The Fractal Murders

by Mark Cohen

  Maggie McGuire was a professor of English. Because it generated little grant money, the English department was located in one of the oldest buildings on campus. Her office was on the second floor. The door was open.

  “Professor McGuire?”

  “You must be Mr. Keane?” She was a mildly obese woman in her mid-forties. Her long hair was a frizzy mixture of red and gray. She wore no makeup and possessed a freckled complexion. She wore a long brown skirt, a beige blouse, white socks, and the expensive leather sandals so popular in Boulder. She motioned for me to sit and I did. “Thank you for doing this on such short notice,” I said. Instead of saying “You’re welcome,” she sized me up in the dimly lit room. The only light was that provided by the tall, narrow window behind her wooden desk. I guessed she wasn’t a fan of fluorescent lighting. Maybe she taught medieval literature and just liked the ambience.

  “I must say I’m intrigued,” she finally said. “It’s not every day a private investigator asks me to compare the writings of two academics.”

  “Did Jayne explain the nature of my investigation?” I asked.

  “No, she was quite circumspect, but it doesn’t matter.” She slid the stack of articles I had given Jayne to the center of her desk. “Did you read each of these articles?” she asked.

  “Oh yeah,” I said.

  “And you believe Professor Chang helped Professor Hawkins with his most recent article?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “His other articles are disorganized and full of jargon. His latest one is crisp and clean. The writing seems similar to the style I noticed in Carolyn Chang’s articles.”

  “What similarities did you note?” she asked. I felt like a doctoral candidate defending a dissertation.

  “The ideas were organized in a logical sequence,” I said. “There was no jargon, and the author used as few words as possible.”

  “And that’s why you believe Professor Chang helped write this article?” She held up a copy of Hawkins’s “Weather and the Fractal Structure of Crop Markets.”

  “That and the fact that Carolyn was an expert in fractal mathematics. I don’t think Hawkins—”

  “Was?”

  “She’s no longer with us,” I said. I realized Jayne hadn’t told her anything.

  “I see.”

  “Would you like some background?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “I can tell you what you want to know without knowing why you want to know it.” She laced her fingers together and placed her elbows on the desk. “Your instincts are good,” she continued. “The author of this paper employed a style nearly identical to that used by Professor Chang.”

  “You sound certain,” I said.

  “Professor Chang has—had—a unique writing style. She employed a style called E-Prime.”

  “E-Prime?”

  “Yes, it’s a form of English that discourages using any form of the verb ‘to be.’”

  “What’s the theory behind that?”

  “Those who use E-Prime believe the word ‘is’ promotes sloppy thinking. Instead of saying, ‘The cat is white,’ they feel it’s more accurate to say, ‘The cat has white fur.’”

  “That’s interesting,” I said. “Is this widely used?”

  “No,” she said. “The primary proponent of E-Prime is a group called the International Society for General Semantics, but they’ve had little success outside academic circles.” I nodded and wrote ISGS on my legal pad. “I can’t say with certainty that Professor Chang wrote this article. All I can tell you is that, for the most part, the style used is identical to that used in her writings.”

  “For the most part?”

  “There are passages where E-Prime was not employed. And the overall structure of the article appears to have originated with Professor Hawkins. My best guess is that Professor Chang or some other proponent of E-Prime coauthored or edited the article.” That didn’t prove anything, but it strengthened my belief that Hawkins hadn’t been completely truthful with me.

  “Thank you,” I said, “you’ve been a big help.”

  24

  IT WAS COLD TUESDAY MORNING. The remnants of an Arctic air mass had pushed through overnight. The thermometer outside my kitchen window showed thirty-four degrees at seven A.M. Not frigid, but not what you’d expect in the second week of June.

  I zipped through an early weight workout in my basement, then sliced an orange for breakfast and contemplated my next move. The weather being what it was, it seemed like a good day to work the phone. I called Susan Thompson, the reporter in Lincoln, and asked her to send as much background material on Hawkins as she could get. I called the International Society for General Semantics and confirmed that Carolyn Chang had been a member. Then I called Scott.

  “That’s the way things work these days,” he said. “You kiss on the first date; you’re tying each other up on the second date.” After updating him on the case, I had recounted my Sunday with Jayne Smyers.

  “Not like the good old days,” I joked.

