The Fractal Murders Read online

  “All within six months of each other,” she said. “Do you know the odds against that?” It was a rhetorical question, but I had a hunch she could tell me the odds right down to the decimal point if she wanted to.

  “And you want me to find out if these deaths were related?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you report this to anyone?” I asked.

  “I called the police.”

  “And they said it wasn’t their problem?”

  “Yes, because none of the deaths had taken place in Boulder. They suggested I call the FBI.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “They do anything?”

  “Not from my point of view,” she said coldly. “Two agents from Denver interviewed me. I explained that the odds of it being a coincidence were astronomical. Six weeks later they told me they couldn’t find any connection and had closed the case.” Her nostrils flared. She was not a woman accustomed to being taken lightly.

  “When was that?” I asked.

  “About two weeks ago. I’ve been struggling with what to do ever since.”

  “Did you know any of the victims?”

  “I knew Carolyn Chang. We met at a conference in San Francisco a few summers ago.”

  “Did you stay in touch after that?”

  “Not really,” she admitted. “We exchanged Christmas cards, that’s about it.” We were silent for a moment, perhaps both recalling the names and faces of people who had briefly been friends but had long since been consigned to the category of memories.

  “And,” she said suddenly, “she sent me a note last year complimenting me on something I’d written for one of the journals. That’s the only time someone ever took the time to do that.” She seemed on the verge of tears, and I wondered how long it would take her to remove a tissue from the ceramic dispenser on her desk. Like her coffee mug, it boasted a colorful Southwestern design.

  “Did you know the others?”

  “Only by reputation,” she said. She started to reach for a tissue, but caught herself. She would not cry. “I’d read some of their papers,” she continued, “and seen their names in professional journals. You have to understand, these were some of the most brilliant people in the field. Professor Fontaine’s textbook is the bible of fractal geometry.”

  “You never met them or spoke with them on the phone?”

  “No.”

  “Ever correspond with them?”

  “No.”

  I leaned back and laced my fingers together behind my head. “You said you had planned to ask five experts to critique your paper?”

  “Yes.”

  “And three are dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who were the other two?”

  “Norbert Solomon at LSU and Mimi Townsend at MIT.”

  A math professor named Mimi? “Did they review it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “I’ve asked several others to look at it. I still expect to present it this fall.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment to process what I’d learned. “How many people in this country would you say are experts in fractal geometry?”

  “I think most major universities now offer at least one course in the subject.” My years as a trial lawyer had so conditioned me that my first instinct was to rise and object to her answer as nonresponsive. But I didn’t. She wasn’t on the witness stand and I was no longer practicing law. I rephrased the question.

  “Would it be correct to say that not everyone who teaches a basic course in fractal geometry is an expert?”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

  I leaned forward. “How many people really know this stuff?” I asked. “How many people know it well enough to critique your paper or write a textbook?”

  “Gosh,” she said, “I don’t know. Fifty?”

  “Okay,” I said, “can you think of anything that distinguishes these three from the other forty-seven?”

  “Well,” she said, “Fontaine was certainly one of the best-known people in the field.”

  “And the others?”

  “They were all highly regarded.”

  “Any other connection?” I asked.

  She opened a folder on her desk and removed some papers. “It may not be anything,” she said, “but each of them attended or taught at Harvard.” She handed me three biographies she’d apparently photocopied from some sort of who’s who in mathematics. I studied them.

  “It doesn’t appear there was any overlap,” I finally said. “Fontaine left Harvard while Carolyn Chang would’ve still been in high school.”

  She finished her coffee and poured more. “Yes, I noticed that.” Her intellect recognized the significance of the fact, but her voice told me the Harvard connection concerned her.

  “I’m sure many experts in fractal geometry spent time at Harvard,” I said.

  “I keep reminding myself of that, but it hasn’t stopped me from having some sleepless nights.” I suspected guzzling high-octane coffee late in the afternoon wasn’t helping the problem, but I kept that to myself.

  “Okay,” I said, “each of these people taught fractal geometry, each was highly regarded, and each spent time at Harvard. Aside from those things, can you think of any other connection?”

  “No,” she sighed, “I’ve been racking my brain about that, but I just can’t come up with anything.”

  I closed my eyes and massaged my temples. “So,” I finally said, “three math professors are dead, two of whom you never met.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re willing to spend your own money to determine if there’s a connection?”

  “There is a connection,” she shot back. “Besides, if I don’t do it, who will?” I thought for a moment. The same logic had governed my actions more than once.

  “How did you pick me?” I asked.

  “I was impressed by your ad. Law degree. Federal prosecutor. I didn’t see any other investigators with those credentials.”

  “It doesn’t mean I’ll find anything.”

  “Mr. Keane,” she said, “I understand that people in your line of work can’t promise a specific result, but this was not a coincidence. Three mathematicians with expertise in a very esoteric branch of geometry all die of unnatural causes within six months of each other? Fat chance.”

  “You should’ve been a lawyer,” I said. I reached for my briefcase and removed my clipboard.

  “Does that mean you’ll take the case?”

