The Fractal Murders Part 26

"There it is," she said. "It's not far from Walla Walla."

"No," I said, "it isn't." It was on the Columbia River. About forty-five minutes from Walla Walla. Right where the gun had been found.

28.

THIS WAS YOUR SECOND DATE, right?" We were seated beside each other on the concrete floor, legs outstretched, our backs supported by an equally uncomfortable concrete wall.

"I guess so," I said. Not counting one lunch date and our chance encounter at the bookstore.

"How'd it go?" Scott asked.

"We didn't do it, if that's what you mean."

"There goes my theory about the second date."

"We fell asleep on the couch," I said. A fly landed on his left forearm; he smacked it with his right hand and flicked the remains away. "It's probably just as well," I added. "I want to have the D and M talk before things go too far." He looked at me.

"D and M?"

"Depression and manslaughter."

"I've got a news flash for you," he said. "If you two were curled up on the couch, things have already gone too far." He was right, of course. I had selfishly refused to disclose things Jayne had a right to know because I hadn't wanted to put a damper on a delightful evening or a potential relationship. He glanced at his watch. "Almost midnight," he said.

Sat.u.r.day was about to become Sunday and we were alone in a musty boiler room in the bowels of the mathematics building at the University of Colorado. We'd been there since seven, waiting for an a.s.sortment of die-hard instructors and students to go home. We wanted to be the only ones in the building before starting phase two. Now we were talking about the case.

"a.s.suming," Scott said, "these three developed some kind of wonder model, it just doesn't make any sense that there's no evidence of them communicating with each other."

"My theory is that whoever did it destroyed anything that might've linked the victims to the model or to each other."

"Before he kills them, he makes them hand over all the doc.u.mentation on the model and all their correspondence with each other?"

"Yup."

"Why?"

"Two reasons," I said. "First, he wants to claim the model as his own. Second, if he eliminates any evidence linking the three victims, the murders are more likely to be treated as three unrelated crimes. That's why he used a different MO for each murder; he wanted them to appear unrelated." Scott pondered that.

"How do you eliminate records of phone calls over a period of years?" he asked. "They had to be talking with each other."

"The bureau checked all that," I said. I explained what I had learned from Gumby about the lack of any uniform policy on the retention of billing records by telephone companies. "I read Polk's report on all that line by line. His boss double-checked it. If there were ever any records, they're gone now."

We sat in silence on the concrete for a few more minutes. "Something else doesn't make sense," Scott said.

"What's that?"

"I'm the killer," he said. "I get into Fontaine's home and force him to give me all the doc.u.mentation and correspondence. A lot of this stuff has to be on his computer. So we go upstairs and he gives me the disks. But some of what I want is on his hard drive, so I have to identify those files before I kill him. Then I have to copy them onto a disk and delete them from the hard drive."

"Okay."

"You said the police checked Fontaine's computers and didn't find any files linking him to the other two?"

"Yeah."

"They must not have done a very good job," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, if you're right, the information is still on his hard drive."

"What?"

"When you delete a file," he said, "it doesn't just disappear. The information remains stored on the hard drive until there's so much new data that the machine has to overwrite the deleted material. You can recover the deleted file by using a simple utilities program."

"I guess I knew that," I said. "So if our killer wanted to completely eliminate that evidence, how would he do it?"

"Only two ways to do it," he said. "You reformat the hard drive or remove it from the computer and grind it into dust."

"But he couldn't do either of those things because that would've told the police something about his true purpose."

"It sounds like the police just inventoried the files they found on the hard drive, but made no effort to recover the deleted files."

"I'll call Gilbert tomorrow."

"Have him check the computer in Fontaine's office too. If your theory is right, the killer had to bust into Fontaine's office before or after he killed Fontaine to find whatever doc.u.mentation might be in his office."

"It wouldn't have been hard to do," I said. "There was a bike rack that could've been used as a ladder right outside the building. And some of the windows in that building were wide open."

