright, so I removed my aviator's gla.s.ses from my shirt pocket and put them on.

"Let's eat at the grill," she said. "I've got some things to do on that side of campus anyhow." That sounded fine, so we made our way around various buildings and gra.s.sy commons to the University Memorial Center.

There are a number of food vendors in the UMC. One of the most popular is the Alferd E. Packer Grill, a cafeteria named after the only American ever convicted of cannibalism. I hadn't been there in years, but it didn't appear to have changed. I thought briefly of lunches enjoyed long ago with Joy.

The line was long but moved quickly. I ordered clam chowder and a diet c.o.ke; Jayne opted for a large salad and iced tea. She offered to treat, but I had my wallet out. "I'll pay," I said, "you find a table." The academic year had ended, but there were few empty seats in the enormous dining area.

I collected my change from a grandmotherly cashier and briefly wondered whether my aging mother might someday be forced to work in a similar capacity. I scanned the room and saw Jayne at a small table against the far wall. She noticed me and waved. I picked my way through the crowd like a running back dodging oncoming tacklers, then set my tray down across from her. "Is it always this crowded in the summer?" I asked.

"No," she said, laughing, "there must be a conference." I sat down and we began eating. "Did Maggie call you?" she asked.

"Yes," I said, "we met yesterday." I summarized what I had learned.

"E-Prime?" she said. "I've never heard of that. I'll have to experiment with it."

"I've been playing with it since yesterday," I said. "It's a challenge."

"Well, I'm glad Maggie was able to help." She speared a cuc.u.mber slice with her fork. "Is that the new development you mentioned?"

"No," I said. I related what Gilbert had learned about Bailey Green, then recounted my conversations with Gombold.

"My G.o.d," she said, "what do you make of that?"

"I'm not sure," I said. I paused to sip my drink. "One thing I plan to do is learn more about Polk, but I need your help."

"What can I do?"

"Polk went to law school here," I said. "I want his records. Application, grades, everything."

"The registrar will want a release," she said.

"Make something up," I said. "Tell them he's applied for admission to the graduate program and the department lost his application. Act embarra.s.sed, but make it seem urgent. Do it at noon when the supervisors are likely to be at lunch. If that doesn't work, let me know." She raised her gla.s.s to her lips and looked at me as she sipped her tea.

"I don't think I'd want you mad at me," she said.

"I'll take that as a compliment," I said. "Will you try?"

"I think I intended it as a compliment," she said. "And yes, I'll try."

I got up and refilled our drinks and the conversation turned to matters unrelated to the case. "I called the owners' a.s.sociation about those Russian olive trees," she said, "but the man I spoke with didn't seem too concerned."

"The best way to get rid of them is with a flamethrower," I said. "That kills all the seeds. I don't suppose you have one." She laughed and we continued talking about nothing in particular. Her summer, my summer, and so forth. At one point there was an awkward silence, but she broke it by saying she'd had a good time Sunday. I a.s.sured her I'd enjoyed the day as well. I wanted to ask her out again, perhaps to dinner or a movie, but I didn't. Before traveling too far down the road to relationshipville, I felt obligated to disclose one or two things, and I wanted to think more about the best way to do that.

She glanced at her watch. "Oh," she said, "it's almost one. Walk me to the admin building?"

"Delighted," I said. It was a bit out of my way, but I enjoyed being with her. We walked along Broadway to the administration building, then said good-bye. I never mentioned Finn's visit to my house. I had my own plan for him, and she didn't need to know about it.

The man who cuts my hair is a funny old guy. Milt owns one of the last neighborhood barbershops in Boulder and still proudly displays his old union card. My lunch with Jayne had been shorter than expected, so I'd decided to stop for a haircut. He was engrossed in the sports section when I walked in.

"Wake up, old man," I said, "I'm tired of looking like a freak."

"Pepper Keane, the lawyer marine."

"Can you drag yourself away from the baseball stats long enough to give me a haircut?"

"It's almost touching your ears," he said. "You got cash?"

"Always," I said. He sprang out of his chair with the pep of a man fifty years younger. I had no trouble believing he had once been a welterweight prospect.

"Don't take checks," he said.

"I know," I said. Milt knew exactly how much income he could report each year without having to accept reduced Social Security benefits.

I stepped up into the black chair and let Milt do his thing as he expertly a.n.a.lyzed the Rockies' pitching woes and brought me up to date on the latest happenings at the VFW. "Ten bucks," he said as I stepped down.

"That's robbery," I said.

"Then go to Super Clips next time," he shot back. "Let one of those h.o.m.os cut your hair." I handed him twelve dollars and told him I'd be back in a few weeks. Lit up the truck, popped in a tape of old Motown tunes, and headed for Denver.

I arrived at Troy's gym just before three. There were a few hardcores pumping iron, but the overall volume was low. I opened my locker, stripped to my boxers, and weighed myself. I was still on the scale when my brother and Jeff Smart came up behind me. "Two-fifteen," my brother observed. "Maybe you ought to think about liposuction."

