The Fractal Murders Part 6

The next batter was called out on strikes and the Dodgers came to bat.

"What's the other reason?" I asked.

"Computers," he said. "If you're going to mine vast amounts of data in search of fractal patterns, you need a computer that's up to the task. Today's computers are so much faster and more powerful than they were even a few years ago-"

"More people have the technology?"

"Absolutely."

A pimple-faced beer vendor with stringy black hair pa.s.sed us as he made his way up the concrete steps. "You have anything in a raspberry wheat?" Scott asked.

Not realizing Scott was pulling his leg, the youngster replied, "Just Coors." Scott grinned at me, handed him a five, and told him to keep the extra buck.

"This fascinates me," I said. "I'd never heard of fractal geometry before Monday, and now I can't look at a cloud or tree without searching for that 'hidden order' she talked about." Scott just smiled and sipped his beer.

"a.s.suming," he said, "these people were murdered because of their work with fractals, why them? Every major university has someone who teaches fractal geometry."

"That's the question," I said.

"They never had any contact with each other?"

"That's what Gombold told me."

He pondered that. "Maybe the killer is the connection."

"That's where you come in."

He looked at me. "Lay it on me," he said.

"I need a list of people who might've taken cla.s.ses from all three victims." He nodded, said nothing.

Meanwhile, the Dodgers's leadoff man had walked and the count on the current batter was three b.a.l.l.s, one strike. The next pitch looked good from our angle, but the umpire yelled, "Ball four!"

"Jesus!" Scott screamed as he stood up. "That was right down the G.o.dd.a.m.ned middle."

I remained silent despite the call, but one of the Cub Scouts stood and yelled, "Umpire needs gla.s.ses." The den mother slapped his arm and shot us a look as if we'd just flashed ourselves in a nursing home. Scott winked at her and took his seat.

"This guy Fontaine had been teaching at the same place for more than twenty years?" he asked.

"Since seventy-seven."

"What's the name of that school?"

"Whitman College."

"Never heard of it."

"It's a liberal-arts school. One of the best if you believe U.S. News & World Report."

"So we're probably looking for someone who went to school up there, then took graduate cla.s.ses from the others."

"Probably," I said, "but not necessarily. Could even be someone who taught with all three of them." He said nothing, but I saw the wheels turning. "Can you do it?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"Knew you could," I said. I have considerable respect for Scott's computer-hacking skills. I'd seen him access cla.s.sified defense databases just for fun and didn't figure he'd have much trouble with enrollment records at a few colleges and universities.

The first game ended in an eight-to-three loss and we didn't stick around for the second. We arrived at Scott's South Boulder home to find Bobbi watering her flowers. She owns a condo, but spends most of her time with Scott. They'd been seeing each other for three years and the arrangement seemed to suit them. Scott had been married briefly when he was in the navy and swears he'll never marry again. Which is too bad because Bobbi is what my father used to call "a real peach." A perky dishwater blonde with a great figure, she works as a property manager for a commercial-leasing company. She doesn't have a college degree, but she's a bright lady with a fine sense of humor.

Scott had never been one for gardening, but Bobbi's TLC had transformed his previously barren yard into the envy of the neighborhood. "Next thing you know," I said, "you'll have pink flamingos on your lawn."

"She likes football and doesn't mind the occasional use of words such as 'skunkf.u.c.ker,'" he said. "Flamingos are a small price to pay." We exited my truck.

"Hi, handsome," she said to me. She put her arms around me and gave me a hug.

"Why don't you leave this guy," I said, "and check out life with a real man?"

"I thought about it," she said, "but he said marines were poor lovers because they were always thinking about shining their shoes." Scott grinned.

"It's an old joke," I replied. "And I told it to him."

6.

FRIDAY EVENING. I was on the front deck with my dogs, continuing my laborious reading of Being and Time and listening to Gordon Lightfoot. Feeling a little melancholy. A girlfriend once told me I spent too much time thinking about things. It was true, but it only led to one of those ridiculous chicken-and-egg riddles. Did thinking too much cause my depression or did my depression cause me to think too much?

Tonight I was thinking about the fact that I was forty-four and had never been married. Troy had been married for fifteen years and had two kids. I hadn't had a date in six months. I suppose some of that was my own fault. Plenty of people had tried to set me up, but I hadn't met anyone who tripped my trigger. Once you've been in love, it's hard to settle for mere companionship. I'd been in love once, but that was long ago and she wasn't coming back.

The wind picked up, and I stepped inside to get a jacket. Nederland sits 8,236 feet above sea level. Though it was May, the evenings could still be chilly. When I returned to the deck, the song playing was "If You Could Read My Mind." I've always been struck by one verse of that song: I walk away, like a movie star who gets burned in a three-way script; Enter number two.

A movie queen, to play the scene of bringing all the good things out in me.

