The Fractal Murders Part 13

"Wouldn't have been a good idea," I said.

"Why not?"

"Some variant of the incest taboo."

"f.u.c.k the incest taboo," he said. "That's just the bureaucrats in Was.h.i.+ngton trying to run our lives again."

I gave in to a smile. "The other thing is-and this is going to sound really weird-but I would've felt like I was cheating on my client."

"I knew that was coming."

"How'd you know?" I asked.

"I've known you since the Cuban missile crisis. I can tell when you're stuck on a woman."

"It's probably a moot point. I think she's got something going with this guy Finn."

"What's he like?" Scott asked.

"I've only met him a few times," I said. "He's young, maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven. Competes in triathlons. A little high on himself, but I was too at that age."

"You think?"

"Just a little," I admitted.

"Ask her out," he said. "We can always kill him if we have to." I laughed.

We continued running and I thought about Jayne Smyers. She was pretty, no doubt about that. And she was certainly smart. But some other quality was drawing me to her. She possessed a certain perky optimism-something I felt I lacked. I tried to put her out of my mind, but I kept hearing that Sam Cooke song. Maybe by being an A student, I could win her love for me.

Even at that hour it was warm and humid. I was covered with sweat, and it felt good. I estimated we'd gone six miles when the Best Western came into view. I sprinted for it and Scott took off after me, but I'd been a college sprinter and I've always been fast for a man my size. By the time he reached the parking lot, I had my hands above my head and was catching my breath. He did the same. Eventually we got control of our breathing and stopped walking.

"So, what's the plan for today?" he asked.

"We eat breakfast, visit Hawkins, and get the h.e.l.l out of Dodge."

Parking at the college of business wasn't a problem; there were plenty of meters beside the faculty lot. We scanned the lobby directory, found what we needed, and went upstairs. His door was open, and he was reading a text placed flat on his desk.

"Professor Hawkins?"

"Yes." He pushed the book to one side.

"Hi. My name is Pepper Keane and this is my a.s.sociate, Scott McCutcheon. We'd like to talk with you about Carolyn Chang." He seemed neither surprised nor afraid.

"Come in," he said as he rose from his chair and extended his hand. He stood six-two and weighed about one-seventy. Fiftyish. He was handsome and possessed the trim waist of a department store mannequin. His hair was mahogany, dark brown with a red tint. He wore gray slacks, a white s.h.i.+rt, and a maroon tie. A gold-plated pen graced his monogrammed pocket. A matching gray jacket hung on a hook behind his door. It was a conservative suit. We shared the same taste in clothes.

"Are you with the police or the FBI?" he asked. Lying was a felony. More to the point, it was an easy-to-prove felony.

"Neither," I said. "We're private investigators." I handed him a card and he studied it. "We're looking into the possibility that Professor Chang's death may have been related to several others." He sat down and invited us to do likewise.

"The FBI mentioned that," he said. I removed a clipboard and legal pad from my briefcase.

"We want to be as thorough as possible, so we're interviewing everyone who might have relevant information." I surveyed the room. His many degrees and awards were double matted and proudly displayed in matching chrome frames on the wall behind him. An ego wall. One of Carolyn's watercolors hung on the wall to his left.

"You've come a long way," he said. "I'll do my best to answer your questions, but I've got to leave by noon. I'm speaking to the Chamber of Commerce." I promised we'd be done long before then.

"We understand you'd been dating Professor Chang."

"For about two years," he said. I thought I noticed a trace of a Southern accent.

"How did you meet?" I asked.

"We met by chance, actually." The memory made him smile. "I had gone to a movie and noticed her as I was leaving. I knew she was a faculty member and asked her to join me for coffee."

"I a.s.sume the police questioned you about your whereabouts on the night of her disappearance."

"Yes, they did. I was at a faculty dinner." I said nothing. "They also requested saliva, blood, and pubic hair samples, if that's what you're wondering, and I provided those."

"When did you learn of Professor Chang's death?"

"A detective contacted me. Amanda something. Carolyn disappeared on a Friday, I think, and the detective contacted me the following Monday."

"Had you tried to call her between Friday and Monday?"

"No, we didn't talk every day. Carolyn valued her time alone, and I tried to respect that." That seemed reasonable, but something bothered me.

"What did you know about Carolyn's work?" I try to ask open-ended questions-the kind that can't be answered with a yes or no.

"I knew what her field of expertise was, and that she loved teaching, but beyond that I can't tell you much."

"What do you teach?" I asked.

"My doctorate is in economics, gross national product and things like that, but I teach finance and investments."

"I read some of Carolyn's papers," I said, "and I'm told she liked to write. Was she working on anything at the time of her death?"

"Not that I know of, but we seldom talked about work."

I continued down my mental checklist and when I'd run out of questions about Carolyn Chang, I asked him about himself. He'd spent his early years in North Carolina, but he'd grown up in Chicago. He'd been at Nebraska six years. He'd taught at a number of different schools and admitted liking the academic lifestyle. "I could earn more in the private sector," he said, "but teaching offers greater freedom." I stood up, ready to depart. Scott took the cue and did likewise. Then I thought of another question.

"You said you also spoke with the FBI?"

"Yes," he replied.

"How many times?"

"Just once."

"Local agents?"

"I think so," he said.

"Did anyone from the bureau phone you after that to conduct a second interview?"

"No," he said. "I told them everything I knew the first time around."

We thanked him for his time and walked out into a blast furnace. It was going to be a hot one in Nebraska. As we crossed the faculty lot, we stopped to admire a silver Jaguar, then noticed the license plate. DDH PHD. "I'd say he's doing pretty well in the public sector," said Scott.