  “I’ll look into it. If I conclude you’re wasting your money, I’ll tell you.”

  “I appreciate your concern for my money,” she said coldly, “but let me worry about that.”

  “I was just trying to—”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to be rude. Obviously, I don’t have unlimited resources. But these deaths are connected. And if you accept that, it follows that evidence of that connection exists.”

  “Assuming that’s true,” I said, “it doesn’t follow that I or anyone else will find it.” She pondered that.

  “One thing is certain,” she said, “we won’t find it if we don’t try.” I gave in to a slight smile and that, in turn, brought a smile to her pink lips, but this pleasant moment was cut short by two quick knocks on the imitation walnut door.

  “Come in,” she said. The door opened. It was Stephen Finn, Ph.D. He stood about six-three and possessed a sinewy build. Maybe one hundred eighty pounds. Blond hair, parted on the left. Green eyes. Blue veins crisscrossed his forearms like roads on a map, and I guessed he was an athlete of some sort—a cycling enthusiast or perhaps a mountain climber. He wore a white alligator shirt, tan slacks, and cordovan loafers.

  “I’m sorry,” he said with another forced smile, “I didn’t know you were with someone. I just wanted to see if we were still on for tonight?” The question was directed to her, but intended for me. He was marking his territory, claiming some form of ownership. />
  “Yes,” she said, “I’ll meet you at seven.” She did not introduce us and I made no effort to introduce myself. Clearly curious about my business with Jayne Smyers, he studied me briefly, apologized again for interrupting, and closed the door behind him.

  “I won’t take much more of your time,” I said.

  “That’s all right,” she said, “I want to give you as much information as I can.”

  We talked for another twenty-five minutes. She told me what she knew about the three deaths and gave me some news clippings she’d obtained when she’d first discovered them. I asked if she’d received any threats since discovering the deaths, and she said no. She also assured me she had not received any unusual phone calls or letters. I told her I didn’t think she was in any danger, but gave her a pamphlet Scott and I had written on security for women. I requested a copy of the article she’d wanted the victims to review and she provided one. Eventually we came to the subject of fees.

  One of the many things I’d hated about practicing law was having to constantly keep track of my time. No matter how accurate my records, there was always some asshole complaining he’d been billed fifty dollars for what was invariably described as a “two-minute conversation.”

  “I have sort of a Zen approach to fees,” I said. “You and I will agree on a retainer. We’ll talk about my progress from time to time. If you think I’m charging too much, you can fire me. If I think you’re not paying me enough, I can quit.”

  “You don’t keep track of your time?”

  “Too much trouble,” I said. “You’ll know whether I’m earning my money.”

  “Interesting,” she said, not quite sure how to respond.

  “It requires a certain amount of trust,” I admitted.

  “It requires a great deal of trust.”

  “Look,” I said, “I’d make more money if I charged by the hour, but whenever I do that I seem to spend half my time generating paperwork to justify my fees and the other half wondering if the client can afford to pay me to do what needs to be done. That leaves very little time for investigation.”

  “That leaves no time for investigation,” she corrected. I smiled to signify she’d made her point. In the future I would refrain from using fractions in my figures of speech.

  “If you’d be more comfortable with—”

  “Will two thousand dollars be enough to get started?” She retrieved her purse from the floor, removed a maroon checkbook, and began to write.

  “More than enough,” I said, “but I don’t want your money if you’re not comfortable with the arrangement.”

  “I’m comfortable with it,” she said as she handed me a check.

  “Good.” Not surprisingly, her checks featured scenes from the Southwest; this one depicted a pastel orange sun setting behind a cactus-covered canyon. I folded it in half, placed it in my shirt pocket, returned the clipboard to my briefcase, and stood up. “I want to read what you’ve given me and do a little digging. I’ll call you in a few days to let you know what I’ve learned.”

  “I’ll help you in any way I can,” she said as she rose from her chair. “I feel better just knowing someone will be working on this.” She extended her hand and I shook it.

  “By the way,” I said, “who else knows about this?”

  “Just Mary Pat,” she said, “my graduate assistant.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it,” she assured me.

  “Let’s keep it that way.”

  “Certainly.”

  “One more thing,” I said. “Do you recall the names of the two agents you spoke with?”

  “Just a moment,” she said, “I have their names right here.” She opened the top drawer of her desk and retrieved two business cards, the gold seal of the Federal Bureau of Investigation visible on each. “Special Agent Gombold and Special Agent Polk.” My expression must have changed when she said their names.

  “Do you know them?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, “I know ’em.”

  2

  IT WAS PAST TEN when I returned to my Nederland home. I let the dogs out, removed my already loosened tie, and noticed the flashing red message light on the phone in the kitchen. There was one message. “Hey, peckerhead, give me a call.” I punched in my brother’s number. It used to be long distance to Denver, but in a rare example of government disregarding the desires of business, the Public Utilities Commission had recently ordered U.S. West to expand its local calling area.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello,” I bellowed in my best equine voice, “‘I’m Mister Eddddddddd.’”