Was that what I was holding out for? "A movie queen to play the scene of bringing all the good things out in me"?

This introspection was cut short by Buck's sudden barking. Someone was walking up the path to my home. Tall and thin. Luther. "Hey, Pepper," he said, "how you doin'?" There was no mistaking that laid-back Texas drawl.

"Fine, Luther, how are you?" Recognizing him as friend rather than foe, Buck trotted over and nuzzled him.

"I was just taking a walk and saw you out here." He extended his hand and offered me a joint, but I declined. Don't get me wrong, I had smoked dope periodically in college, I had inhaled, and I had enjoyed it, but these days my drug usage is generally limited to an occasional gla.s.s of red wine.

"Hey, Buck," Luther said as he gave the dog a pat on the head, "you sure are a good boy." Buck licked his hand, and Luther sat down beside me. I'd found two old rockers at a garage sale and refinished them using a rustic pine stain. "That dog always reminds me of Astro," said Luther. "You know, from The Jetsons."

"'Rastro,'" I corrected him, using my best cartoon dog voice.

"Rastro," he agreed.

Luther is one of the last hippies in America. I live in a newer log home on the edge of town and he lives in a small house a few hundred yards west of me. It was built in the thirties as a summer cabin, but they've added on to it. He and his wife own it, but others live there too and the composition of the group is constantly changing. I guess Luther and Missy are my next-door neighbors. Come to think of it, I guess they're all my next-door neighbors. I don't know how old Luther is, but he must be pushing fifty.

When I describe Luther as a hippie, I don't mean to disparage him in any way. He's one of the nicest guys I've ever met and he's a great musician, but it's the best word I can think of. He wears his increasingly gray hair in a ponytail, and his ragged jeans are covered with patches. He owns two vintage Volkswagen vans, one of which looks like it was painted by hyenas on acid. I'm not sure it runs, but I've seen people sleep in it for weeks at a time during the summer.

A lot of aging hippies live in Nederland. The town is nestled in the mountains fifteen miles west of Boulder. In the sixties and early seventies, Boulder was a happening place. There were regular protests, and everywhere you went you saw head shops and Marxist bookstores. Then Vietnam ended and Nixon resigned. With no cause to unite it, the hippie movement died. As more and more people flocked to Colorado, land prices skyrocketed and yuppies gained control of Boulder's political machinery. Now all you see down there are gourmet coffee shops and New Age bookstores. The diehard hippies moved to Nederland. And now you know the rest of the story.

I moved here two years ago. I'd become increasingly disenchanted with the practice of law. Long hours, high stress, ungrateful clients. I hated all insurance adjusters, most of my clients, many of my fellow lawyers, some judges, and all the politicians who competed with one another to propose ever tougher drug laws while at the same time refusing to appropriate money for prevention or treatment. I was burned out. Then I found myself charged with manslaughter.

Though I was ultimately acquitted, that episode had been the proverbial last straw. Life's too short to do something you don't enjoy. I decided to leave law altogether. My partners were shocked, but they purchased my interest on favorable terms and the deal left me with a nice little nest egg. Interest rates were low and I had always wanted to live in the mountains. With my Marine Corps haircut and a business card identifying myself as a private eye, it took a while for people to warm up to me, but now it feels like home. Up here it's live and let live.

Luther and I talked awhile, then sat quietly, enjoying the breeze and the scent of the pines. "Hey, Luther," I finally said, "you know anything about fractals?"

"A little," he said. "Missy's a big fractal freak. She plays with them all the time on our Mac." When she's not reading tarot cards or consulting with other locals concerning various New Age forms of healing, Luther's wife works as a freelance graphic artist. "She can do some far-out stuff."

"Ever hear of anyone using fractals to make music?" In addition to whatever else he does, Luther plays lead guitar for a band called the Stress Monsters. They're actually pretty good.

"Yeah, now that you mention it. You remember ELO?"

"Electric Light Orchestra?"

"Yeah."

"I remember."

"Their cello player was a dude named McDowell. He used fractal patterns to compose a ballet. It's called 'Tijuana' or something like that. I've got it at home if you want to hear it." I had nothing else to do, so I put Buck and Wheat inside and gave Luther a vague outline of the case as we walked through the pines to his home. "Freaky," was all he said.

There are usually several dogs lazing around in front of Luther's house, but tonight I saw just one. A shepherd mix. The front door was open, but the house appeared empty. I had been inside it only once or twice, so I wandered around while he searched for the tape. The sofa was ready for the Salvation Army and there was an air mattress on the living-room floor. His state-of-the-art sound system consumed an entire wall and I wondered how he could afford it. The Stress Monsters didn't figure to have a great compensation package.

