The Fractal Murders

by Mark Cohen

“I’ll work out with my brother, and see you at four.”

  I got cleaned up, let the dogs out for a few minutes, then headed down the mountain to Denver. It didn’t take a genius to know that the agent in Walla Walla had contacted Polk to let him know I’d taken a look at Fontaine’s probate file, but how had Polk learned the identity of my client? If Polk knew someone had hired me to investigate the three deaths, I suppose Jayne Smyers was the most obvious candidate.

  I saw no suspicious yellow Ryder trucks in the vicinity of the federal building, so I figured it was safe to fulfill my promise to meet Gumby at four. The nearest open meter was three blocks away. Between the sprints and my workout with Troy, three blocks was about as far as I cared to walk.

  I entered the building, passed through the metal detector, and noted the President’s smiling mug. I didn’t vote for him, but I thanked God it wasn’t Al Sharpton, Tom DeLay, or any one of a dozen other boneheads I could have named. I got off the elevator on eighteen and entered the Denver regional office of the FBI. A black receptionist sat behind a thick glass barrier. Pretty in a 1960s sort of way—like a young Diana Ross. I picked up the phone on my side of the barrier. “May I help you?” she asked.

  “Pepper Keane,” I said. “Here to see Tim Gombold.”

  “Please be seated,” she said. “Someone will be with you shortly.” Very professional, which is not always the case when you enter a government office.

  I selected a recent Newsweek from the magazine rack and sat down on one of the tan leather couches. After ten minutes a side door opened and Gombold appeared.

  “Sorry about this,” he said. He handed me a visitor’s badge and I clipped it to my lapel. I wore a black suit, white shirt, silver tie, and black wing tips. You don’t need a color consultant to select your clothes when you’ve been blessed with black hair that has a white stripe.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. I followed him through a maze and into the main workroom, then down a hallway to Dittmer’s office.

  The door was open. Gombold knocked on the door, then stepped in and said, “Sir, this is Pepper Keane.” Dittmer was tall and lean, with broad shoulders. Wearing a short-sleeved broadcloth shirt. Early fifties. Weathered face, intense blue eyes, square jaw. Sandy hair, almost as short as mine. No smile. Everything about him said tough hombre.

  “Bo Dittmer,” he said as he stood and extended his arm. He sounded like he might be from the South. Not the Deep South; more like Virginia or one of the other border states.

  “Pepper Keane,” I said. We shook hands, and I noticed a long scar running the length of his forearm. His paisley tie hung loose around his neck. He motioned for me to sit down. Gumby sat next to me and stared out at the mountains. Dittmer had a corner office with a magnificent view of downtown and the Rockies.

  “Agent Gombold speaks highly of you,” he said.

  “I pay him well,” I said.

  “Tim tells me you’re taking a second look at a case we worked.”

  “That’s right,” I said. Stacks of files covered his desk, some nearly a foot high. An American flag on a wooden pole stood behind one corner of the desk. His walls boasted his college degrees, numerous army and FBI awards, and a number of photographs depicting him shaking hands with political heavyweights from both parties.

  “I can’t say I like the fact that you’ve become involved in the case,” he continued, “but it’s a free country and if this lady professor wants to pay you to dig around, I can’t stop you.” I said nothing. “I give you credit for finding that reference to Underwood in Fontaine’s textbook, though,” he added. “It’s not enough to warrant reopening the case, but that was good work.” He seemed sincere.

  “Thanks.”

  “My concern,” he said, “is that you don’t create a panic in the press or in the mathematical community as you go about doing whatever it is you’re going to do. Rumors get started, next thing you know Pierre Salinger’s on the fucking Internet claiming the bureau’s engaged in a cover-up.”

  “I’ve been pretty discreet so far,” I assured him.

  “I appreciate that,” he said. “Can you tell me what else you’ve learned?”

  I gave him the highlights, leaving out our discovery of Thomas Tobias because I didn’t want him asking how I’d obtained Tobias’s name. The conversation took about twenty minutes.

