The Fractal Murders

by Mark Cohen

  “We’re wondering if you saw anything unusual or suspicious here today?”

  “You a policeman?” he asked.

  “Just a friend.”

  “Used to be a homicide detective,” he said. “Retired five years ago. Thirty-four years on the force, so the bulge under your coat caught my attention. Men packing heat are the only ones wearing getups like that on a day like today.”

  “I’m a private investigator,” I said. I handed him a card.

  “Lawyer, huh?”

  “It’s a long story,” I said.

  “You may be the first private investigator I’ve ever met with half a brain,” he said.

  “Jury’s still out on that,” I said.

  “I did see something unusual this morning,” he said. I kept silent. “About eight-thirty a dark blue sedan pulls up and parks out there on Pearl Street. Crown Victoria, four-door. Fella gets out, sees me, and starts walking in the opposite direction. Big fella, about your age, maybe a little older.”

  “Tall and skinny or tall and muscular?” I wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

  “No, he had muscle,” the man said. “Must’ve weighed two-twenty at least.” That eliminated Finn.

  “I knew the guy was on the job right away. He had that look about him, and the car had all sorts of antennas on it. Figured the guy must be federal because I didn’t know him and the federal boys always drive big Fords these days. Didn’t think much of it at the time.”

  “How long was his car here?” I asked.

  “No more than thirty minutes.”

  “Did you get the plate number?”

  “Colorado plates,” he said. “A-M-K 8115.”

  “A-M-K?” The prefix one witness claimed he’d seen on the car outside Carolyn Chang’s home the night of her disappearance.

  “Yeah.”

  “You sure?” I asked.

  “Positive,” he said. “I’ve got a knack for remembering those things.” I wrote it down. “It won’t do you any good,” he said. “I’ll guarantee you it’s a dummy plate. They use them for undercover operations and things like that. That info’s not available to the public.”

  “Could you run it through your connections?” I asked. He assessed me and his conclusion must’ve been favorable.

  “Sure,” he said. “Give me a day to work on it.”

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Thomas Hammond,” he said. We shook hands and I told him a little about my background, then thanked him for his help. “Is your lady friend in trouble?” he asked.

  “She hired me to look into something, and that’s evidently making some folks nervous. Looks like someone broke into her home and searched it while she was at work.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on it,” he said.

  Jayne looked through the security eyepiece in the door, then let me in. She seemed more composed. “Did you learn anything?” she asked.

  “I think you might have had a visit from our friend Polk.” I took off my blazer and related what I’d learned from Hammond.

  “Wonderful,” she said. “That man was creepy even before I knew he might be a killer.”

  “This will all be over soon,” I said. I didn’t know that with certainty, but at the time it seemed like a good thing to say.

  “I don’t want to stay here tonight,” she said.

  “You’re welcome to stay with me,” I said.

  “What if he tries to get into your house?” she asked.

  “He won’t,” I said. “He knows I’ve got a weapon and the will to use it.” She eyed my pistol. “Besides,” I said, “Buck would wake up the entire town before Polk got within a hundred yards of the house.”

  “I’ll follow you in my car,” she said. She walked upstairs, packed an overnight bag, and followed me up the mountain in her silver Saab 900.

  It was just after six when we arrived. I let the dogs out, then clicked on the CBS Evening News. Jayne made herself comfortable on the sofa.

  “You want a glass of wine?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Red, white, or pink?”

  “Anything with alcohol,” she said. I poured us each a glass of white zin and sat down beside her.

  “Hungry?” I asked.

  “A little.”

  “Pizza okay?”

  “Sure.”

  I picked up the cordless and called Backcountry. “What do you want on it?” I asked.

  “No anchovies,” she said. I ordered a large pizza with mushrooms and garlic, then let the dogs in and fed them.

  After we’d eaten and consumed more wine, we channel-surfed for fifteen minutes, but we agreed that there was nothing worth watching, so I clicked off the TV. The wine had helped her relax. She noticed my CD collection and walked over to see what I had. “This may be the most diverse collection of music ever assembled,” she said. “I mean, to see Stirring Marches of the American Services right next to Hollywood’s Singing Cowboys boggles the mind.” She was teasing me, but in an affectionate way. She finally selected a collection of songs by Nat King Cole, then turned off the overhead lights, returned to the couch, and cuddled up to me.

  We talked and enjoyed the music. I kissed her. She kissed back. Always a good sign. It went like that for an hour. Under the circumstances I figured I could miss SportsCenter. At ten-thirty she yawned and said, “Let’s go to bed.” I was pretty sure she meant the same bed.

  I let the dogs out a final time while she disappeared with her overnight bag. When she came out of the bathroom, she was wearing a powder blue camisole with matching satin shorts. Buck and Wheat looked betrayed when I closed the bedroom door before they could enter.

  I brushed my fangs, stripped to my boxers, then took Jayne in my arms. “You look wonderful,” I said. She blushed, and we stood there holding each other.

  “Something wrong?” she asked.

  “I want you to do this because you want to, not because you’re afraid and need to be with someone.”

