The Fractal Murders Part 10

"Yes. You can think of a mountain the same way. If we try to fit that mountain inside a cube, its dimension will be greater than two, but less than three because it won't consume the entire cube."

"So, how do you measure fractal dimension?"

"That gets complicated," she said. "Think of it this way. If you examined that coastline from a satellite, it would look like a relatively straight line. The closer you get, the more detail you see, and this adds to the length of the line. Fractal dimension measures the rate at which the length of the line appears to increase-the rate at which new detail appears."

"And some guy named Hausdorff came up with a way of measuring this?"

"Very good," she said, "you've done your homework. Hausdorff said you can measure the fractal dimension of an object by-"

"Okay," I said as I held up my palm, "that's enough." She smiled and we shared a brief silence.

For some reason I couldn't fully articulate, I wanted to ask her out. The rules of professional conduct governing attorneys in Colorado prohibit lawyers from dating their clients because of the fear of conflicts of interest, but I was under no such constraint.

"So," she said, having finished the lecture, "you were in the army?"

"Marines."

"I think Mary Pat mentioned that."

"The haircut didn't give it away?"

"I didn't think anything of it."

"It's funny," I said. "When I was young I wanted long hair, but the very mention of it would send my father into orbit. Then I finished law school and joined the marines."

"Why the marines?" she asked. We had clearly finished discussing the case.

"I don't know," I said. "I guess the short answer is, I wanted to see the world."

"Did you?"

"No, but I got to know North and South Carolina real well."

"That doesn't sound bad. I've heard the beaches are wonderful."

"They are, but the Marine Corps always seeks out the places with the biggest swamps and the most snakes."

She must've picked up on something in my voice. "Oh," she teased, "are we afraid of snakes?"

"We detest snakes," I said.

"I grew up in New Mexico," she said. "Rattlesnakes are a way of life. You just have to watch where you step." Maybe so, I thought, but that won't get you very far when you're trudging through a murky swamp inhabited by copperheads and water moccasins.

We talked for another ten or fifteen minutes. The only child of two physicians, she'd grown up outside Albuquerque. A high school basketball star, several major universities had offered her athletic scholars.h.i.+ps, but she'd turned them down to attend a liberal-arts college in Minnesota.

I was enjoying this conversation when Finn appeared in the doorway with a lime green bicycle worth several thousand dollars. He wore black spandex shorts and a bright yellow cyclist's s.h.i.+rt. A radio no bigger than a deck of cards was clipped to his belt line. The glistening sweat on his body indicated that he had just completed a strenuous trip. "Great day for a ride," he said to my client. "I just thought I'd stop by and see how you were doing."

"Come in, Stephen," she said, "Mr. Keane and I were just sharing stories." Finn entered, and my immediate reaction was that a man smart enough to graduate from Harvard at twenty should have enough sense to shower after bicycling twenty or thirty miles in the hot sun. I stood up from my chair.

"I didn't mean to interrupt," he said.

"I should be going," I said. "I appreciate your time and patience. I think the women at the shelter will really enjoy this program." I winked at her, but Finn was behind me and didn't see it.

"You're more than welcome," she said with a sly smile.

"Oh," I said, "I almost forgot." I handed her the ca.s.sette.

"What's this?" she asked.

"It's music," I said. I'd made a copy of the fractal ballet tape Luther had given me. "Consider it a present." She looked puzzled, but accepted it graciously. Finn said nothing.

I woke up a bit depressed on Sat.u.r.day. I don't know how to describe it. "Blue" is probably the best word. It wasn't a deep I'm-going-to-kill-myself depression, just a mild sadness. I'd suffered from mild depression since Joy's death, but didn't get the official diagnosis until I was in the service.

I was a captain a.s.signed to the base legal office at Camp Lejeune. I had a fantastic job, good friends, money in my pocket, and a promising future, but what had been periodic bouts of mild depression became increasingly severe. I couldn't let go of Joy's death. Sometimes I'd go two or three nights without sleep because I couldn't stop thinking about her. When I did sleep, I'd dream of Joy and wake up wis.h.i.+ng the dream hadn't ended. Few things are more frightening than the realization that you're going crazy, so I sought help from a civilian psychiatrist. The military didn't recognize the doctor-patient privilege at that time, though the rules have changed a bit since then.

After several visits and a battery of tests, the shrink concluded I was genetically predisposed to depression. Some kind of chemical imbalance. This, combined with my obsessive nature and existential angst, was a recipe for permanent sadness. He prescribed medication, but recommended a therapist and encouraged me to sort through my feelings over Joy's death.

I wanted to keep the therapy a secret, so every Tuesday afternoon I told my fellow marines I was taking an hour to get a haircut. I'd spend fifty minutes with the therapist and ten minutes getting a buzz cut at the barbershop. My colleagues couldn't figure out what had gotten into me. Whereas I had previously pushed the envelope of what was an acceptable haircut for a marine officer, I suddenly made Ollie North look like a flower child.

