The Fibonacci Murders

by Dale E. Lehman

  The fiftyish African-American man who came through the door of the Pork Barrel restaurant just off of U.S. 40 and looked around as though searching for someone was former U.S. Representative Ralph Arriola, and he was indeed looking for someone. Captain Morris spotted him from her booth off to his left and waved until he noticed.

  “With a name like Pork Barrel, this place should be in D.C.,” he said as he slipped onto the bench opposite her.

  “I think their original restaurant is down there,” she replied. “They just opened this one last year. It’s been awhile. How’ve you been?”

  “Much better since I got out of politics.”

  Morris laughed. “I hear you lost a few friends when you decided not to run for reelection.”

  He waved that off with a crooked smile as the waitress approached. They both ordered coffee and Arriola asked for a slice of pecan pie. Perhaps sensing a poor tip, the waitress narrowed her eyes menacingly before moving off.

  Arriola watched her go. “So what’s the trouble?”

  “Why does it have to be trouble?”

  “Don’t play games with me, Whitney. I read the news like everyone else.”

  Morris leaned forward, arms folded on the table, and regarded him with more than a little curiosity. She had known Arriola for about ten years. A successful local businessman, he had launched several companies in fields ranging from office furniture to medical practice business support and had easily won election to the House of Representatives, where he served two terms before deciding to quit. His straightforward manner no doubt had been a key factor in that. Always insisting upon having all the cards on the table, he had little patience for political games.

  “This is strictly confidential,” she told him quietly, and he nodded. “We think these killings are the work of a former soldier. He’s probably psychologically disturbed and may be recreating incidents from his experience overseas. We need some help looking into who might fit the bill.”

  The waitress reappeared with the coffee and Arriola’s pie. “Anything else?” she asked hopefully.

  Arriola smiled up at her. “We’re good for now, thanks.” The smile might have given her a bit of hope. At any rate, she didn’t make a face this time before moving on. Arriola took his time adding sugar to his coffee and stirring.

  “Can you put me in touch with someone at DoD?” Morris finally asked.

  “I can, but I doubt it will do you any good. You need to nail this guy yourselves, and if what you suspect about him is true, you’d best keep it quiet. Find another explanation for the public.”

  “I can’t believe you just said that. You, of all people.”

  “I’m not saying I like it. I’m saying that’s how it is.” He jabbed a fork into his pie, twisted off a bite and looked at it as though it were trying to bite back. “The powers that be have a hard enough time dealing with the avalanche of bad PR that’s fallen on them over the past ten years. You know what will happen if this gets out. Everyone from the commanders on the ground up to the President himself will be a target, and the VA will be dragged kicking and screaming into it, too. Again. You think they’re going to help you find a soldier who went psycho over there and came back to recreate over there over here?”

  “You’re not saying anything we haven’t already considered. Just get me a contact. Please.”

  “Your department needs you.”

  “Ralph!”

  “I’m not kidding. You don’t know when to quit, do you?”

  Exasperated, Morris sat back and stared out the window. It was a sunny afternoon; a few cumulus clouds floating lazily by while beneath them the humans scurried about in their cars on their way to whatever business they thought they had. “People are dying.”

  “People are always dying.” When her head snapped around and she fixed him with a fiery glare, he threw up his hands. “Okay, fine, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you.”

  Arriola shoved his plate back, appetite apparently gone. “You can have that if you want. Leave a good tip.” He rose and strolled off, looking more casual than he must have felt.

  Morris watched him go out the door, then pulled the plate to herself and sampled the pie. Not bad, she thought. Not the best, but not bad.

  Chapter 15

  Chess-playing computers encounter an issue known as the horizon problem. Because the program can only look ahead a finite number of moves, it will push trouble out beyond the “horizon” to which it can see. In certain circumstances this causes it to be oblivious to impending trouble.

  Human beings may suffer from a horizon problem of their own, but in their case it results from emotional factors, not computational limitations. Therapists call it “denial.” ∑

  It was still dark when the hunter set out on the morning of Thursday, March tenth, to finish his preparations. He hadn’t thought of it before, but he now realized that everything up to this point had been just that: preparations for the one event that really mattered. The earlier operations and the one he was about to embark upon now all represented collateral damage necessary to his real purpose. Disturbing, yes, but couldn’t it be said that war was always thus? Over sixty million people had died in World War II, and what was that but collateral damage resulting from the necessity of ridding the world of a single man’s delusion?

  The temperature was in the lower forties; the sky overcast and shedding a light drizzle as he stepped out of his small house and got into his car. Although still a hunter, he was dressed today in the camouflage of suburbia: jeans, a khaki button-down shirt, lightweight blue waterproof coat. He didn’t look like he was hiding and thus would be perfectly hidden.

  His weapon of choice today was a Browning Hi-Power, a classic handgun that had set him back a fair bit but was beautiful to behold. It fit nicely in his coat pocket. He intended to annoy Peller one last time by using it in back-to-back killings. Peller wouldn’t know that it wasn’t truly a break in the pattern, that both killings were actually part of a single operation.