I made my way into the kitchen and noticed a Phish calendar on the wall by the back door. "Here it is," Luther said as he returned to the living room. I sat on the couch and he leaned back in an old recliner. The music was soft and flowing. We could have fallen asleep, but Missy and a younger woman came through the front door before we got the chance. Missy wore an ankle-length skirt, the younger woman wore faded jeans. Both barefoot. "Hey, Missy," Luther said, "what's the name of this song?"

"Teawaroa."

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"It's Maori," she said. "It means 'great river.'"

7.

AS A MARINE I HAD LEARNED that when you a.s.sume something, it makes an a.s.s out of U and ME. I had never been to the Pacific Northwest, but I had a.s.sumed Walla Walla was near Seattle. I was wrong. I spent most of Sunday getting there. Denver to Salt Lake to Boise to Spokane, then a puddle jumper the rest of the way. One of those twin-engine jobs where only a flimsy curtain separates the c.o.c.kpit from the pa.s.senger cabin. On the plus side, I had avoided flying United. Call it coincidence, but I got a good view of the Columbia River just before we landed. It looked like a great river to me.

To say the airport was small would be an understatement. It reminded me of one I'd seen on an episode of Green Acres. I rented a nondescript Mercury Cougar and drove into town.

It was a surprisingly pleasant little city. About thirty thousand inhabitants according to the sign. Five hours southeast of Seattle and three hours south of Spokane, it sits at the foot of the Blue Mountains. It's wheat country, and the dust from the fields gave the late-afternoon sun a pastel orange glow.

I entered town on what must have been the newer part of Main Street. Every fast-food chain known to man had staked a claim. I continued on through, past the college, and soon found myself downtown, a few square blocks of banks, insurance agencies, Realtors, and mom-and-pop businesses. I located the police station so I'd know where to meet Gilbert in the morning.

Main Street ended abruptly, and I was forced to choose between turning right (three miles to the state pen) or left (seven miles to Oregon). I took the third option, made a U-turn and headed back to fast-food alley. Found a motel offering cable TV and a free continental breakfast, paid cash, registered as J. P. Sartre just for the h.e.l.l of it, and called my brother to check on my boys. He a.s.sured me they were fine, so I walked across the street to a pizza place where a dozen college kids were celebrating the approaching end of the school year. I ordered a small pie with garlic and mushrooms, a dinner salad, and a large diet c.o.ke.

"Is Pepsi okay?" the girl asked.

Not wanting to be a troublemaker, I said, "Pepsi's fine." She handed me a tall gla.s.s and told me to help myself. I put some crushed ice in it, filled it with pop, and found a table by the window.

The sun hadn't quite set when I finished my meal, so I took a walk. The lilacs were in bloom and smelled heavenly. The residential areas were beautiful; most of the homes were older and many boasted bountiful gardens. Children played and neighbors chatted. Residents nodded or said h.e.l.lo as I pa.s.sed. I was in a Norman Rockwell painting.

I found my way to the Whitman campus. Ivy covered most of the buildings and a small creek traversed the grounds. If I hadn't known better, I'd have sworn I was at one of those liberal-arts colleges in New England. Proving once again what happens when you a.s.sume something, I had a.s.sumed the college was named for Walt Whitman, but a bronze plaque at the base of a statue informed me it had been named for Marcus Whitman, a missionary killed by the Cayuse in 1847 for what they saw as his role in a fatal measles epidemic. Despite my Unitarian tendencies, I didn't know much about Walt, and I'd never heard of Marcus. As Whitmans go, my favorite has always been Slim.

From the campus I continued downtown. It was as dead as a jackrabbit on I-80 on a cold winter night, but I found a tavern I couldn't resist. The decor in McDuffie's was vintage 1945. The newest thing in the place was a faded portrait of John Kennedy in a two-dollar frame above the entrance. I guessed McDuffie was Catholic. A few old-timers sat at the bar. It was a dive, but it had a three-Hank jukebox. I sipped tonic water, ate free popcorn, and spent the evening listening to Hank Williams, Hank Thompson, and Hank Snow.

I bid McDuffie farewell at eleven and began walking back on a street parallel to Main Street, but one block over. I heard mariachi music coming from one of the taverns I pa.s.sed and saw a few unshaven migrant workers milling around outside the entrance. I took my hands out of my pockets-just in case they harbored any thoughts of mugging the gringo-but they ignored me and I felt guilty for thinking they might try it.

Did some channel surfing at the motel, then climbed into my dog-less bed and picked up Being and Time. Having started the d.a.m.ned book, I was determined to finish it.

As I've said, Heidegger felt the mystery of life was that something, rather than nothing, exists. He called this basic condition of existence Being and called everything else beings. He argued traditional philosophy had erred by focusing on the individual. Rather than recognizing our place within the world-our status as one being among all other beings-Heidegger believed our man-centered philosophy caused us to view the world as something that exists for and because of us.