  “It’s like we’re living in the Victorian era,” he said. I smiled to myself, then suggested we resume our discussion of the case. “What about Fontaine and Underwood,” he said, “did they use this E-Prime?”

  “No, I reread their articles last night.” There was no conversation for several seconds, but that’s not unusual when we brainstorm.

  “If Carolyn helped write the article,” he said, “why didn’t she insist on being listed as a coauthor?”

  “I’ve thought about that,” I said, “and the only answer I can come up with is that she didn’t want her name on it.”

  “Is it that bad?”

  “No,” I said, “but the thesis isn’t particularly original. It doesn’t break any new ground. When you sift through it, there’s not much scholarship.”

  “That’s your opinion as an economist?”

  “That’s my opinion as someone who has read far too many journal articles during the past month.”

  We talked about various aspects of the case for another fifteen minutes. “Anything you want me to do?” he asked.

  “Can’t think of anything,” I said. “The reporter in Lincoln is going to send me some background material on Hawkins.”

  “Keep me posted,” he said. I promised I would.

  It was too early to check my mail, so I drove to Wanda’s for some coffee and a chance to read the paper. Someone had already snagged the News, so I began with the Boulder Daily Camera. I was surprised when I turned to the sports section and saw Finn’s smiling mug staring at me. The young professor had finished third in a local triathlon, and the paper had devoted a quarter page to a feature story on him. I read it, then refilled my coffee. That’s when I saw Missy.

  “Hi, Pepper,” she said. She was standing near the register in faded jeans and a white peasant blouse with colorful embroidery around the neckline and sleeves.

  “Hi, Missy, how are you?”

  “I’m great,” she said. One of Wanda’s female helpers handed her a cup of Red Zinger tea.

  “Where’s Luther?”

  “He’s in Aspen,” she said. “The band’s there all week.”

  “Why didn’t you go?” I asked.

  “Didn’t want to miss my group,” she said. “We’re exploring our past lives.” I nodded to show I understood. No tables were available, so I invited her to share mine. “Hey,” she said as she noticed the newspaper, “that’s the guy.” She pointed to the photo of Finn.

  “What guy?”

  “The guy at your house,” she said. “That’s him.”

  “That’s the man you saw walking around my house?”

  “Yeah, I’m positive.” She had described the stranger as being “real big” and having blond hair. Missy was about five-two. Finn stood six-three. Though I would have described him as lanky, I realized someone like Finn might seem “real big” to Missy. I questioned her again about what she had seen, but learned nothing new. One of her fem
ale friends—another aging earth mama—joined us and they started talking about a candlelight vigil they were planning to protest something or other. I said good-bye, stopped at the post office to collect my mail, then drove home and noticed the flashing message light. I let Buck and Wheat out, listened to the message, then phoned Gilbert.

  “Congratulate me,” he said, “I’ve got another grandchild.”

  “That’s great, Dick. Is it a boy or a girl?”

  “Little boy,” he said. “Eight pounds, seven ounces.”

  “A linebacker,” I said. He laughed, then said he had to put me on hold. The phone system was set up so I could listen to Paul Harvey while waiting, but Gilbert came back on the line within thirty seconds, so I never learned the “rest of the story.”

  “Sorry about that,” he said.

  “No problem.”

  “Anyhow,” he said, “I did some checking on Bailey Green, but something’s not right.”

  “I’m listening,” I said.

  “Green’s a federal prisoner. He was arrested in Denver last August for bank robbery. Walked into a bank in broad daylight and stuck a gun in a teller’s face. Feds found him in his apartment two hours later with red dye all over him.”

  “What about the gun?”

  “The reports indicate he used a five-shot Taurus, and the last four digits of the serial number on the weapon they confiscated match the one we have.”

  “How many were manufactured with those as the last four digits?”

  “Just one,” he said. “I checked with the manufacturer.”

  “Which raises the question of how a handgun seized in Denver last August was used to kill a math professor in Walla Walla in September.”

  “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 shit,” 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.”

  “God 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 space 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.

  “Hello, 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 glass doors at the entrance to the building. She stepped through and I followed. The sun was bright, so I removed my aviator’s glasses 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 grassy 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 Coke; 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 cucumber 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 God,” 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 embarrassed, 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 glass 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’ association 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 assured 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.