  In fact, he doubted that Peller understood the significance of the pattern. The hunter had taken great care in avoiding repetition early on. Once Peller had figured out the numbers, the numbers became the focus of attention, and it was easier to avoid detection. But a certain element of randomness remained critical. This was war, after all, and war is never neat and predictable. His re-creation had to reflect that reality.

  Like his house, the hunter’s car was unpretentious: a four-year-old Honda Civic, light gray, not too recently washed. It wouldn’t call attention to itself. Even if it was seen in the target area, nobody would remember it. That was particularly important today, as the target area was the Columbia Crossing shopping center, a sprawl of commercial outlets lined with parking lots. It reminded him of a bustling Iraqi market in which his squad had foiled a coordinated suicide attack, or two-thirds of it at any rate. Acting on intelligence, they had spotted two of the three young men slipping into the crowd and had taken them out before anything could happen. But the third panicked, fled to the opposite end of the market, and in a pointless act of desperation detonated his device, killing not only himself but twelve others, all his own people.

  Today’s foray would be a small, imperfect, yet key reenactment of that event, completing the pattern. The hunter had done more to protect his country and its interests than any soldier he knew. As much as the powers that be wanted to pretend he didn’t exist, they would not be allowed. He might die in the process, but they would, at last, be forced to acknowledge his contributions.

  ∑

  Everything struck at once, at five minutes before nine o’clock in the morning. Word reached Dumas about a pair of fatal shootings at the Columbia Crossing shopping center just as Montufar was beginning to brief him on her talk the previous afternoon with Debra Szwiec. As the two of them rose to leave, Captain Morris bustled through, accompanied by a dappe
r-looking Ralph Arriola and an immaculately turned-out Marine officer. She whisked them into her office and closed the door, but not before Dumas and Montufar spied the glint of stars at the officer’s shoulder and sleeve.

  Peller arrived just as his colleagues were leaving and stopped them at the edge of the parking lot. His eyes were red, with deep circles beneath them.

  “What happened to you?” Montufar asked. “Didn’t you get any sleep last night?”

  “I spent most of last night digging up information on Blake Compton. It keeps getting worse,” he told them. “Tom figured out the sequence. The next number is one hundred nine. I’m almost certain Leo means to stage an attack on a planned gathering. Could be a military retirement event like this one.” He shoved copies of the news articles on Compton’s retirement party into their hands.

  But there was no time for discussion. Montufar drove while Dumas hung on, and shortly they were at the scenes of the crimes.

  One shooting—the first to occur, according to witnesses—had taken place just inside the door of the office supply store near the north end of the complex. Montufar took charge of that scene, wondering what kind of strange thought process made Leo call this a killing on the ground floor when it took place in a one-story building.

  The victim, a young black man dressed for a day at the office, had just entered the store. The shot came from outside, shattering the door’s glass and leaving its victim sprawled face-down in the entrance. The officers who had questioned available witnesses came up empty-handed. Nobody had seen the shooter. Montufar suspected Leo had made the shot while sitting in his car.

  The scene of the second shooting, which Dumas was investigating, had taken place at an art gallery at the south end of the complex. Almost diametrically opposed to the office supply store, its address was 33 Columbia Crossing Circle, the sixth number in Leo’s sequence.

  It was a good jaunt from one store to the other—over two and a half football fields, Dumas estimated. According to witnesses who heard both shots, the timings of the shootings were close—too close together to allow a man to run, much less walk, from one site to the other. Ergo, Leo must either have driven or fired both shots from somewhere in the middle of the parking lot. The latter seemed unlikely. He would have had to perch on top of a car, but nobody could be found who had seen him. So Dumas also concluded that Leo must have made the shots from within his car.

  The victim at the gallery was an employee, a young Hispanic man who had just started work there the previous week. It had been a dream job for him, as he was studying art history at UMBC and, according to his boss, had loved being able to spend time among the paintings and other wares. The shot had taken him out while he was setting up a new arrival in the window display: a landscape by local artist Virginia Smullyan.

  That name brought Dumas up short. Smullyan had been a witness connected with the murder of Roger Harrison. She had given Peller the one detailed description they had of Leo. He made a note to run this by Montufar as soon as possible. It was probably just an oddball coincidence, but it was decidedly oddball.

  ∑

  When Captain Morris emerged from her office and bid her visitors goodbye, she looked haggard. Peller had been keeping an eye on the proceedings from his desk while reviewing one more time everything they knew about Leo’s killing spree, searching for some small detail he might have overlooked that would lead to the killer’s identity. But there wasn’t anything. A few pieces of information hadn’t come his way yet—what Debra Szwiec had told Montufar, the details of this morning’s murders—but he doubted anything would materialize. He even searched for information on upcoming gatherings in the area, checking newspapers and online announcements and even calling several banquet halls in the area, but to no avail. Parties were on the books, to be sure, but all of them either too large or too small to be Leo’s intended target.