We boarded the truck and rolled down the windows. "So what do you think?" I asked.

"I liked him," he said. "Except for all the c.r.a.p he had on his wall, he seemed like a pretty regular guy."

"Me too," I said. "He has a certain charisma."

"The one thing I thought was strange was that he didn't try to call her. I don't care how casual their relations.h.i.+p was. I've been in a lot of relations.h.i.+ps like that, and we always talked two or three times a week. h.e.l.l, before Bobbi moved in, she'd get p.i.s.sed if I didn't call every night."

"Something's bothering me about that too, but I can't put my finger on it." I loosened my tie, pulled onto the main boulevard, and headed for the motel.

"He never mentioned the CIA," Scott joked.

"He might've been with the CIA," I replied. "They hire economists. If some bureaucrat wants to know what the price of carrots in Finland is going to be next month, I guarantee you the agency has someone who can provide a d.a.m.n good guess."

We pulled into the motel lot, exited the truck, and headed to our room. "Something bothering you?" Scott asked. "You've got that deep-in-thought look."

"It's probably nothing," I said.

"What?"

"I just thought it strange that he never asked who our client was."

"What do you mean?"

"We barge into this guy's office and announce we're investigating the possibility that his girlfriend's murder may have been related to two other deaths-a theory the FBI already rejected-and he doesn't even ask who we're working for. It just seems odd."

"Yeah," he said, "I guess it does. You think someone told him to expect us?"

"I don't know who it would've been," I said. "n.o.body knows we're here, except Bobbi and my brother."

"Who knows we're on the case?"

"n.o.body who would've called Hawkins," I said. "I think we can rule out Jayne Smyers, Gumby, and d.i.c.k Gilbert."

"What about the professors you spoke with?"

"The department chairman didn't even know about Hawkins. The lady professor knew about him, but it didn't seem like there was any love lost between them."

Scott shrugged and removed his tie. "Hey," he said, "why'd you ask him how many times the bureau had interviewed him?"

"I don't know," I said. "A couple of witnesses told me an agent from Denver had reinterviewed them by phone, and I think it was probably Polk."

"That's not normal procedure, is it?"

"No, but Polk isn't exactly what you'd call a team player, so it wouldn't surprise me if he made some follow-up calls."

"Why wouldn't he do the same thing with Hawkins?"

I shrugged. "Who knows with Polk? Sounds like the physical evidence pretty much clears Hawkins, so maybe there was no need."

We returned our room keys to Sergeant Schultz, then headed west on US 6. Wheat sat on Scott's lap and poked his head out the window. He seemed in heaven as the oncoming air hit his muzzle and blew back his pointy ears.

We were less than twenty miles out of Lincoln when I popped my palm to my forehead as if to say I could've had a V-8. Instead I made a U-turn and said, "Jesus, I am a dumba.s.s."

"Where we going?" Scott asked.

"Manhattan," I said.

"Cheaper to fly," he joked.

"Kansas."

"You want to see where the body was found?"

"I want to talk to that sheriff. I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts he's got a copy of Amanda's file."

As it turned out, we didn't have to drive all the way to Manhattan. The body had been found in Marshall County and the sheriff's office was in Marysville. We made it in less than two hours. A sign at the edge of town welcomed us to "The Black Squirrel City." Sure enough, in the middle of town there was a small park filled with black squirrels.

"This trip has been a real education," Scott said. "First I find out there's a national forest in Nebraska. Now I learn there are black squirrels in Kansas."

"I think the politically correct term is 'squirrels of color.'"

The town seemed dead, but anyone with a choice was probably inside, seeking shelter from the scorching Kansas sun. We ate a late lunch on a concrete picnic table at an A&W, then set out to find the sheriff's office. It wasn't difficult given that Main Street was only four blocks long. I guessed it was the building with the flagpole and patrol cars in front of it.

I guided the truck into one of the diagonal parking s.p.a.ces. I stepped out of the truck and made sure the dogs had water. The building appeared to have been an addition to the much older courthouse. We entered, and at the front desk a beefy female deputy in a brown uniform asked if she could help us. About thirty. Lots of makeup, no smile. I told her we were private investigators and asked if we could speak with the sheriff. She instructed us to have a seat on some orange plastic chairs, then picked up her phone.

The Sheriff emerged from his office within a minute or two. "Darlene tells me you fellas are private investigators," he said. He stood six-five or six-six. Late fifties or early sixties. Little bit of a paunch on an otherwise rangy body. He wore no uniform, but sported cowboy boots, tan slacks, and a Western-style short-sleeved s.h.i.+rt. His badge was on his belt. "Lee Bowen," he said as he extended his hand. I introduced us, handed him a card, and asked if we could talk in private. He led us into his office and invited us to sit down. The walls boasted a dozen awards from civic groups and an eight-by-ten glossy of him shaking hands with Bob Dole.

"Sheriff," I began, "we'd like to talk about Carolyn Chang. We believe her death may have been related to two others."

"FBI already investigated that," he said. I was tired of hearing that. He leaned back in his chair, put his feet on the desk, and laced his fingers together behind his head.

"At the risk of sounding c.o.c.ky," I said, "I don't think they did a very good job."

He smiled. "Law degree qualify you to make that judgment?" He had noticed the J.D. on my card.

"I was a federal prosecutor. I know what a good investigation looks like."

"You fellas got sort of a c.o.c.ky look to you," he said. He paused to mash some tobacco into an old pipe. "Course, a certain amount of that ain't a bad thing in law enforcement."

I noticed a small black-and-white photo of a football team on the wall behind his desk. The players were all white and had crew cuts.