"You might want to ask this cop in Walla Walla if there's any evidence of a break-in."

"Okay," I said. "Speaking of busting into offices, one of us should go take another look."

"I'll do it," he said. He stood and began walking down the dark corridor.

I closed my eyes and tried to do some meditation, but my mind kept coming back to Jayne Smyers. Her delicate features. The scent of her perfume. The taste of her kisses. It was too early to call it love, but it was something I hadn't felt in a long, long time.

Ten minutes later I heard Scott approaching. I knew it was Scott because n.o.body else would be whistling "Jambalaya" under such circ.u.mstances. "Those kids finally took off," he said. "It's just us." The last holdouts had been some students in a seminar room on the second floor.

"Took 'em long enough," I said. I stood, but my legs were asleep. I laughed and jumped up and down a few times to get the blood flowing. When the tingling sensation ceased, we donned surgical gloves and began a cautious journey to the third floor.

"I feel like E. Howard Hunt," Scott whispered. We were just outside Finn's office.

"Let's hope we do a better job than those jokers," I said. Scott knelt to examine the doork.n.o.b and keyhole. "You can forget that," I said. I pointed to the suspended ceiling. He understood immediately. I a.s.sumed a squat position. When he was firmly on my shoulders, I stood. It took him less than thirty seconds to pop one of the ceiling panels, climb over the threshold, remove a panel on the other side of the door, descend into Finn's office, and open the door for me.

The first thing we did was replace the ceiling panels. "Now what?" Scott whispered. The room was dark.

"You go to work on his computer," I said softly. "I'll check the filing cabinet and desk." I removed a penlight from my shirt pocket. It looks like an expensive writing instrument, but emits an adjustable beam of red light.

"What are we looking for?" Scott asked.

"I don't know," I said. "Anything that might explain why this guy was snooping around my house."

"Why not just ask him?" he said. "I've got a blowtorch you can borrow if he won't cooperate."

I smiled. "I may talk to him," I said, "but first I want to learn more about him." He shrugged and sat down at the computer. I went to the black metal filing cabinet. It consisted of four drawers. I slid the top one out and began going through it. The files were in alphabetical order, each identifiable by a typed label. I opened every file, but found only mathematical articles on topics of interest to Finn.

"This guy may be a genius," Scott whispered after several minutes, "but he's a functional illiterate when it comes to computer security." I said nothing and opened the second drawer. It contained teaching materials-course outlines, grade books, tests, that sort of thing.

The third drawer was reserved for his research. It contained his doctoral dissertation-a lengthy paper on something having to do with prime numbers-and numerous other files holding papers he'd auth.o.r.ed on various mathematical subjects. It appeared he had kept every paper he'd written since entering Harvard at sixteen.

I opened the bottom drawer. Every man has a place to hide his junk, and this was Finn's. The drawer's contents included several dozen issues of Inside Triathlon, six cans of tuna in spring water, two disposable razors, one nearly empty tube of toothpaste, and a toothbrush so yellowed and full of crud I wouldn't have used it on my dogs. I gently pushed the drawer into place, then walked toward the desk, where Scott was hard at work.

"Finding anything?" I asked.

"No files with your name," he said. "None with hers either, but that can be deceptive because people sometimes choose file names that have nothing to do with the subject matter of the file. Unless I can tell what it is, I'm opening each file to see what's in it. I'm almost done with the hard drive." I gave him a pat on the shoulder and said he was a good man. Then I considered Finn's desk.

There were only two drawers, the top smaller than the bottom. Both on the right. Both locked. Unlike TV gumshoes, I'm not particularly skilled at picking locks, but the desk was cheap and I was able to pop the bottom drawer open without destroying the mechanism. Then we heard footsteps.