  He responded with his imitation of an irate Mr. T. “‘I pity the fool that calls me this late in the evening.’” I laughed.

  “I guess we both like old TV shows,” I said.

  “Yeah, but I chose one from the eighties and you chose one from the sixties, so I’m more hip.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Just wondered how you were doing.”

  “Pretty damn good,” I said. I’ve suffered from mild depression since the death of an old girlfriend in a car accident years ago, but little brother still calls nearly every day to make sure I haven’t killed myself.

  “I tried calling earlier.”

  “I was meeting a new client.”

  “Long meeting?”

  “I treated myself to dinner and a movie.”

  “Good, you need to be kind to yourself.”

  “That’s what the self-help books say.”

  “I never read ’em. I thought I was being original.”

  “I don’t know why they call them the dollar movies,” I said. “The ticket cost a buck seventy-five, and I spent another six on popcorn and a drink.”

  “They hose you on refreshments.”

  “Yeah, and they won’t even let you bring in your own stuff. Probably an antitrust suit in there somewhere.” I took the hankie from my pocket and blew my nose.

  “You got a cold?”

  “Sinus infection.”

  “Gonna see a doctor?”

  “They always say it’s just allergies.”

  “That’s what they’re taught to say when they don’t know what’s wrong.”

  “I’ve never been allergic to anything in my life,” I said.

  “Me either,” he said. “Real men don’t get allergies.” We laughed at our own caricatures of masculinity. “So,” he said when the laughter had ceased, “tell me about your new client.”

  “She’s a math professor with a preference for the Southwestern motif.”

  “Divorce case?”

  “No, a fractal case.”

  “Is this where I’m supposed to ask what a fractal is?”

  “Yup.”

  “What’s a fractal?”

  I explained fractals as best I could and outlined the facts my client had presented. “And,” I added, “guess who one of the agents was?”

  “You’re shittin’ me?”

  “Nope.”

  “Be nice to prove him wrong.” Troy had never met Polk, but he knew the story.

  “Be nice to kill him,” I said, “but I may have to settle for a small moral victory.”

  He allowed a laugh but said, “One manslaughter trial is enough.” A reference to a legal problem I’d had some years back.

  “It was a joke,” I said.

  “Not funny,” he said. I rolled my eyes. “So, you think there’s anything to this fractal thing?”

  “It’s worth checking out.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Besides, she gave me enough money to live on for a month and it beats getting a real job.”

  “Amen.”

  “Amen,” I repeated. There was a brief pause.

  “You coming down here tomorrow?”

  “How about three o’clock? I’ll work out, then chow down with you and the gang.” Troy and Trudi have two kids, Andrew, age thirteen, and Chelsea, age seven.

  “It’s a deal,” he said.

/>   “And bring my Glock with you.” I own one firearm—a nine-millimeter Glock 17—and I rarely carry it. There had been a string of burglaries in Troy’s neighborhood, so I’d loaned the pistol to him a few months back. The burglars, two ex-cons with a taste for heroin, had since been apprehended.

  “You really think these deaths are related?”

  “She thinks they are,” I said. “If she’s right, we’re dealing with a highly motivated individual. No use taking chances.”

  “I’ll bring it.”

  “War fractals,” I said.

  “Out,” he said. It was a sign-off routine we’d picked up from Jim Rome’s sports radio show.

  I hung up, opened the back door, and yelled, “Ollie ollie oxenfree,” whatever that means. Like two Cruise missiles, they flew straight to the door, then positioned themselves at my feet and competed for affection. Tails wagging, they followed me in.

  “How are my two favorite boys in all the world?” I asked as I knelt to let them nuzzle me. “Daddy made two thousand bucks today, so he bought you fellas some treats.” I handed a foot-long compressed rawhide bone to Buck and a smaller version to Wheat. Buck trotted across the room with his and staked a claim on the couch. Wheat took cover beneath the kitchen table, where it would be difficult for Buck to get at him.

  I undressed and clicked on CNN. Wearing plaid boxers and a white T-shirt, I began my stretching routine as an auburn-haired beauty summarized the day’s events. A terrorist bomb in the Middle East, Republicans and Democrats blaming each other for the nation’s ills, and an assortment of murders, kidnappings, floods, and droughts. Who wouldn’t have a little depression? I turned off the TV, leaned back in my recliner, and picked up Heidegger’s Being and Time.

  When I left the practice of law two years ago, I purchased a home in the mountain town of Nederland and began a new life. As part of that I promised myself I’d spend time each day studying philosophy or eastern religions. Those subjects had captivated me in college, and my hope was that immersing myself in them once more might give me some insight into how to deal with my existential pain. So far it hasn’t, but at least I’m well read.

  The problem is that I am one of those unlucky souls condemned to forever ponder life’s unanswerable questions. I don’t know whether this is the cause of my depression or the result of it. Either way, traditional religion never worked for me. I’ve always had a bit of an authority problem, so I have trouble with the concept of God. I go through life with the nagging suspicion that it’s all meaningless, but I read philosophy hoping to prove myself wrong.