The Fractal Murders Part 22

"Nothing," I said. "It's not a crime to be drunk and stupid when you're a pa.s.senger in a car."

"I hope he's not out there practicing law."

"He's not," I said. "He's an FBI agent."

23.

I SPENT MONDAY MORNING spraying a mixture of linseed oil and paint thinner onto my house with a high-compression sprayer. It's a messy task, but it has to be done once a year to protect the logs from the harmful effects of moisture and ultraviolet rays. I hadn't planned on doing it Monday, but I'd had it on my list of things to do and the weather was ideal. Temps in the high seventies, clear sky, no wind.

That kind of physical labor differs from investigative work in at least two ways. First, it allows you to see the fruits of your efforts immediately. Because it requires little brainpower, it also gives the mind a chance to wander. So there I was, standing on top of a sixteen-foot ladder, slowly moving the metal wand from side to side, and musing about Sunday's outing with Jayne Smyers.

She had invited me to stay for supper and we had continued talking in her kitchen while I made a salad and she put together a green bean ca.s.serole. I told her I'd disliked Polk long before Joy's death and she asked why. "He was the most arrogant person I'd ever met," I said. "Thought he was tougher than everyone else and saw himself as G.o.d's gift to women."

Her smile showed amus.e.m.e.nt. "He is arrogant," she said, "but something tells me one reason you disliked him so was that you too thought you were tougher than everyone else."

"I'm sure that's part of it," I admitted.

"Did you also see yourself as G.o.d's gift to women?" She sprinkled almond slivers across the top of the ca.s.serole.

"No," I said, "I never suffered from that delusion."

"Strangely enough," she said, "I believe you." She placed the gla.s.s ca.s.serole dish in the oven. "You somehow project confidence without appearing egotistical."

I guess she viewed that as a good trait in a man because our date had ended with a better-than-expected good-night kiss. Not the kind that compels people to immediately shed their clothes and go at it, but luscious enough to make me believe there was some interest on her part.

I thought about that as I continued spraying, but the phone rang and I hurried inside to get it. It was Maggie McGuire.

"You work quickly," I said.

"Jayne said it was important." She was all business. From the sound of her voice, I guessed she was in her late forties.

"When can we get together?" I asked.

"I have some time at three o'clock."

"I'll be there," I said. After receiving precise directions to her office, I returned the cordless phone to its cradle and resumed spraying.

It took only a half hour to complete the project, but cleaning up took longer.

It was past two when I got out of the shower. I dressed casually, let the dogs out for a few minutes, then headed to Boulder. Before pulling out of the driveway, I stopped to admire my work. No longer faded, the logs appeared rich in color. The entire house projected the kind of warm glow it had possessed when I'd purchased it.

Maggie McGuire was a professor of English. Because it generated little grant money, the English department was located in one of the oldest buildings on campus. Her office was on the second floor. The door was open.

"Professor McGuire?"

"You must be Mr. Keane?" She was a mildly obese woman in her mid-forties. Her long hair was a frizzy mixture of red and gray. She wore no makeup and possessed a freckled complexion. She wore a long brown skirt, a beige blouse, white socks, and the expensive leather sandals so popular in Boulder. She motioned for me to sit and I did. "Thank you for doing this on such short notice," I said. Instead of saying "You're welcome," she sized me up in the dimly lit room. The only light was that provided by the tall, narrow window behind her wooden desk. I guessed she wasn't a fan of fluorescent lighting. Maybe she taught medieval literature and just liked the ambience.

"I must say I'm intrigued," she finally said. "It's not every day a private investigator asks me to compare the writings of two academics."

"Did Jayne explain the nature of my investigation?" I asked.

"No, she was quite circ.u.mspect, but it doesn't matter." She slid the stack of articles I had given Jayne to the center of her desk. "Did you read each of these articles?" she asked.

"Oh yeah," I said.

"And you believe Professor Chang helped Professor Hawkins with his most recent article?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"His other articles are disorganized and full of jargon. His latest one is crisp and clean. The writing seems similar to the style I noticed in Carolyn Chang's articles."

"What similarities did you note?" she asked. I felt like a doctoral candidate defending a dissertation.

"The ideas were organized in a logical sequence," I said. "There was no jargon, and the author used as few words as possible."

"And that's why you believe Professor Chang helped write this article?" She held up a copy of Hawkins's "Weather and the Fractal Structure of Crop Markets."

"That and the fact that Carolyn was an expert in fractal mathematics. I don't think Hawkins-"

"Was?"

"She's no longer with us," I said. I realized Jayne hadn't told her anything.

"I see."

"Would you like some background?" I asked.

"No," she said. "I can tell you what you want to know without knowing why you want to know it." She laced her fingers together and placed her elbows on the desk. "Your instincts are good," she continued. "The author of this paper employed a style nearly identical to that used by Professor Chang."

"You sound certain," I said.

"Professor Chang has-had-a unique writing style. She employed a style called E-Prime."

"E-Prime?"

"Yes, it's a form of English that discourages using any form of the verb 'to be.'"

"What's the theory behind that?"

"Those who use E-Prime believe the word 'is' promotes sloppy thinking. Instead of saying, 'The cat is white,' they feel it's more accurate to say, 'The cat has white fur.'"