The medication made a world of difference. Things went well until it showed up on a random urinalysis. The navy psychiatrists were satisfied that I was fit as a fiddle and said I could remain in the service, but any kind of mental health history is the kiss of death for a marine officer, so I completed my three-year tour, then returned to Colorado and became a federal prosecutor.

I don't know why I woke up feeling a bit down. My best guess is that I'd read too much Heidegger the previous night. He uses a lot of words like "equiprimordial," and it's always an ego-deflating experience. My other best guess is that it p.i.s.sed me off to know I was alone while Finn apparently enjoyed the company of Jayne Smyers.

I needed a long run. I took off up Big Springs Road with Buck. As I've explained, Buck is a large dog, and the first quarter mile was like trying to water ski on concrete. Once the pavement ended, I let him run free. We ran eight miles-past the lake, around the recycling center, and back down into town. In other places it's called the dump, but here it's called the recycling center. People ask me if I have problems running at this alt.i.tude, but I'll take running at 8,300 feet over the humidity of Camp Lejeune any day of the week.

When Buck and I returned home, there was a message to call d.i.c.k Gilbert. "Good news," he said. "I spoke with the homicide d.i.c.k in Boston and he's going to send me his file. He thinks I'm wasting my time, but he's gonna do it."

"Fantastic," I said. "What about Carolyn Chang?"

"You were right about that Amanda, she's something else. Asked if you'd contacted me."

"Yeah?"

"I told her I had no use for private eyes. That seemed to please her, but when I started asking questions about the murder, she wasn't very forthcoming. Said she'd have to get back to me on making her file available, but I'm not holding my breath."

"Strike you as unusual?"

"h.e.l.l yes, we're supposed to be on the same team."

"Maybe she's the killer," I said.

"Yeah, better check that out."

"Thanks, d.i.c.k."

"Let me know if you need anything else."

"Will do."

The run and Gilbert's call had buoyed my spirits. I spent the rest of the day cleaning and doing ch.o.r.es. By five P.M., it was time for dinner. Too lazy to cook anything healthy, I microwaved ramen noodles and topped them with a slice of cheddar. That brought back memories. When we were twenty-one, Scott and I had hitchhiked to the Texas Gulf Coast over spring break. By the time we reached our destination, we were pathetically low on funds. We camped in state parks and lived on ramen noodles. Whenever one of us wanted to spend money on something unnecessary, the other would say, "Hey, that's a lot of ramen." It became a unit of currency. A six-pack of beer was twenty-five packs of ramen. I smiled and punched in Scott's number.

"McCutcheon," he said.

"Hey," I said, "you want to take a road trip?"

11.

SPEED LIMIT'S FIFTY-FIVE," Scott warned.

"I don't believe bureaucrats in Was.h.i.+ngton should decide speed limits in Nebraska," I said. "I'm kind of a Republican in that regard."

It was a gorgeous Sunday, and we were zooming over Nebraska Highway 2 at seventy-five miles per hour. Unless I have to be somewhere in a hurry, I avoid the interstate. You see more of the country that way. That's particularly true in Nebraska because I-80 follows the Platte River and deceives you into believing the entire state is flat.

The windows were down, and the sweet voice of Jerry Jeff Walker poured forth from the speakers. Wheat rode up front with us while Buck slept in the back of my truck. It's carpeted and has a sh.e.l.l on it; I've slept in it myself more than once.

"Any luck on Thomas Tobias?" Scott asked.

"A little," I said. I told him what I'd learned from Maria Santos and Tobias's credit history.

"He's got to be using an alias," Scott said. "We're not going to find him unless we talk with people."

"Maybe," I said, "but I'm not ready to do that. Once he knows we're looking for him, our chances of finding him go way down." We had discussed the uncertainty principle many times.

"You're the boss," he said.

It was three P.M. and we were eighty miles above North Platte when we started seeing signs for the Nebraska National Forest.

"Didn't know there was such a thing," Scott said.

"Me either."

The terrain was rough and dry. We were in the Nebraska sandhills, an area long considered good for cattle and not much else. Every so often we'd see a dozen or so grouped around a stock tank. Scott said the ranchers used windmills to pump water from the Ogallala Aquifer. It was an unlikely place for a forest, but as we continued east, an oasis of pine began to appear.

A quick drive through the designated campsites convinced us we had the Nebraska National Forest to ourselves. We could've made Lincoln that evening, but decided to camp. Scott set up the tent and I built a fire. As Boy Scouts we'd learned to do it by rubbing sticks together or using flint to create a spark, but Coleman fuel is quicker.

We grilled turkey franks and feasted on roasted corn. When I had finished my second ear of corn, I walked back to the park entrance, put our overnight fee in the box, and picked up a forest service brochure. We were in the largest man-made forest in North America. More than 100,000 acres. On the back of the brochure was a map that showed a lookout tower three miles above our campsite.

A clear, spring-fed river-the Middle Loup-ran across the northern edge of the forest. The sun was still up, so we let the dogs swim while we jumped off the bridge into the river. Then we decided to hike to the tower.

