This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2021 Daniel G. Miller
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Houndstooth Books, Dallas, Texas
Edited and designed by Girl Friday Productions
www.girlfridayproductions.com
Cover design: Bailey McGinn
Project management: Bethany Davis
ISBN (paperback): 978-0-578-75320-1
ISBN (ebook): 978-0-578-75321-8
First edition
To Mom and Dad for allowing me to dream and teaching me how to bring my dreams to life.
Of Man’s first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste
Brought death into the World, and all our woe,
With loss of Eden, till one greater Man
Restore us, and regain the blissful seat . . .
—John Milton, Paradise Lost
Part I
Discovery
The serpent said to the woman . . .
For God knows that in the day you eat from it your eyes will be opened,
and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.
—Genesis 3:4–5
Chapter 1
Wally McCutcheon eased into the creaky chair at the security desk of the Bank of Princeton. He treasured these rare moments of peace that working night security provided him. This particular night was a special one, for he would be spending the evening with his two best friends: black coffee and warm pecan pie.
Wally had just begun to nibble on the considerable piece of pie Nancy had lovingly baked—the dear woman even claimed to appreciate his “love handles”—when he was interrupted by a gentle yet persistent tapping on the front door of the stone building. He peered out through the glass door. Outside the main entrance of the bank stood a wiry figure in a black trench coat and fedora holding an umbrella shimmering with droplets of rain. Wally wondered how yet another fat-cat alum could be lost. He considered ignoring the stranger to focus on his pie but begrudgingly heaved his frame out of the chair and made his way to the front door.
Wally flipped the entrance lock, opened the glass door, and barked, “Bank’s closed. You’ll have to come back tomorrow morn—”
A fierce kick dislodged Wally’s kneecap and dropped him to the ground.
Wally grunted in pain and struggled to stand up, but the stranger’s gloved hand grabbed his throat, crushing his windpipe and stanching the flow of oxygen to his brain. His cheeks burned and his eyes strained to escape his skull.
Through the pounding in his ears, he heard the assailant whisper three simple words: “Safe-deposit box.”
Wally lifted his quivering arm and limply pointed to the thick walnut door at the end of the hallway.
With two swift moves, the stranger ripped the security card off Wally’s belt and forced a soaked rag over his mouth and nose. Wally tasted the chemicals flowing from his mouth into his lungs, choking the consciousness from his body.
Frantically, he clawed at the intruder’s trench coat, tearing at the pockets, hoping to escape the chemical fog that seeped through his brain, but the stranger’s grip was too strong. Realizing this could be his last breath, Wally looked up at his killer.
Her eyes were onyx with flecks of gray orange, like the wolves Wally used to hunt when he was younger. She removed her hat, and Wally cried out as her straight dark hair tumbled down her back. He squinted and searched her eyes, silently pleading with her to stop. The silhouette in front of him faded first to red, then to gray. Then all went black.
Chapter 2
Professor Albert Puddles was sweating.
He had been a tenured professor of mathematics at Princeton University for over two years, but he still felt a singular anxiety before his first class of the academic year. Albert hated anxiety. Not because of the feeling itself, but rather what it represented . . . emotion. Emotion implied the absence of logic, and logic was Albert’s one and only religion. Logic provided a cool, comforting refuge against the hot, emotional chaos of the world. Logic was precise. It made sense. It didn’t change from one day to the next. It was everything life should be and so rarely was.
For the vast majority of his thirty-four years, Professor Puddles had employed this logical precision in every aspect of his life. In contrast to his “New Age” colleagues who had taken to wearing jeans and untucked shirts in their classrooms, Albert wore a perfectly tailored suit and bow tie every day. To him, an untucked shirt lacked method and order. It implied carelessness, sloppiness, even recklessness. Like weeds in a garden, this could easily infect a person’s thinking, and inconsistency in thinking was something that Albert Puddles was simply unwilling to tolerate.
Yet despite his greatest efforts of logical self-analysis, Albert had been unable to banish the entirely irrational stage fright that gripped him upon seeing his students gaze upon him in poised silence. When he looked out at the hundreds of voracious eyes, he couldn’t help remembering the trials of his childhood.
Ever since he could recall, Albert had possessed a deep appreciation of order and method. At age ten, he was identified as a mental calculator, a savant who could do multiple complex calculations in his head. When he was twelve, he convinced his mother to bring him to Germany to compete in the Junior Mental Calculation World Championship. The JMCWC brought together young savants with notable skill in mental calculations to compete in solving a variety of large-number calculations. Albert won the tournament by solving five cube roots without pen or paper in less than thirty seconds.