  “I want to,” she said. She tapped the tip of my nose with her index finger to emphasize the point.

  When we had finished making love and were about to fall asleep in each other’s arms, I realized I’d forgotten to take my medicine. I gave her a peck on the cheek and climbed out of bed. “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “Forgot to take a pill,” I said. I opened the bedroom door to head for the kitchen, and when I did the dogs rushed past me and onto the bed. Jayne laughed and pulled the covers over her head so they wouldn’t lick her to death. I took my pill with a little water and returned to the bedroom. “They usually sleep with me,” I explained. “You want me to evict them?”

  “No,” she said, “it’s a big bed.” I climbed in next to her and turned out the light. We were facing the same direction, me on the outside, her on the inside. Our bodies fit like two pieces of a perfectly cut jigsaw puzzle. I covered her neck and shoulders with light kisses and debated whether to bring up the big D.

  “I’ve been wanting to tell you something,” I said.

  “This would be a real bad time to tell me you’re married,” she joked.

  “Nothing like that,” I said. She turned to face me and waited for me to continue. “I suffer from depression,” I finally said. “I have to take medication for it. That’s why I had to go take a pill.”

  She smiled and said, “You had me worried for a minute.”

  “If we’re going to be spending time with each other, I felt you had a right to know.” I told her I’d suffered from depression since Joy’s death, but that the medication worked wonders for me, and I was generally as happy as the next existentially pained ex-lawyer.

  “Lots of people suffer from depression,” she said. “At least you’re doing something about it.”

  “It doesn’t bother you?”

  “Not particularly,” she said. She caressed my cheek. “Sounds like it bothers you.”

  “The whole thing is sort of a blow to my male ego,” I said.
/>   “Even Pepper Keane can’t be perfect,” she whispered. She kissed me good night and we drifted off to sleep.

  The alarm went off at six-thirty and we made love again. Then we lay on our backs, her head resting on my chest, both half asleep. The phone rang and I wondered who would be calling so early in the morning. I picked up the receiver. “Pepper Keane,” I said.

  “You sound hungover,” Scott said. “Too much wine last night?”

  “It wasn’t wine that I had too much of . . .”

  “It was a ‘double shot of your baby’s love’?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You were dying to say the whole thing, but you couldn’t because she’s right next to you?”

  “Right.”

  “Who did that song?”

  “The Swingin’ Medallions,” I said. “What do you want?”

  “You’re gonna love this,” he said. “Seems our boy Polk flew to Boston the Sunday before Underwood died. He flew under his own name and used a government credit card to pay for the ticket.”

  “You’re gonna love this,” I said. “He attended his high school reunion in Richland, Washington, one day before Fontaine was murdered.”

  “Jesus,” he said.

  “Can you place him on any flights to Omaha or Lincoln?” I asked.

  “Not so far,” he said. “The whole thing was a bit more complicated than I thought it would be. You can’t just go into a travel agent’s system and retrieve past reservations made by people who didn’t use that agent. I had to worm my way into the billing database for each airline, and it took some time.” I remained silent a moment. Jayne got out of bed, let the dogs out the door from my bedroom to the backyard, then removed her pajamas and went into the bathroom where I heard her start the shower. Then she used her index finger and gestured for me to come hither. “What do we do next?” Scott asked.

  “I’m going to take a shower,” I said. “I’ll call you back.”

  32

  I NEVER GOT THE CHANCE to return Scott’s call. Soon after Jayne headed down the mountain for the math department, Susan Thompson phoned me and told me the connection between Amanda Slowiaczek and Finn. I punched in the number for the Lincoln Police Department.

  “Detective Slowiaczek,” she said.

  “Amanda,” I said cheerfully, “how are you?”

  “Who’s this?” she demanded.

  “Pepper Keane.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “Limp-dick lawyer turned private eye,” I said.

  “Oh,” she said, “what do you want?”

  “I was going through your reports on the Carolyn Chang murder—I got copies from Sheriff Bowen down in Kansas—but I seem to be missing a few. I was wondering if you could fax me a copy of the paperwork on the harassment complaint Carolyn filed a few years”—she hung up on me—“ago.”

  I smiled to myself—few things are more satisfying than making someone eat their words—and I pondered what to have for breakfast. I was in the process of slicing a whole-wheat bagel in half when Russ Seifert called.

  “I searched Don’s office from top to bottom and couldn’t find anything like what you described,” he said, “but this may interest you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I got to thinking about your theory and I remembered that a day or two before Donald’s death, we had some problems with our security cameras.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “The power went out in our building one night that week and the cameras were out of service for about an hour.”

  “Don’t you have batteries or generators?”

  “We have backup generators for the mainframes, but not the security system.”

  “Anything taken that night?”

  “Not that we know of, but if your theory’s right, an intruder wouldn’t have been looking for our materials. He would have been looking for something Donald had been working on. We wouldn’t even have known it existed.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Does that help?” he asked.

  “It’s not the connection I was hoping for, but it’s mighty suspicious.”

  “Let me know if I can do anything else.”

  “I will,” I said.