  He waved Morris over and waited while she crossed the room and sank into the chair next to his desk. Their eyes silently communicated their shared exhaustion. Peller spoke first.

  “I think we need to hold another press conference. Tell the public what we think is going to happen next. Ask for help in identifying likely targets.”

  Morris closed her eyes.

  “I know,” he replied to her unspoken objection. “But I don’t think we have any other choice.”

  “Do you know who I was just talking to?” she asked, opening her eyes and regarding him with a defeated look.

  Peller shook his head. He knew Ralph Arriola from news photos, but the military fellow was a stranger to him.

  “Good,” she said. “I’m not supposed to mention he was here. Although if he’s trying to be secretive, why would he march in here all decked out like that? Ridiculous. The upshot of our conversation—if you could call it that—was that of course these crimes could not be the work of a U.S. soldier, and even breathing the suggestion was well-nigh treasonous.”

  “They’re not even going to look into the possibility?”

  Morris shook her head. “I got the feeling that more was going on behind that general’s eyes than he let on. It occurs to me that should the Pentagon suspect who Leo is, they could very easily make him go away.”

  Peller straightened and pondered that for a moment. “You think they know?”

  “Not yet. But I think they might be worried. This meeting wasn’t about how they could help us. It was damage assessment. That’s why they agreed so quickly to meet with me. They wanted to know everything we know, and they wanted to drop a few hints that if our suspicions pan out we should be careful what we make public.”

  “The military has no authority in this.”

  “No. But they could pull some strings and make their displeasure known. Ralph all but told me my professional head would be on the block if I stepped too far out of line.”

  Peller didn’t consider himself to be naïve, not at his age and with his life experience, but he found it hard to swallow the idea that the military had much sway over county politics. Still, he wouldn’t want his boss tossed out on her ear for doing her job.

  “If worse comes to worst,” he said, “I’ll be happy to take the heat for you. I could probably do it under the radar, and I have a place to go if need be.”

  Morris smiled as much as her tired face could. “Much appreciated,” she said, “but I don’t think it will be necessary. I’ve been around the block a few times. I think I can play their game well enough.”

  She rose slowly and gazed toward the window. “About that press conference. Let’s wait to see what Corina and Eric bring back. If need be we’ll do it this afternoon, but it’s our option of last resort.”

  ∑

  Kaneko sat in his study, considering Sarah’s list. She had given him a summary of what she had learned and pointed out the circled name. Then she put it in his hand, kissed him, and was out the door to meet some friends for lunch.

  Something about her premonition niggled at him. He told himself that it was a very small thing: a moment’s hesitation, nothing more. But what if it were something more? He thought of his mother’s trip away from doomed Nagasaki. She had never been very specific in the reasons she gave him once he was old enough to understand—simply that she had not visited his grandparents for quite some time, and felt that it was time for her to do so. Had she sensed, somehow, what lay in the future?

  He was a mathematician and did not deal in premonitions or intuition. Yet he lived today because of his mother’s decision.

  But such speculation was useless. There was work to be done. He turned to his file on the case and quickly located the information he had compiled on suspect number six. Once an engineering student with strong mathematical aptitude—according to a professor who had taught him in his junior year—Number Six had enlisted in the Marines immediately after graduating. He had briefly contacted the professor upon returning from an overseas tour of
duty and asked for connections to help him find a job. The professor had obliged with three names, then heard nothing further. At Kaneko’s request he followed up and learned that the student had never contacted the three.

  Curious, Kaneko thought. There could be multiple valid explanations. Then again….

  He considered calling Peller, but he wasn’t satisfied that he had anything useful to tell him. It warranted a closer look first. Having decided on a course of action, Kaneko quickly prepared an official-looking folder containing a data sheet on the suspect’s educational and military background and his answers to the phone survey. He carefully omitted personal information such as name and address, but wrote the address down on a sticky note and tucked it into his left pants pocket. He selected a pen and a pad of paper from his desk, and, satisfied that he was prepared, set off for a face-to-face interview with Lucas Freiberg.

  ∑

  The homecoming was anything but triumphal. Peller thought that Montufar and Dumas looked like something the cat didn’t consider worth dragging in. There was no point in asking how they’d fared. Leo hadn’t left anything helpful in his wake. He came, he killed, he vanished, twice in the space of just a few minutes. People heard the shots, saw the victims drop, but of the assailant they saw no trace. Several witnesses, scared out of their wits, said it reminded them of the Beltway sniper attacks back in 2002 in which the fatal shots had been fired through a hole drilled in the trunk of a car.

  The detectives reviewed the new information, such as it was, but nothing emerged from it. Peller then asked Montufar to recount her interview with Debra Szwiec and listened carefully until she mentioned Julian’s friend, Larry Fry.

  “Hold on,” he said, leaning forward. “We’ve heard that name before.”

  Dumas scrolled through the files on the computer. “Have we?” he asked. “It does sound familiar. Here we go. Not Larry Fry, Luke Frey. I don’t believe it.”