While his peers played football in T-shirts and jeans, tussling in the dirt, Albert would stroll along the sidewalk, clad primly in khaki pants, a well-pressed shirt, and suspenders, his glasses perched on his oversized nose while he solved math equations or puzzles. Of course, the neighborhood boys found this intensely annoying and took the necessary steps, which usually entailed dropping “little Alby” in the nearest neighbor’s garbage bin. Much to their chagrin, he refused to perform the requisite crying and cursing that these bullies had come to expect from their victims. No, Albert would simply dust himself off and glance at his watch with a look of deep annoyance, like a businessman waiting for a delayed train. Eventually, the boys turned their attention to more expressive targets.
Still, those boys never entirely forgot about Albert, and every time he walked down the street, he could sense those eyes . . . staring and sizing him up like prey. The knowledge that, at any moment, those eyes could choose action and that, within seconds, he could be dumped in another garbage can heightened Albert’s tension in a crowd or in front of an audience. A tension that returned to him this morning as he raised his quivering hands to his immaculately tied bow tie, grabbed the bright-blue Expo marker in front of him, and wrote on the enormous lecture hall whiteboard.
Introduction to Logic
Albert saw his reflection in the whiteboard and felt the sweat beading around his freckled cheeks and light-brown hairline. His boyish face had finally begun to wrinkle, and the wrinkles—few as they were—gave him an added gravitas, or so he thought.
It’s September, why is it so hot? He wiped the sweat from his aquiline nose. And more important, what was I thinking, wearing a wool suit? Vanity . . . so irrational.
“Good morning, ev
eryone. I am Professor Puddles, and this is Introduction to Logic,” he said in a slightly cracked voice while scanning the room for the few students who would inevitably smirk at his last name. Albert had noticed a very high correlation between students who smirked at his name and those who eventually dropped the class. Of course, correlation did not imply causation, but it was interesting nevertheless.
“Let me begin by thanking you all for enrolling in my class. I’m keenly aware that Introduction to Logic is not, at first glance, the ‘sexiest’ class on the Princeton syllabus. However, I will submit to you today that logic is indeed sexy. Logic is fact in a world of fiction, truth in a society of lies, and light in the shadows. Logic will never betray you, deceive you, or disappoint you. It will guide you and illuminate your path ahead. Logic provides the loyalty, security, and friendship that many of you hope to find in a spouse someday. What could be sexier than that?”
While Albert discoursed on the beauty of logic, his graduate assistant crept through the cracked door. Ying was a PhD student in mathematics who, like Albert, had won the Junior Mental Calculation World Championship when she was younger. His mentor had insisted that Albert take her under his wing due to their shared skill. He enjoyed working with Ying but found her to be a hopelessly messy thinker. Her round, cherubic face a clear reminder of her occasional lack of dietary discipline. Her floral dress and flip-flops, a nod to an almost reckless spontaneity. And her music . . . the endless boy band pop love ballads . . . absurd. Still, Albert did notice that despite Ying’s failure to appreciate the beauty and order of logic, the office always seemed a little cheerier when she was around.
“Excuse me, Professor Puddles,” said Ying in her singsong voice. “Can I borrow you for a second?”
Albert clenched his jaw. “I’m a little busy here, Ying.”
“I know, but it’s really important.”
“OK, what is it?”
Ying looked around the giant lecture room, raised her eyebrows, and cautiously pressed, “It would probably be better to talk about this outside.”
Albert glanced at his watch. His lecture was already one minute behind schedule, and he would never get back on track if he left the room. “Ying, you can just say it. I have nothing to hide from my brilliant students,” he said as he grandly gestured around the room.
Ying looked around the lecture hall once more, shrugged her shoulders, and in the most upbeat tone she could muster, said, “A police officer is here.”
“And . . .”
“Well . . . he says . . . he says that there was a murder last night and . . . and that you might know something about it.”
Chapter 3
Albert excused himself, and slid out the creaky lecture hall door with Ying following behind. The ancient hardwood floors of Princeton’s Fine Hall creaked as the two strode down the hallway toward his office. The building’s name had been changed to Jones Hall, thanks to a beneficent donor, but he preferred to think of it by the name it bore during its glory days. Fine Hall was a source of calm in an otherwise disordered place. Every time Albert strolled down the enormous, sterile white hallways, he pictured the giants of mathematics at work. He saw Einstein holding court on his theory of relativity; John Nash working the chalkboards at the library late into the night; the great logician Alonzo Church carefully erasing the blackboard in his classroom until the last speck of chalk was gone before beginning his lecture.
Yet, on this day, the tightly cinched knot in the bottom of Albert’s stomach choked his ability to appreciate his surroundings. His mind sparked with calculations regarding what this tragic event could have to do with him.
A murder?
I might know something about it?
I don’t even know any police officers. I’ve never done anything illegal in my life.
What could this possibly have to do with me?
“What else did the officer say?” Albert asked Ying.
“That was about it. He just said that a security guard had been killed during a burglary last night and there was some evidence that they thought you might be able to shed some light on.”
“Evidence?”
There must be a mistake. They must be confusing me with another faculty member. Yes, that must be it . . . a mix-up.
With that soothing thought in his mind, Albert gingerly opened the solid oak door to his office.