"Five-eight," I said. "Maybe you ought to think about elevator shoes." Troy laughed and I stepped off the scale. "Good to see you, Jeff," I said as I extended my hand. "It's been a while." He grew up in our neighborhood and has been one of my brother's best friends since grade school. "I thought you were in Chicago," I said as I donned green workout shorts and a white tank top.

"Moved back a year ago," Jeff said.

"Still flying the friendly skies?"

"Not anymore," he said. "A buddy and I leased a Learjet and started a charter service. It's called Smart Charter. All we do is fly executives around."

"Beats getting a real job," my brother said.

"The Keane family motto," I said. They waited patiently while I put on my running shoes. "In the words of Gary Gilmore," I said as I finished tying the laces, "let's do it."

With that, we began a thorough leg and back workout. Squats, dead lifts, bent rows, dumbbell rows, knee extensions, ham curls, calf raises, and more squats. Jeff kept up well, but used less weight for most exercises. He stands six-one and probably weighs one-seventy. It's the perfect build for the sport he enjoys most-skirt chasing.

Jeff has been a womanizer since p.u.b.erty. In addition to being outgoing and fun loving, he has a look some women find attractive. He has a dark complexion-probably the result of his Jewish ancestry-and dark, curly hair, which he wears just slightly longer than is today fashionable.

We finished our workout with a short jog through the tree-lined streets of the Cherry Creek area. There were plenty of young women out-shopping, jogging, doing yard work-and Jeff didn't miss a one. "How many ex-wives are you up to now?" I teased.

"Still just the two," he replied. I had represented him in his second divorce, a nasty affair despite the short duration of the marriage and their lack of children. It had been policy at Keane, Simms & Mercante to refuse domestic cases of any kind, but handling such matters for friends and relatives is just part of being a lawyer. You can't avoid it.

Troy's gym came into sight as we neared the end of our trot. We had jogged about a mile. "You guys want to go out for a beer?" my brother asked.

"Sure," I said.

"I'll go, but I can't drink," Jeff said. "We're flying to Boston tomorrow and takeoff is at zero five hundred."

"Beats getting a real job," my brother reminded him.

"How long are you going to be in Boston?" I asked.

26.

THE c.o.c.kPIT OF A LEARJET 45 XR is designed to allow the pilot and copilot to work efficiently and in comfort, but the engineers had not antic.i.p.ated that thick-limbed private eyes might also ride up front, so I sat on the floor. Jeff and his copilot/partner had agreed to let me b.u.m a ride, but I had to remain in the c.o.c.kpit so the six executives in the pa.s.senger cabin could have the privacy they were paying for.

We took off at 5:07 A.M. It was still dark, but hints of dawn were evident on Colorado's eastern horizon as indigo gave way to pale blue. "Is this legal?" I asked as the aircraft leveled off.

"No," Jeff replied. "You're not even on the manifest, so we're violating at least two FAA regulations."

"If we go down," said the copilot, "the extra body is gonna confuse the h.e.l.l out of the NTSB." Jay was a few years younger than Jeff, perhaps thirty, and looked like one of the Beach Boys. He stood about five-nine and was trim like a pilot should be. Blond hair, blue eyes, nice tan.

We continued east and my lack of sleep caught up with me. I'd risen at 3:00 A.M. to give myself time to drop the dogs at Troy's and get to the airport. "Take a nap if you want," Jeff said. "Won't hurt our feelings."

"I think I will," I said. My only luggage was an overnight bag I'd been holding in my lap. Using that as a pillow, I let my head rest against the door and closed my eyes. I slept a little more than an hour. "Where are we now?" I asked.

"Closing in on Des Moines," said Jeff. I nodded and decided to resume my struggle with Heidegger's Being and Time, a self-imposed ch.o.r.e I'd been neglecting lately.

For any man, "Dasein," in the world, Heidegger felt there are three possible modes of existence: undifferentiated, inauthentic, and authentic. A man in the undifferentiated mode never questions the meaning of his own life or faces up to the fact that his existence is defined by the culture fate threw him into. He never recognizes his own "thrown-ness," but blindly accepts the existence he has inherited. If anything, I had questioned the meaning of my life way too f.u.c.king much, so the undifferentiated mode clearly did not describe me.

A man in the inauthentic mode recognizes that his existence is a result of coincidence-recognizes his own thrown-ness, but simply subst.i.tutes some other role for the life he inherited, not recognizing that both roles were created by the culture he was thrown into. I had left the Marine Corps for civilian life, and I had left the congestion of Denver for mountain life in Nederland, but I recognized that both roles existed within the American culture I'd been born into. I knew that if I'd been born in China, I'd have turned out to be a thick-limbed Chinese private eye, so I definitely recognized my own thrown-ness, and the inauthentic mode didn't describe me either.

A man's recognition of his own thrown-ness sometimes leads to what Heidegger called "anxiety." He begins to think about death. When a man is unable to face up to the possibility of his own nonbeing or nothingness, Heidegger referred to this as "fallen-ness." Instead of dealing with his anxiety, the man who experiences fallen-ness returns to the inauthentic mode.