  “Any leads on the gun?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “They know it was a Taurus five-shot, but the serial number had been filed off.” He just nodded and switched topics. “Tim says you were a marine?”

  “Judge advocate,” I said.

  “You like it?”

  “Loved it,” I said.

  “Why’d you leave?” Strange question given that I’d just met the man, but the question had been asked before and I knew how to respond without revealing my battle with depression.

  “That’s a good question,” I said. “If I’d stayed in, I’d be four years away from retirement.” He nodded. It was my turn to switch topics. “How about you,” I asked. “You must have been in the service.” I pointed to the awards on the wall.

  “Army. Seventy to seventy-four.”

  “Vietnam?”

  “Yeah, and parts of Cambodia and Laos. The lines were a bit fuzzy in those days. You ever in combat?”

  “Nope.”

  “A lot of good men died,” he said, “but sometimes I miss it. I swear, there are times I’d rather be back in the jungle than sitting behind this desk with baby-faced bureaucrats riding my ass.” Gumby glanced at me as if to say, See, I told ya. “But, that’s my problem,” Dittmer added, “not yours.”

  He ended our conversation at precisely four forty-five. He promised he’d consider reopening the case if I came up with something concrete. To his credit, he never mentioned my prosecution of the agents involved in the Big Crow case.

  “Thanks for stopping by,” he said as we stood. “I’m glad we had the chance to meet.”

  “Me too,” I said. We shook hands again, and he turned his attention to some papers on his desk, leaving us to see ourselves out.

  “That went well,” Gumby said.

  “Think so?”

  “Yeah, you convinced him you know what you’re doing, and that’s all he wanted. And I think he likes the fact that you’re prior military.”

  “Good.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” he said. He led me through the maze and into the main work area. There were dozens of desks, federal agents working diligently at many of them. It was a symphony of fluorescent lights, telephones, fax machines, copiers, and typewriters. As we approached the other end of the room, Polk came around a corner and nearly walked into us. A tall man with immense shoulders, blond hair, and movie-star looks, Polk is six-five and must weigh two-forty.

  “What’s he doing here?” Polk said to Gumby, making no effort to hide his contempt for me. His sleeves were rolled up and he wore a leather shoulder holster with a .357 in it. A combination Robert Redford and Dirty Harry.

  “Surprised to see you here, Pokey,” I said. “I thought they still had you working the Kennedy assassination.”

  “Kill anyone lately?” he asked. “I never understood how you figured it was okay to kill people, but not animals.” Polk is a big hunting enthusiast—birds, deer, big game—and I’d given him plenty of grief about it over the years.

  “Just some people,” I said.

  “Same old Pepper,” he said. “If it wasn’t for your tendency to indict federal agents, I’d shut that smart mouth of yours once and for all.”

  “I’m not a prosecutor anymore,” I said as I set my briefcase down. “Let’s do it right now.”

  The room was silent. Every agent and secretary was locked in on us. Polk stepped toward me, but Gumby stuck out his hand and said, “C’mon, guys.” Polk’s left fist was clenched and his face was the color of boiled lobster.

  “Go ahead, Pokey,” I said, “take a swing at me. I’ve been waiting twenty years for you to get up the coura
ge.”

  We stared at each other, then he brushed past me and said, “Your day’s coming, asshole.”

  “Focus on the grassy knoll,” I shouted as he walked away. “That’s the key.”

  17

  I CAN’T BELIEVE ANYONE would name their son Isaac Newton,” said Bobbi. Of the 157 listings I’d obtained from directory assistance, there were three Isaac Newtons. One in Vermont, one in New Jersey, and one in Ohio.

  “Who’s George Boole?” Bobbi asked as they continued scanning the notes I’d prepared. Of the thirty-four mathematical names I’d chosen to work with, that was the most common. I had telephone listings for twelve George Booles.

  “Boolean algebra,” I said.

  “What’s Boolean algebra?” Bobbi asked. She wore cut-offs and a red sleeveless top that accentuated her ample bustline.

  “It’s a system of symbolic logic,” Scott said. He was focused on my notes, so it came out sounding like her question had been a distraction.