If Donald Underwood had been a poor writer, Martin Heidegger had been a terrible one. Maybe the book had been easier to comprehend in the author's native tongue, but I didn't speak German and five pages was my limit. I caught myself nodding off, put the book down on the bedside table, and turned off the reading lamp.

I woke up around four-thirty. Another dream about Joy. A strange dream. I was plummeting to earth and Joy was soaring like an eagle, carrying a CARE package, and shouting, "Dozen, dozen." Joy and I had lived together for two years while we attended law school. She'd been dead more than twenty years, but still visited me regularly in my dreams.

Unable to get back to sleep, I went for a predawn run and soon found myself on a country road. I reviewed the dream in my mind as I ran. Falling to earth could symbolize how I'd felt since Joy's death, but I couldn't make any sense of the rest of it. A dozen what? After a while I let it go. I could've run forever in the cool morning air-especially at that alt.i.tude-but a large and spirited farm dog appeared at the three-mile point and suggested I turn back. I took the hint and reversed course. Shaved, showered, and took advantage of the free breakfast.

The police station, a monument to cream-colored brick, had probably been constructed at about the same time McDuffie had last redecorated. I arrived at nine sharp. Gilbert was a tall man, six-two. Maybe two hundred pounds. I liked him the moment I saw him. His left forearm bore a globe-and-anchor tattoo. He had a full head of hair, but spent a disproportionate amount of his salary on Grecian Formula. He wore navy blue polyester pants, a light blue shirt, and a maroon tie that had seen better days. A black nylon holster kept his nine-millimeter pistol snug against his hip. I guessed he was in his late forties. From the way he was smoking, I didn't think it likely he would make it to his late fifties.

"Call me d.i.c.k," he said as he greeted me. I commented on his tattoo and told him I'd been a marine JAG. "Well," he said in a raspy voice, "you get points for bein' a jarhead, but you lose points for bein' an officer." I laughed. He led me back to his office, a nondescript room decorated in early cop. Stacks of papers scattered about. Bowling trophies graced the tops of his old metal filing cabinets. The obligatory picture of the wife and kids sat on a shelf behind his desk.

We exchanged small talk for a few minutes, but the phone rang and he took it. "s.h.i.t," he told the caller, "it's gonna be another fine day." When he finished, he put down the receiver and handed me an accordion file. "Listen," he said, "I've got some things to do. Here's my entire file. We don't have room for you here, so take it someplace and come back in a few hours. We'll talk over lunch."

I walked two blocks, to the courthouse, found that there was a small law library on the first floor, and further found that it was unoccupied. I parked myself at a st.u.r.dy oak table and began to read.

Paul Fontaine had lived on Boyer Street. When he failed to show for cla.s.ses on the first Monday of the school year last September, one of his colleagues, Professor Max LeBlanc, made repeated calls to his home. When he didn't appear on Tuesday, LeBlanc tried his parents' farm, then walked the few blocks from the campus to Fontaine's home. Climbed the steps to the porch, peered between the curtains into the living room, puked his guts out, then notified Walla Walla's finest.

The pathologist's report indicated Fontaine had been shot once in the back of the head at point-blank range. The angle of entry, blood-spatter patterns, and position of the body all suggested he'd been made to kneel down. Executed in his own living room. Her best guess was that it had taken place late Sunday evening. He'd been dead at least thirty-six hours when the authorities entered his home.

They had found a slug embedded in the floor near Fontaine's head. It had entered his skull at a downward angle and exited in the vicinity of his mouth. It had been fired from a .38-caliber pistol, but that wasn't much help. You can purchase a .38 at any p.a.w.nshop in America for less than a hundred bucks. Gilbert had checked on recent sales around the state, but that had produced no viable suspects.

There was no sign of forced entry and none of the neighbors had heard anything. No appliances had been stolen and not much was missing. Fontaine had favored wearing an expensive watch, and a gold ring evidencing his membership in a mathematical society. Those were gone, as was any cash he'd had in his wallet.

The evidence suggested he'd been composing a letter to his oldest sister on the evening of his murder. The computer in his upstairs study was still on when the police arrived. A police technician had examined it, as well as the computer in Fontaine's office, but found nothing remarkable. Those efforts became significant when the feds entered the case because they had yielded no evidence of any correspondence with Carolyn Chang or Donald Underwood.

Gilbert and his colleagues had interviewed dozens of people. I studied the notes of each interview, but nothing jumped out at me. n.o.body knew why anyone would want Fontaine dead. He had been a likable man with a good sense of humor. Bottom line, the killer was still out there. I bought ten dollars in dimes from the county treasurer, then photocopied every doc.u.ment in Gilbert's file.

While at the courthouse, I decided to see if Fontaine's estate had gone through probate. The probate court was on the second floor, and the clerk of the probate court was a blue-hair named Edna who'd probably been working there thirty years. She was gossiping with a much younger civil servantress when I approached.