The Fractal Murders Part 12

"Why do you say that?"

"It's just the way he is. He likes to be the center of attention. Sometimes I think he spends more time generating publicity for himself than he does teaching. He gets his name in the paper more than any other faculty member I know." She laced her fingers together. "He even has a weekly show on public television here. It's called This Week with Dale Hawkins."

"Impressive," I said.

"He lives to impress," she said.

"Who else knew about them?"

"I don't know," she said. "I don't think anyone in the department knew. Carolyn insisted they keep a low profile."

"Why?"

"She didn't want people to perceive her as being involved with someone. She wanted the option of seeing other men."

"Did she?"

"I suspect she did."

"Why?"

"Women know these things," she said.

I took her word for it. "How would Dale have reacted if he'd learned she'd been seeing another man?"

"He's not violent," she said. "He would've kept it to himself. He knew he had a good thing with Carolyn-s.e.x without commitment-and he wouldn't have risked losing it by confronting her." She paused. "Besides, I suspect he was seeing other women." Women know these things.

"Sounds like they never planned on getting married and raising a family."

"I think that's accurate."

"What about Carolyn's professional life? Was she working on anything at the time of her death?"

"She was always working on something-she loved to write-but we didn't talk shop much. I know very little about geometry and even less about fractals."

"This is a shot in the dark," I said, "but did Carolyn have an interest in the arts?"

"Yes, how did you know?"

"One of her papers had to do with fractals and the arts."

"I remember that paper. Yes, Carolyn enjoyed painting and was quite good. She did that one behind you." I turned around and saw a farmhouse surrounded by colorful hollyhocks.

"It's beautiful," I said. Watercolors are usually too subdued for me, but Carolyn's work was alive with color. She'd captured the early morning light perfectly.

We spoke for more than an hour. If threats had been made against Carolyn, Glenda was unaware of it. She'd never heard of Paul Fontaine or Donald Underwood until questioned by the FBI. As I had with Gordon Schutt, my inclination was to refrain from asking her about her former colleague Stephen Finn, but I'd established a good rapport with her and some inner voice was urging me to probe a bit.

"Stephen Finn," she said with a smile. "There's a name I haven't heard in a while. Is he involved in all this?"

"I don't think so," I said. "Why are you smiling?"

"Stephen was funny," she said. "He was a fine teacher, but he was young and seemed lonely. I don't think there was a woman in the department he didn't try to hit on."

"Carolyn Chang?"

"They went out a few times."

"Were they an item?"

"Not that I know of," she said. "Carolyn might have slept with him-just for the novelty of having a fling with a younger colleague-but it wouldn't have been an ongoing thing. He would've been too clingy for her." There was an awkward pause and we both smiled. The conversation had run its course, but I liked Glenda Sarkasian and I think she liked me. I would have asked her out if Jayne Smyers hadn't been floating around in the back of my mind. "I hope I've been helpful," she said.

"You've been very helpful," I said as I stood to leave, "and I know you were under no obligation to speak with me." A final question occurred to me as I neared the door. "Just out of curiosity," I said, "how many times did the FBI interview you?"

"Twice," she said. "Once in person and once by telephone."

"Let me guess. Two agents from Lincoln interviewed you here and an agent from Denver called you a week or two later."

"Yes," she said.

"The one on the phone make any kind of impression on you?"

She thought about it. "He seemed a bit high on himself," she offered. I shook my head up and down knowingly and said good-bye.

I walked back to the motel, changed into shorts, took the dogs around the block, flopped on my bed, and clicked on CNN. I listened to the anchorwoman highlight the day's events as I paged through the university's catalog. Dale D. Hawkins, a.s.sociate professor of finance, had received his B.S. at Duke, his M.B.A. at the Wharton School, and his doctorate at the University of Chicago. He'd been at Nebraska six years.

Scott came bopping in an hour later holding a large white T-s.h.i.+rt with "Nebraska Football" emblazoned across it in big red letters. "Might as well blend in with the locals," he said. "Got one for you too." He tossed it to me.

"Jesus," I said, "let's just buy some overalls and John Deere hats while we're at it." He removed his pants and changed into shorts.

"What'd you learn?" he asked.

"Buddy Holly is alive and Carolyn Chang was dating a business professor. What'd you learn?"

"Carolyn Chang was a harlot."

"A harlot?"

"That's what one of her neighbors called her. Little old lady who spends all day listening to some AM station preaching h.e.l.lfire and d.a.m.nation. Said sometimes Carolyn wouldn't come home at all."

"The s.l.u.t."

"Sometimes a man would stay at her house until the wee hours of the morning."

"Same man?"

"Same guy for the past year."

"She describe him?"

"Tall, trim, dark hair, always wears a tie."

"Dale Hawkins," I said. "M.B.A. at the Wharton School."

"That's his name?"

"Yeah. You talk with anyone other than grandma?"

"Yeah. It's an older neighborhood. A lot of the houses are rented by students. I talked with as many as I could, but a lot of them weren't living there last winter. Of those who were, a couple of people remembered seeing a sedan in front of her house around six that evening."

"The cops have that?"

"Yeah."

"You get a description on the car?"