"That's interesting," I said. "Is this widely used?"

"No," she said. "The primary proponent of E-Prime is a group called the International Society for General Semantics, but they've had little success outside academic circles." I nodded and wrote ISGS on my legal pad. "I can't say with certainty that Professor Chang wrote this article. All I can tell you is that, for the most part, the style used is identical to that used in her writings."

"For the most part?"

"There are pa.s.sages where E-Prime was not employed. And the overall structure of the article appears to have originated with Professor Hawkins. My best guess is that Professor Chang or some other proponent of E-Prime coauth.o.r.ed or edited the article." That didn't prove anything, but it strengthened my belief that Hawkins hadn't been completely truthful with me.

"Thank you," I said, "you've been a big help."

24.

IT WAS COLD TUESDAY MORNING. The remnants of an Arctic air ma.s.s had pushed through overnight. The thermometer outside my kitchen window showed thirty-four degrees at seven A.M. Not frigid, but not what you'd expect in the second week of June.

I zipped through an early weight workout in my bas.e.m.e.nt, then sliced an orange for breakfast and contemplated my next move. The weather being what it was, it seemed like a good day to work the phone. I called Susan Thompson, the reporter in Lincoln, and asked her to send as much background material on Hawkins as she could get. I called the International Society for General Semantics and confirmed that Carolyn Chang had been a member. Then I called Scott.

"That's the way things work these days," he said. "You kiss on the first date; you're tying each other up on the second date." After updating him on the case, I had recounted my Sunday with Jayne Smyers.

"Not like the good old days," I joked.

"It's like we're living in the Victorian era," he said. I smiled to myself, then suggested we resume our discussion of the case. "What about Fontaine and Underwood," he said, "did they use this E-Prime?"

"No, I reread their articles last night." There was no conversation for several seconds, but that's not unusual when we brainstorm.

"If Carolyn helped write the article," he said, "why didn't she insist on being listed as a coauthor?"

"I've thought about that," I said, "and the only answer I can come up with is that she didn't want her name on it."

"Is it that bad?"

"No," I said, "but the thesis isn't particularly original. It doesn't break any new ground. When you sift through it, there's not much scholars.h.i.+p."

"That's your opinion as an economist?"

"That's my opinion as someone who has read far too many journal articles during the past month."

We talked about various aspects of the case for another fifteen minutes. "Anything you want me to do?" he asked.

"Can't think of anything," I said. "The reporter in Lincoln is going to send me some background material on Hawkins."

"Keep me posted," he said. I promised I would.

It was too early to check my mail, so I drove to Wanda's for some coffee and a chance to read the paper. Someone had already snagged the News, so I began with the Boulder Daily Camera. I was surprised when I turned to the sports section and saw Finn's smiling mug staring at me. The young professor had finished third in a local triathlon, and the paper had devoted a quarter page to a feature story on him. I read it, then refilled my coffee. That's when I saw Missy.

"Hi, Pepper," she said. She was standing near the register in faded jeans and a white peasant blouse with colorful embroidery around the neckline and sleeves.

"Hi, Missy, how are you?"

"I'm great," she said. One of Wanda's female helpers handed her a cup of Red Zinger tea.

"Where's Luther?"

"He's in Aspen," she said. "The band's there all week."

"Why didn't you go?" I asked.

"Didn't want to miss my group," she said. "We're exploring our past lives." I nodded to show I understood. No tables were available, so I invited her to share mine. "Hey," she said as she noticed the newspaper, "that's the guy." She pointed to the photo of Finn.

"What guy?"

"The guy at your house," she said. "That's him."

"That's the man you saw walking around my house?"

"Yeah, I'm positive." She had described the stranger as being "real big" and having blond hair. Missy was about five-two. Finn stood six-three. Though I would have described him as lanky, I realized someone like Finn might seem "real big" to Missy. I questioned her again about what she had seen, but learned nothing new. One of her female friends-another aging earth mama-joined us and they started talking about a candlelight vigil they were planning to protest something or other. I said good-bye, stopped at the post office to collect my mail, then drove home and noticed the flas.h.i.+ng message light. I let Buck and Wheat out, listened to the message, then phoned Gilbert.

"Congratulate me," he said, "I've got another grandchild."

"That's great, d.i.c.k. Is it a boy or a girl?"

"Little boy," he said. "Eight pounds, seven ounces."

"A linebacker," I said. He laughed, then said he had to put me on hold. The phone system was set up so I could listen to Paul Harvey while waiting, but Gilbert came back on the line within thirty seconds, so I never learned the "rest of the story."

"Sorry about that," he said.

"No problem."

"Anyhow," he said, "I did some checking on Bailey Green, but something's not right."

"I'm listening," I said.

"Green's a federal prisoner. He was arrested in Denver last August for bank robbery. Walked into a bank in broad daylight and stuck a gun in a teller's face. Feds found him in his apartment two hours later with red dye all over him."

"What about the gun?"

"The reports indicate he used a five-shot Taurus, and the last four digits of the serial number on the weapon they confiscated match the one we have."

"How many were manufactured with those as the last four digits?"

"Just one," he said. "I checked with the manufacturer."

"Which raises the question of how a handgun seized in Denver last August was used to kill a math professor in Walla Walla in September."