The trail was well marked and not particularly steep. Ignoring the signs that said all dogs must be on a leash, I let Buck and Wheat run free and hoped like h.e.l.l they didn't come across a rogue skunk or porcupine. When we reached the tower, it appeared unoccupied, but the gate leading to the steps was locked. A sign warned: DO NOT CLIMB TOWER UNATTENDED UNDER PENALTY OF LAW.

"It's the G.o.dd.a.m.ned bureaucrats in Was.h.i.+ngton," Scott joked. "I'm changing my party affiliation when we get back."

The gate was only chest high. Scott climbed it and I pa.s.sed Wheat to him. Buck was more difficult, but we got him over it. We climbed the metal steps, slightly out of breath by the time we reached the top. Scott, by the way, is a great athlete. In addition to his martial arts training, he was the place kicker for the Colorado Buffaloes for two years. In one game he broke three toes on his right foot, but still managed to kick two field goals, thus earning the nickname Two Toe.

It was dark now and there was not a man-made light in sight. We enjoyed the stars, sipped hard apple cider, talked of love and life, and listened to a North Platte station on my shortwave radio. The DJ was playing some great old tunes and we cranked up the volume more than once. We sang along when she played "Bottle of Wine" by the Fireb.a.l.l.s. If the deer and the antelope minded, they didn't say anything.

After a few hours we hiked through the darkness back down to our campsite. The dogs slept with us. Sometime in the middle of the night a loud noise startled us.

"What the h.e.l.l was that?" I whispered as I reached for my Glock. He grabbed his one-million-candlepower spotlight-he likes gadgets-unzipped the tent fly, and slowly moved the beam from side to side. We saw that our cooler had been knocked off the picnic table and then eyed the culprit. I put the pistol down.

"It's a f.u.c.kin' badger," Scott said.

"Badger?" I said in my best Mexican accent, "we don't need no stinkin' badgers."

The birds woke the dogs before six and the dogs woke us. Took an invigorating swim in the Middle Loup, made blueberry pancakes on my portable backpacking stove, then fired up the truck and headed to Lincoln with Scott at the wheel.

Somewhere along the way we left cattle country and entered the land of corn and soybeans. The scenery consisted mostly of rolling hills and red-winged blackbirds, but we also saw a turtle that must have been a foot in diameter. When it comes to detecting, I'm a lot like the proverbial tortoise, so I considered it a good omen.

We arrived in Nebraska's capital before noon. It was a typical Midwestern city, not much different from Tulsa, Topeka, Des Moines, or Wichita. Wheat sat on my lap, content to poke his small face and pointy ears out the pa.s.senger window as we drove around to get the lay of the land.

There was a Best Western on one of the main boulevards a mile or so east of the university. It had an inviting pool highlighted by two inviting blondes in floral bikinis. "Looks like our kind of place," Scott said. He made a U-turn and guided the truck to a stop beneath the portico.

The desk clerk was a rotund man with a German accent. He reminded me of Sergeant Schultz on Hogan's Heroes. He saw Buck and Wheat in the truck and said, "No petz." I reached for my wallet.

"The dogs won't be a problem," I said. "They're trained guide dogs." I handed him a twenty.

"Vell, in that case, vee make exception."

I paid cash for the room and registered us as Bertrand Russell and Karl Popper just for the h.e.l.l of it. "Yeah," Scott muttered as we left the lobby, "guide dogs for the socially impaired."

We carried our backpacks upstairs, guide dogs in tow, then showered to remove the smell of the campfire and the silt from the river. It was one-thirty on a Monday afternoon and time to earn our pay. Scott caught a bus downtown. I reread the news clippings pertaining to Carolyn Chang. The articles had been written by Susan Thompson of the Lincoln Journal Star. Forty minutes later I was sitting across from her.

We were at a coffeehouse near the university. She ordered an espresso; I asked for a diet c.o.ke, but had to settle for the house cola. After we'd ordered drinks, she removed a steno pad from her purse, indicating that she wanted to get down to business. "So," she began, "you've got a new angle on the Chang murder?" She was in her late twenties. Long auburn hair, green eyes. About five-six, nice figure. She wore black gabardine slacks and a white silk blouse.

"What do you know about Carolyn Chang's work?" I asked.

"She was a mathematician. Is that important?"

"It might be," I said. "She specialized in a branch of mathematics known as fractal geometry. She was one of the top people in that field."

"I'm listening."

"Three months prior to Carolyn's murder, the man who wrote the book on fractal geometry was murdered in Was.h.i.+ngton state." I paused to sip my so-called drink. "Six weeks after Carolyn's murder, a Harvard mathematician was found dead in his home. Guess what his specialty was."

"Tell me more," she said.

I gave her the details of the other deaths and explained that I was investigating the possibility that the three might be related. I also explained that I'd been unable to make friends with Amanda Slowiaczek.

"Few people do," she said.

"What's her problem?"