"Nothing firm. It was dark and cold and n.o.body was paying attention. The consensus seemed to be it was a big Ford or Mercury. Dark blue. Brand new. Definitely a four-door. Possibly with Nebraska plates, though one guy insisted it had Colorado tags."

"Anyone get a plate number?" I asked.

"The guy who thought it had Colorado tags said the first three letters were A-M-K. He remembered because those are his initials."

"That's a Denver prefix," I said. "I wonder if anyone checked that."

"If it was a Colorado plate, that would narrow it down to ten thousand vehicles, at most." In Colorado, the first three characters on most license plates are letters, the last four are numbers.

"Out of every ten thousand cars, there can't be that many brand-new Ford or Mercury four-doors that are dark blue."

"Be nice if this broad Amanda would talk with us."

"That's not going to happen," I said. "What else did you get?"

"n.o.body saw anything. n.o.body heard anything. But a couple of people swore up and down she would never get into a car with a strange man. She was real rape conscious. Carried pepper spray and wasn't afraid to confront strangers who looked out of place in the neighborhood. She was like a mama bear to all the coeds in the neighborhood."

"She would've fought like a bobcat if someone had tried to force her into a car."

"That's the impression I got," he said. "You want to go visit this Hawkins tonight?"

"Let's catch him tomorrow," I said. "I'm sure the cops have interviewed him and obtained pubic hair samples, so I'm a.s.suming he's not a suspect."

"I was hoping you'd say that."

"Why's that?"

"The blondes are down at the pool." I closed my eyes because I knew what was coming. At a minimum, I was going to drink more than I should. I didn't even want to think about the worst-case scenario. "C'mon, marine," he yelled as he changed into his new s.h.i.+rt, "the party's just getting started." What could I do? I put on my new s.h.i.+rt and followed my pal to the pool.

Except for the blondes, the pool was deserted, but Scott laid claim to a table right next to them. Real subtle. The table was protected from the sun by a giant green-and-white umbrella. "We're albinos," he explained as we sat down. "Can't take much sun." They laughed. "My name's Wally," he continued, "and this is my friend Theodore."

"My friends call me the Beaver," I said from beneath my aviator's gla.s.ses.

"Monica," said the taller of the two.

"Mindy," said the other.

We gave them our true names and got their story. They had just completed their junior year at USC and had been driving home to Ohio when the fuel pump on Mindy's '79 Duster gave out. They'd been stuck in Lincoln since Sunday, waiting for the right part, and hoped to leave the next day.

"So," Monica said, "what brings you to Lincoln?"

"We're private investigators," Scott said. "We're on a case."

"Give me a break," said Mindy.

"We are," he insisted. He turned to me and said, "Show them one of your cards."

"First of all," I said, "I don't keep business cards in my swim trunks. Second, I'm a private investigator; he's an unemployed astrophysicist who just likes to hang out with me."

"A groupie," Mindy said.

"Exactly," I said. "That's what he is. A groupie." I stood up, removed my s.h.i.+rt, and dove into the pool. By the time I emerged, my flirtatious friend had convinced them we were, in fact, investigating the mysterious fractal murders.

The four of us spent forty-five minutes discussing everything from the Nebraska National Forest (they had never heard of it) to their majors (economics for Monica, anthropology for Mindy). When we'd been there an hour, Scott asked if they'd like to join us for dinner. They looked skeptical. "You'll be safe," he a.s.sured them. "We were Eagle Scouts."

They knocked on our door just after six. Both were clad in tan hiking shorts; Mindy wore a blue short-sleeved s.h.i.+rt and Monica a thin white s.h.i.+rt with a mandarin collar. They were somewhat surprised to see that we were sharing a room with Buck and Wheat. "I thought they didn't allow pets," Mindy said.

"We're not very good with rules," I said.

"The Eagle Scouts?" Monica teased.

"We do pretty well," I said, "with trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, cheerful, thrifty, brave, and clean, but we've always had problems with obedient and reverent."

"That's still eighty-three percent," Scott said.

13.

I WOKE UP IN BED WITH BUCK and saw Scott's tousled hair poking out of the covers on the bed opposite mine. The sun was bright, and he was slowly coming to life. The digital clock read 8:37 A.M. I sat on the edge of my bed, then slowly walked to the sink. I a.s.sembled my morning regimen of vitamins, then opened my briefcase, found my Motrin, and added four of those to the mix. Without removing the protective wrap, I filled one of the motel's plastic cups with water and swallowed the pills.

"Too much to drink?" Scott asked.

"Nothing I can't run off," I said. I splashed cold water on my face, combed my hair, then rummaged through my backpack for my jogging shorts and running shoes. "Get your gear on," I said, "it's time to pay the piper." Ignoring me, he turned over on his stomach. I took the dogs for a walk around the block, but when I returned Scott was still on his belly with the covers pulled over his head. "Let's go," I said. He gave me the finger.

I grabbed the ice bucket, walked to the machine at the top of the stairs, filled it with ice, returned to our room and added some water, then took great delight in dumping the entire contents on him. He made a loud reference to our Lord and Savior, but got geared up to run.

"You know," he said as we trotted through the city, "either one of those girls would've slept with you." The four of us had dined at a Mexican restaurant, then started a process of drinking, club hopping, and dancing that had lasted until two A.M.