  I ate the other half of the bagel, then went downstairs to work the heavy bag. I usually start out sluggish and finish sharp, and this morning was no exception. After a few minutes my punches were quick and full of snap. I felt good when I came upstairs. Things were falling into place.

  Then Jayne called and said, “We need to talk.” She sounded distant.

  “What’s up?”

  “You weren’t completely honest with me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “While you were being so honest with me about your depression, it didn’t occur to you that I might like to know about your manslaughter trial?”

  “Who told you?” I asked.

  “Stephen.”

  “It was self-defense,” I said. “I was acquitted.”

  “That’s not the point,” she said. “I had a right to know.”

  “Yes,” I said, “you did.” She remained silent. “I wanted to tell you,” I added, “but I was waiting for the right time.”

  “And when would that have been?” I had no good answer and said nothing for a moment, then asked if she would like to hear the story.

  “Maybe in a day or two,” she finally said.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let me know when you’re ready. And call me if you need me.”

  “Good-bye,” she said.

  “Jayne, I’m—” Click. I placed the receiver in its cradle.

  I sat in my office and tried to organize my thoughts. I should’ve been focused on the fact that Mike Polk looked like a pretty good bet to be a player in the fractal murders. Instead I found myself thinking about Jayne. And the more I thought about it, the more I wondered why Finn had been at my home and why he had taken it upon himself to dig into my past and tell Jayne about it. I thought I knew the answer, but I wanted to hear it from the triathlete’s mouth, so I headed to Boulder.

  The math department was busier than normal, but I managed to reach Finn’s office without being seen by Jayne or Mary Pat. He was at his desk, wearing Dockers and a blue poplin shirt. He looked up at me. “Mr. Keane,” he said, “what can I do for you?” I closed the door behind me, then sat down on one of the two wooden chairs in front of his desk. I took a deep breath and let it out in order to relax.

  “One of my neighbors saw you snooping around my house a few weeks ago. I was hoping you could explain that to me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. He removed his wire-rimmed glasses and set them on his desk.

  “She saw your picture in the paper and she can identify you,” I said. “Let’s put that issue aside for a moment. Perhaps you can tell me what prompted you to dig into my past, and why you felt compelled to share my manslaughter arrest with Jayne Smyers this morning.”

  “I don’t like your tone,” he said. He began to stand and I again noticed the multitude of blue veins in his sinewy arms.

  “Sit down,” I said. The command startled him. “You may be a better athlete, but you don’t want to fight me.” He gave me a hard stare, but sank back into his chair.

  “Let me tell you what I think,” I said. “You had a thing for Carolyn Chang when you were at Nebraska. Am I right?” He said nothing, but I had his attention. “You had some fun times with her, but you wanted more than that and she didn’t. Maybe you were just too young for her to take seriously.” I paused, but he again said nothing. “When she got tired of you,” I continued, “you couldn’t let go. You became obsessed. You called her constantly, bothered her. You wanted her to explain what had happened. Maybe you stalked her. Eventually she filed a harassment complaint with the police. Ordinarily, your career would’ve been over, but Carolyn didn’t know your big sister was a detective. Amanda pulled some strings and worked it out so you could leave quietly and s
tart over somewhere else. How am I doing so far?” He set his elbows on his desk and buried his face in hands.

  “Things were going pretty well for you here, but you developed a little crush on Jayne Smyers. You became curious when you learned she was working with a private investigator. The more you saw us together, the more worried you became. You feared it might have something to do with the decision on granting you tenure. You thought I might be looking into your problems in Lincoln. So you went to my home. I’m not sure why. Maybe you wanted to talk with me. Or maybe you planned to break in and see if you could learn what I was up to. My dogs or my neighbor scared you away. Then, when it became clear that Jayne and I were developing a friendship, jealousy got the best of you. You’ve always been sweet on her and you wanted to do whatever you could to sink the relationship.”

  “It’s all conjecture,” he said without looking up.

  “It’s not conjecture that Amanda Slowiaczek is your sister,” I said. “And it’s not conjecture that Carolyn Chang filed a harassment complaint with the Lincoln Police Department shortly before you left Nebraska. I even have the report number. It’s the one report your sister didn’t give the sheriff in Kansas after Carolyn Chang’s murder.”

  “What do you want?” he said, glaring at me. In his eyes I saw a mixture of hatred and shame.

  “You have some issues to work on,” I said. “Your IQ is in the stratosphere but you got thrown into the adult world before you were ready for it, and now it’s catching up with you.” He broke eye contact and his face began to turn red. I stood there, silent. Tears began to form in his eyes.

  “Christ,” he said, “going to your home was stupid. I don’t even know why I did it. I just wasn’t thinking.” He sighed. “I’ve really messed things up this time.” He gazed at the floor and let out a pathetic laugh, as if he couldn’t believe the extent to which he’d ruined his own life.

  “Not necessarily,” I said. He looked up at me. “The consensus seems to be that you’re a good teacher. So I’m not going to share any of this with Jayne, your sister, or anyone else.” He looked at me in disbelief. “On two conditions,” I said.

  “What are those?”