I dashed behind the door while Scott hid between the filing cabinet and bookcase. The footsteps grew louder. It was definitely a man, and he wasn't singing "Jambalaya." I looked at Scott and brought my right fist down hard on an invisible foe. He nodded. We had committed a felony, and I didn't plan on spending the next five years sharing a cell with the likes of Delbert Gaffney.

But it didn't come to that. The footsteps faded as quickly as they had become audible. It sounded as though someone had simply walked down the hall and out the fire door at the far end. "Security guard?" Scott whispered.

"Sad state of affairs when you can't even bust into a man's office without worrying about government interference."

"It's the G.o.dd.a.m.ned bureaucrats in Washington," he agreed. I smiled, but my heart was still racing.

Scott sat down at the computer and began inserting disks. I returned to the desk drawer. Again, the files were in alphabetical order. Their contents tended to be of a more personal nature than the doc.u.ments in the filing cabinet. Correspondence, pay stubs, pension statements. Toward the rear was an accordion folder labeled "Tenure." I removed it and parked myself on a chair beside the desk.

Finn was nothing if not organized. Inside the folder were four files, each with its own label. The first contained the university's policies pertaining to tenure, a thick doc.u.ment obviously drafted by a team of lawyers. The next held Finn's curriculum vitae and copies of his academic publications. The third contained a chronological list of his significant accomplishments, together with supporting doc.u.ments in the form of letters, awards, and news clippings. The fourth was labeled "Tenure Committee."

For each person on the committee, he had prepared a paper summarizing that person's background and interests. Each concluded with a rating showing his perceived level of support from that person. He had devised a scale from 1 to 5, with 1 indicating strong support and 5 indicating scant support. His dossier on Jayne consumed three single-s.p.a.ced pages and ended like this: SUMMARY Because of her people skills and objective manner, Jayne is likely one of the committee's leaders. She is concerned not only with scholarship, but also with teaching ability. Politically, she is left of center on many issues, but she would not allow political differences to influence tenure decisions, particularly in mathematics and the sciences. The one exception may be women's issues. She serves on the board of directors of a local shelter for battered women. She's a staunch feminist, and any candidate perceived as hostile to the cause or unconcerned about such issues stands little chance with her. Support Rating: 2.

I told Scott what I had found. "I thought you said she wasn't a femi-n.a.z.i," he said.

"She's not," I said. I reread the doc.u.ment, slowly, and noticed a pa.s.sage I'd missed the first time: Social Jayne Smyers is one of the most attractive and delightful women I've ever met, but she has never been married and all her close friends are women. I've made an effort to attend lectures and university events with her, but it's clear she's not interested in more than that. Maybe she thinks I'm too young. Or perhaps she's afraid of becoming involved with someone in her department. I once thought she might prefer women, but she's recently started spending time with a private investigator named Keane-a big gorilla she claims is helping with something at the shelter. I struggle to control my feelings. I must avoid any action that might embarra.s.s me.

I laughed and read it to Scott. "Sounds like he's jealous of the gorilla," he said.

"Sounds like he's got some issues," I said. The last two sentences concerned me.

"I don't mind you dating a lesbian," Scott said, "but this staunch-feminist thing bothers me." I ignored him.

"I wish we had a copier," I said.

"Why? You can't show it to your new girlfriend without admitting you're a burglar and a thief."

"I'd just like to have a copy," I said.

"Maybe he's got it on disk." Scott sighed. "If he does, I can e-mail it to you." I asked him to give it a try, then reviewed the remaining files in the drawer. When I had finished, I stood over his shoulder and watched as he went about his work. "Here it is," he said. It was a word-processing file labeled "TENUREBIOS." I watched as the doc.u.ment appeared on the monitor. It contained all the bios, and they appeared identical to the hard copies I'd found.

"Send the whole thing," I said. We'd been in the office more than forty-five minutes. I wondered what to do while Scott completed his task, then noticed a tattered black address book on top of the desk. I opened it and began turning pages. If nothing else, I might learn who Finn was still in contact with back in Lincoln.