  “Oh, that’s right,” she said. “I remember learning that when I studied for my broker’s license.” She elbowed him playfully. He smiled, put my notes aside, and reached for a bagel.

  “Thank God these guys all have unusual names,” he said. He wore a white tank top and green running shorts.

  “There was one named Henry Smith,” I said, “but I decided not to bother.”

  It was nine o’clock on a Saturday morning. We were in Scott’s kitchen eating bagels from Moe’s and enjoying Bobbi’s gourmet coffee. Aspen Blend, or something like that. Bobbi was in the process of updating the kitchen, so the wallpaper had been stripped from the walls. Buck and Wheat played in the backyard. Outside, it was shaping up to be a gorgeous day.

  Inside, it was shaping up to be a tedious day. In addition to the 157 phone listings, Gilbert had faxed seventy-two driver’s license abstracts. I handed those to Scott, then began to spread cream cheese across a garlic bagel.

  “Why the red and green marks?” Bobbi asked. I’d sorted the abstracts into two categories.

  “Red means the license was issued before Tobias disappeared. We can forget those people.”

  “How many green ones are there?” Scott asked.

  “There were seventeen,” I said, “but I eliminated ten based on age, race, or height.” Tobias was thirty-five years old and white. His employment application had listed his height as five-eleven. I’d culled any man under twenty or over fifty. I’d also cast aside anyone shorter than five-seven or taller than six-three.

  “These are just the Western states?” Scott asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. He put the abstracts aside and poured more coffee for all.

  When she’d had her fill of bagels and coffee, Bobbi carried her dishes to the sink and said, “You boys have fun today. I’m off to the farmer’s market.” Boulder hosts a farmer’s market every Saturday from May through October. She gave Scott a peck on the cheek. He responded with a pat on her rear and asked her to buy some fresh corn. We heard her Porsche start, then resumed our discussion.

  “I showed you mine,” I said, “now show me yours.”

  “I took your suggestion,” he said. “I monitored the math and science forums every night this week, but they were deader than dead. I spent four hours on-line last night and found one chat room open. There were two people in it.”

  “Jesus.” Scott subscribes to AOL and all the other services, so I knew he’d covered all the bases.

  “I went through a shitload of message boards and BLOGs too, but the only people using them are computer geeks and graduate students.”

  “Any mathematical nicknames?”

  “One guy called himself Alex the Great, but he lives in Ontario.”

  “How’d you learn that? I thought all you could get from message boards was the person’s e-mail address.”

  “It’s called extraction,” he said. “If you have the right software, you can retrieve the on-line service’s billing information for anyone who’s been in a particular forum or section. Marketing companies use it all the time to develop mailing lists for people with specific interests.”

  “So tell me about Alex the Great.”

  “He’s not our man,” Scott said. “He and some other guy were trading messages about the pros and cons of a new programming language, and a math professor would’ve known the answers to the questions he was asking.”

  “Thanks for trying,” I said. I stood and took my dishes to the sink.

  “I’m not done,” he said. “I didn’t think of it until Wednesday, but it occurred to me we’re looking for someone with an interest in the history of mathematics, so I visited a lot of web sites and posted as many messages as I could. Said I was a high school senior writing a paper on the history of mathematics and wanted to learn as much as possible about it.”

  “Get any responses?” I resumed my seat.

  “Eight as of last night.”

  “Anyone using a nickname?”

  “No, but I got a billing address for each of them, and I figure we might as well check them out.”

  “Might as well,” I said.

  He gulped the last of his coffee. “How do you want to start?” he asked.

  “Let’s start with the phone numbers,” I said. “Of those hundred and fifty-seven listings, only forty-eight are in the Western states. There’s an on-line crisscross service that will give us a street address for each phone number. We’ll compare those with the driving abstracts to avoid duplication, then take a look at the people who responded to your messages and come up with some sort of master list.”

  “Okay,” he said, “let’s get to it.” I followed him downstairs to what had become known as the War Room. Scott’s basement contains more computer and electronic equipment than any home office I’ve ever seen. The floor is covered in beige carpeting and the walls are finished with wood paneling, but with all the maps, scientific tables, and astronomical charts he has tacked up, the room resembles a military command post.

