The Fractal Murders

by Mark Cohen

  “Jesus.”

  “I think he’s bitter,” Gumby said, “but he keeps it bottled up inside and throws himself into his work like every other alpha male. He’s all business these days. He’s perfect and he expects everyone else to be perfect. No mistakes. He’s even started auditing investigations on a random basis to make sure we haven’t fucked anything up. Including your fractal case, by the way.”

  “Sounds like he’s been through a lot,” I said, “but I’m sorry he’s making your life miserable.”

  “Well, he’ll probably retire next year anyhow. At least that’s what he says. Wants to buy a boat and live in the Florida Keys.”

  “Like that would be more fun than busting crack dealers and monitoring Muslim extremists in Denver in the winter.”

  “To each his own,” he replied.

  “Hey,” I said, “let me ask you one more question about this fractal thing.”

  “Sure.”

  “If these deaths were unrelated, what was your jurisdiction in the first place?”

  “The Chang girl crossed state lines.”

  “Kidnapping?”

  “Kidnapping, possible conspiracy.”

  “One more question,” I said.

  “You just said that.”

  “Any chance Underwood could’ve done the other two, then killed himself?”

  “No, we checked that. He had good alibis for both murders.”

  “Thanks, Tim, give my love to Polk.”

  “I think I’ll pass on that,” he said. “His divorce trial starts in an hour. Probably doesn’t need to hear from you today.”

  “Whatever,” I said. “Thanks for the info.”

  “Yeah. Good luck.”

  I clicked on CNN, ate my sandwich, downed a protein shake and my daily regimen of vitamins, then took a quick shower. It had been years since I’d left my job as a federal prosecutor, but I’d worked closely with Gombold in those days. He’d done a stint in D.C. after I’d left, but he’d somehow managed a return assignment to Denver and we’d crossed paths now and then while I was in private practice. A few years younger than me, he’d been a certified public accountant before joining the bureau. He was a wiry man known for his expensive suits, all-business demeanor, and methodical approach. I still considered him the best agent in the Denver office.

  The batter clearly beat the throw, but the first-base umpire called him out. “He was safe!” Scott shouted. Scott “Two Toe” McCutcheon. I’ve known him since I was three and love him like a brother. We were next-door neighbors back when Denver was a cow town. You wouldn’t know it by looking at him, but the lean six-footer with the receding hairline was a navy SEAL and holds black belts in karate and aikido. He is my best friend and spiritual cut man. Though he holds a master’s degree in astrophysics, he earns his living as a freelance computer consultant and jokingly refers to himself a self-employed techno-geek. I jokingly call him chief of my technical services division.

  “That ump should be a trial judge,” I said. It was a beautiful Thursday afternoon and we were at Coors Field enjoying game one of a doubleheader between the Rockies and the Dodgers. Two mediocre teams. Top of the seventh, home team down by three. One out. We were right behind first base, seated beside a dozen or so Cub Scouts. “Let’s talk business,” I said. “I’m deducting this as a business expense.”

  “Me too,” he said. I laughed and sipped my three-dollar diet Coke. I had purchased the tickets.

  “Fractals,” I said. I’d outlined the case during our drive down from Boulder.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Relate them to money.” He sat up straight, placed his four-dollar beer on the concrete, and turned to me.

  “Fractal mathematics has plenty of commercial applications,” he said, “but it’s no big secret. Some of these software companies have been using fractal image compression for ten years.”

  “Medical imaging?”

  “Medical imaging, meteorology, metals, geology, engineering—you name it. Any object with an irregular pattern can be represented by a fractal model.” One of the Rockies hit a solid shot down the line. We rose with the crowd. The third baseman scooped it up, but bobbled the ball, causing the throw to be late. The umpire saw it differently.

  “He was safe!” Scott screamed as he rose to his feet. I said nothing. We’d been fairly verbal about five or six bad calls and I had a hunch both the first-base umpire and the den mother had grown tired of our act. Scott sat down and finished his beer.

  “Back to fractals,” I said.

  “A lot of different companies use fractal-based models,” he said. “Some use them internally; most are selling software or services that rely on fractal-based software.”

  “These companies make money?”

  “You bet.”

  “And this has been going on awhile?”

  “Depends on what you mean,” he said. “Fractal geometry’s been around more than twenty years, but it’s only been in the past five or ten that industry has started to explore all the potential applications.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Two reasons,” he said. “First, the knowledge of fractal geometry is no longer limited to a few mathematicians. As more students and researchers gained an understanding of it, they began to look for ways to apply it in the real world.”

  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 passed 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.

  “Assuming,” 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 classes 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 balls, 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 goddamned middle.”

  I remained silent despite the call, but one of the Cub Scouts stood and yelled, “Umpire needs glasses.” 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 classes 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 classified 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 ‘skunkfucker,’” 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 glass 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 assume something, it makes an ASS out of U and ME. I had never been to the Pacific Northwest, but I had assumed 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 cockpit from the passenger 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.