"Okay," Scott said as he shut down the computer, "let's get out of here." But I didn't hear him. "C'mon," he said, "let's go." I debated it for a second, then tore a page from the address book. "Why'd you do that?" he asked. I handed it to him and pointed to the name.

"Amanda Slowiaczek," he said. "Why does that sound familiar?"

29.

OUR TECHNICIAN INVENTORIED and examined the files on both computers and all the floppy disks," Gilbert said, "but she never attempted to recover any deleted material." It was eleven o'clock on a Sunday morning. I'd phoned him two hours ago and he was just now getting back to me.

"She had no reason to," I said, "because she didn't know about the other deaths."

"What about the bureau?" he said. "They were supposed to be looking for a connection."

"I reviewed the file this morning. In Fontaine's case, they relied on your technician's report and never conducted an independent examination of his computers. The hard drive in Carolyn Chang's computer had been replaced by the time the feds got involved, so there was nothing they could do there. They did conduct a thorough examination of Underwood's hard drive, but didn't find anything."

"Maybe Underwood did his work at New Paradigm Systems."

"I'll check that," I said. "In the meantime, can you have someone take another look at Fontaine's computers?"

"You bet."

"Did you check with the college about possible break-ins?"

"Yeah, I spoke with their chief of security this morning, but it's not a real sophisticated operation. They pay a student to walk around the campus all night and check the doors on the buildings. No record of any break-in or vandalism. You're right, though. I drove past the campus after you called. Anyone who wanted to could get into that building just by standing the bike rack up under a window."

I said good-bye to Gilbert, drove to the Texaco to buy a large coffee and a copy of the News, came home and read the paper, then contemplated the rest of my day. There wasn't much I could do on the case. Finding Amanda's name in Finn's address book had aroused my curiosity, but I didn't want to bother Susan Thompson on a Sunday. I had yet to review the doc.u.ments Scott had obtained pertaining to Polk's divorce, but those were unlikely to contain anything earth shattering. I decided to take a drive.

"C'mon, boys," I said, "let's go see what there is to see." The tone of my voice told the dogs all they needed to know. They ran straight to the truck. I loaded them, then went inside for a jacket. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, but that can change quickly in the mountains. I grabbed the Polk doc.u.ments on the theory I might stop to read them along the way. Hit the B&F for a diet c.o.ke, popped in a Turtles tape, and headed south on Colorado 119 with no particular destination in mind.

We ended up near Leadville, a mining town ten thousand feet above sea level. There are four national forests in that area and plenty of dirt roads. I picked one and followed it nearly five miles to an abrupt end. There was one other vehicle at the trailhead, a white Jeep Cherokee with a "Trout Unlimited" emblem on the rear window. Serious fishermen. I studied the topographical map and guessed they had headed north to a small lake. With both dogs off leash in violation of forest service regulations, I wanted to avoid others at all costs, so I chose a different trail-one that didn't lead to any lakes or designated camping areas. It meandered west, at times following a narrow creek.

Our hike took four hours, but the dogs loved it. They sniffed and raced from one curious object to the next. Seeing them frolic in the creek brought joy to my heart. If I accomplished nothing else in life, I had taken care of the two creatures entrusted to me. But I hoped to do more than that. I hoped to be able to care for my parents when the time came. I hoped to marry someday. And I hoped to solve the fractal murders.

As for short-term goals, I hoped to find a restaurant. It was past six when we finished our trek and I was hungry. So were Buck and Wheat. I keep a supply of dog chow in the truck, so feeding them was easy, but I wanted something better than Science Diet for myself. I drove into Leadville.

It was Sunday night and most restaurants were closed. A few taverns on the edge of town were open, but they appeared to cater to bikers. Not the kind who wear spandex shorts. The kind who deal meth and can smell a prosecutor-even a former one-a mile away. I ate at the Tastee-Freez.