In front of his desk in one of the tiny chairs that his students usually occupied during office hours sat the massive frame of a policeman. The sight of this mammoth man squeezed into a chair meant for a considerably smaller individual would have been comical had it not been for the circumstances. Albert wondered how it was that a single man could so drastically shrink his previously roomy office.
The policeman extricated himself from his entirely inadequate seating, extended his gigantic hand, and gave Albert a warm smile.
“You must be Professor Puddles,” said the detective. “I’m Detective Michael Weatherspoon, Princeton Police Department. It’s a real pleasure to meet you.”
Albert felt like a child in the presence of the bearish detective and meekly shook his hand.
Weatherspoon resumed his seat, inviting Albert and Ying to join him. “I’m sorry to bother you, Professor, but there was a burglary last night.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Detective. Where?”
“At the Bank of Princeton,” chirped Ying, sliding forward in her chair.
“That’s right, little lady,” said the bemused detective, running his hands through the gray remains of what looked to have once been a world-class Afro.
Ying attempted to stifle her mischievous grin. “Sorry, I just feel like I’m in an episode of Law and Order.”
Detective Weatherspoon chuckled and shook his head.
“Sorry, Detective. Please continue,” said Albert.
“The security guard on duty was killed attempting to stop the thief.” The detective carefully removed a picture from his file and handed it to Albert. He recoiled as he saw the prostrate body of Wally McCutcheon on the floor. Wally was a gentle-looking older man, and Albert couldn’t help thinking of his grandfather.
“Who would do something like this?” asked Albert, suppressing an unwelcome spasm of emotion.
“We don’t have any leads yet, but we do know from the security feed that, before he died, the security guard was able to rip a sliver of paper from the assailant’s coat pocket.”
The detective removed a copy of the paper and placed it on Albert’s perfectly ordered desk.
“At first, we thought it was a scientific formula, so we took it down to the chemistry department, but they said that it was some kind of game tree and that you’d be the man to talk to. What do you make of it?”
Albert studied the piece of paper, attempting to ignore Ying’s curious glances over his shoulder.
“Well, this is clearly an issue tree or game tree. Mathematicians, logicians, and computer scientists use these in rudimentary problem-solving, computation, and decision analysis to ensure that their thinking is perfectly logical or ‘MECE.’”
“I’m sorry, MECE?” asked the detective.
“Yes, mutually exclusive and collectively exhaustive. To properly consider any problem, it’s critical to weigh all of the options. For example, say your in-laws are in town.”
The detective rolled his eyes at the thought.
“You would want to logically assess what hotel you should have them stay at so that you’d be confident you weren’t overlooking a good option. That’s the collectively exhaustive part. Then, once you had your list of hotels, you’d want to make sure that it didn’t overlap in any way.”
Weatherspoon’s furrowed brow conveyed a combination of confusion and irritation.
Albert pressed on. “For example, if you initially broke down hotels into two categories—hotels with rooms and hotels wit
h parking—that would be collectively exhaustive because all hotels have rooms, right?”
Detective Weatherspoon nodded.
“But it wouldn’t be mutually exclusive because there are some hotels that have both rooms and parking, so they would sit in both categories and muddle your thinking. To be fully logical, you would have to start with a different categorization of hotels that was completely MECE, such as hotels within Princeton city limits and hotels outside Princeton city limits. Every hotel on earth would fit into these categories, so it would be collectively exhaustive, but none would overlap because they are either in Princeton city limits or they’re not, so it’s mutually exclusive. Once you’ve settled on those base categories, you then add additional branches to the tree until you’ve settled on your answer.”
Albert walked to the small chalkboard next to his desk and sketched a game tree depicting the hotel decision-making process:
“It’s quite fun, isn’t it?” Albert said with a twinkle in his eyes.
The detective coughed. “I don’t know about fun, but it’s certainly enlightening, and it will help the next time the in-laws are in town. So, what does this game tree mean?” he asked, pointing to the scrap of paper. “I’m assuming it’s not about where the criminal will be vacationing?”
Albert had been so caught up in the joyful world of game trees that he’d forgotten all about the task at hand. Resuming his serious posture, Albert returned his gaze to the game tree before him.
The tree in question was rudimentary but, due to the use of random letters rather than words within each box, extremely difficult to understand. In addition, the use of the words “prima facie” at the top of the page implied a multi-scenario analysis of which he had one page.
Albert shrugged. “Honestly, Detective, at first glance, I can’t tell you much. Judging by the size of the tree, the analysis is relatively basic, but because it is just the base case, there could be more to the analysis. The shaded boxes show the path of decisions made by the tree’s maker. Until I know what the letters symbolize, I can’t possibly tell you what the tree means. The letters almost certainly represent some type of cipher or code, but I can’t be sure until I look at it in more depth. Give me some time and maybe I can identify a pattern.”
The Tree of Knowledge Page 1