  The crisscross service turned out to be more useful than I had anticipated. In addition to providing a street address for each of the forty-eight phone numbers we’d submitted, we were able to learn how long the person had been receiving phone service at that address. By eliminating those who had obtained service prior to Tobias’s disappearance, we shrank the list of possibles from forty-eight to eleven.

  By noon we had sorted through all the information and created a list of fourteen men. Fourteen men in the nine Western states known to be using one of thirty-four names prominent in the history of mathematics. Fourteen men who had obtained a driver’s license or phone service after Tobias’s disappearance.

  “The scary part,” Scott said, “is that all this assumes he’s in the Western states.”

  “And that he has a driver’s license or phone service,” I added. I didn’t say it, but most frightening was the possibility that Tobias might not even be the killer. We really had nothing on him.

  “Now what?” Scott asked.

  “On Monday I’ll start calling county officials and learn as much as I can about these people. Anyone who registered to vote before Tobias disappeared is off the list. Anyone who paid property taxes before Tobias disappeared is off the list. Anyone who registered a vehicle before Tobias disappeared is off the list.” Scott turned off the computer he’d been using, then stood and stretched.

  “Boy,” he said, “being a private investigator sure is glamorous.”

  18

  C’MON,” TROY URGED, “PUSH IT, PUSH IT.” I SQUEEZED OUT TWO MORE REPS, THEN SET THE BAR DOWN ON THE RACK. MY FIFTH AND FINAL SET OF SQUATS. “NOT BAD FOR A GEEZER,” HE SAID.

  “My legs are fried.”

  “You’ll need that leg strength if Polk comes after you,” he joked. I just laughed.

  It was Monday afternoon, and we were finishing our workout at Troy’s gym. The first day of June. I’d spent the morning on the phone with county officials throughout the West, and I’d trimmed the list of potential Thom
as Tobiases from fourteen to six:

  George Cantor, San Anselmo, California

  John von Neumann, Scottsdale, Arizona

  David D. Hilbert, Orem, Utah

  David T. Hilbert, Irvine, California

  Karl Gauss, Mora, New Mexico

  Hermann Weyl, Seattle, Washington

  “Want to grab a bite to eat?” I asked after we had showered and changed. It was almost five, and I didn’t relish driving home during the rush hour.

  “Can’t,” he said. “We’ve got Boy Scouts.” Troy’s son, Andrew, had joined the Boy Scouts a year ago and Troy had volunteered to serve as an assistant scoutmaster. “Want to tag along and talk about the exciting field of investigations?”

  “Probably not a good day for me to speak on that topic,” I said.

  I bid my brother farewell and walked around the fashionable Cherry Creek area, where his gym is located. Not surprisingly, I ended up at The Tattered Cover, the largest bookstore in the Rocky Mountain region. It’s supposed to be a great place to meet intelligent women, but tonight I was just looking for books. I didn’t purchase any, but if anyone ever writes Heidegger for Dummies or Idiot’s Guide to Phenomenology, those are two I’ll buy.

  I left the bookstore around six-thirty, found my truck, and headed home. The Rockies were in town that night, so most of the traffic was coming into downtown while I was heading out. Once I got past Thirty-eighth, it was smooth sailing.

  It was 7:40 when I arrived in Nederland. I hadn’t checked my mail that morning, so I stopped at the post office before going home. There was plenty of junk mail, a few bills, and one letter with a return address in Dayton, Ohio. Who did I know in Ohio? The only person I could think of was a former client, an embezzler serving time at a federal penitentiary. I opened the envelope. It was a handwritten letter from Monica:

  Pepper:

  As you can probably tell, Mindy and I made it back to good old Dayton. I’m working in a department store, and I’m already itching to get back to school and sunny California.

  I found the enclosed article while unpacking and I thought it might interest you. It contains a discussion of the use of fractal geometry in predicting the behavior of economic markets. Thought it might help you catch the bad guys.