The Fractal Murders Part 24

But some who experience anxiety do face up to their own thrown-ness and their own death, and in so doing they accept responsibility for their own lives. Heidegger called this "care." In caring for the world, each man makes the most of his own possibilities-even if those possibilities were originally dictated by the culture he was thrown into. A man who adopts this att.i.tude lives in what Heidegger called an "authentic mode of existence."

I closed the book and put it down. Then I remembered the dream I'd had in Walla Walla. And I think I understood it. Joy hadn't been shouting, "Dozen"; she'd been shouting, "Dasein." The image of me falling to earth indicated a state of fallen-ness. I had changed my outer life, and I was happier, but I still hadn't found a way to deal with death or the fear that there is no G.o.d and life is meaningless. And Joy had been carrying a CARE package. Had she been trying to tell me how to pull myself out of my state of fallen-ness?

"You're awful quiet," Jeff said. "Whatcha thinking about?"

"Falling," I said.

"We're not going to go down," he said, "but if we do, at least you know you've got good genes for it." A joking reference to the fact that my brother had walked away from his parachute mishap. I laughed.

We landed at Logan Airport just after ten o'clock local time. I had less than twenty-four hours to work with. The execs wanted to leave early the next morning so they could be back in Denver in time for Friday's doubleheader at Coors Field.

Jeff offered to share a room, but I wasn't sure where events would take me and declined. He gave me the number of their motel in case I changed my mind and told me where to meet them Friday morning. I bid them farewell, then found the nearest airport men's room. To avoid taking a hanging bag, I had worn a suit. I put on a tie to complete the look, cleaned my black wing tips with a paper towel, then stepped outside and hailed a cab. "Harvard University," I said.

"You a professor?" the driver asked. He had an admirable beer gut and a thick New England accent. White, early fifties.

"Not in this lifetime," I said.

"Where you frahm?"

"Colorado."

"What brings you to Bawston?" Great, I had drawn a talkative cabbie.

"Quick business trip," I said. Before he could ask my line of work, I asked about seafood. He fancied himself an expert and described six or seven restaurants as he navigated through heavy mid-morning traffic.

"Hahvad University," he said as we rolled through a yellow light. I looked to my left and saw several Georgian buildings constructed of redbrick and covered with ivy. To my right were two coffee shops, two bookstores, one Kinko's, and a body-piercing parlor, all with apartments above. "Where you want out?" the cabbie asked. "I'll getcha as close as I cahn."

"This'll be fine," I said. He guided the cab to a stop beside the body-piercing place. I paid the fare, tipped him, and thanked him for the ride. A display in the piercing-shop window caught my attention and I decided to take a closer look. Dozens of photos of satisfied customers were taped to the plate gla.s.s, each proudly displaying a safety pin or stud in a nipple, tongue, or other body part. It frightened me to think some had probably achieved a perfect score on the Scholastic Apt.i.tude Test.

I crossed the street and began walking the campus perimeter in search of a directory or a map. It was a typical campus, though I noticed more political literature than I'd ever seen in Boulder. Chess seemed popular; I observed people playing on benches as well as outdoor tables designed specifically for the game. I don't enjoy chess, but it wasn't a bad day for it. About seventy degrees and cloudy. A bit muggy by Colorado standards, but that could be said about the entire Eastern Seaboard.

Summer or not, the math department at Harvard was alive with activity. Instructors lectured, small groups congregated in halls for impromptu discussions, and graduate students worked diligently in small offices or cubicles. I located the departmental office on the third floor, introduced myself to a trio of young secretaries, and stated my purpose. The consensus was that mine was a matter for the chairman's secretary, Mrs. Rutherford.

I found her at an executive desk at the back of the room, immediately outside the chairman's office. She was in her late fifties. Tall and thin, her gray hair feathered in a short, but attractive, style. She wore reading gla.s.ses and a green knit dress. She was proofreading a thick doc.u.ment, red pencil in hand, when I appeared.

"Excuse me," I said. She continued scanning until she came to the end of a paragraph, then folded her hands and looked up at me with the presence of a marine colonel.

"If you're here about the teaching position," she said, "applications were due yesterday."

"I doubt I'm qualified for it," I said. I set my bag down and handed her one of my cards. She studied it, then allowed a barely noticeable smile.

"I should have known," she said. "You're too well dressed to be a mathematician."

"I'm looking into the death of Donald Underwood," I said.

"One of the few gentlemen in this department," she remarked.

"Do you have five minutes?" I asked. "I was told you were someone I might want to speak with."

"I suppose so," she said. She stood and removed her gla.s.ses. "We'll use the conference room. Leave your bag behind my desk."

I accepted coffee-I was still tired-and followed her to a small and unimpressive conference room where I explained that I was investigating the possibility that Underwood's death might have been related to the deaths of two other mathematicians. "I'm familiar with that," she said. "The FBI interviewed a number of people here."

"So I'm told," I said. I had read the interview summaries, but I planned to pursue a somewhat different line of questioning.

"I never put much stock in the suicide theory," she continued. "That dear man wasn't the least bit depressed and, even if he had been, he loved his sons far too much to take his own life." I let a few seconds pa.s.s as I pondered how to broach the next subject.

"I spoke with the detective who investigated this case," I said, "and he suggested Professor Underwood's death might have been an accident."

"I've heard those nasty rumors," she said, "and I don't put much stock in them either." Mrs. Rutherford wasn't shy about making her opinions known.

"Why not?"

"Mr. Keane," she said, "the man was a mathematics professor at the most respected university in the nation. I should think he'd be smart enough not to inadvertently hang himself." I nodded and moved on, asking a litany of questions on topics ranging from Underwood's personality to her familiarity with E-Prime. She described him as polite, soft-spoken, and laid back. She was familiar with E-Prime, but said n.o.body in the math department was particularly fond of it. "Mathematicians frequently use the verb 'is,'" she explained. "Two plus two is four."

Despite her abrupt manner, it was clear that Mrs. Rutherford remembered Underwood with genuine affection. When we returned to her desk and I asked for the names of colleagues Underwood had been close to, she produced a printed list of the department's faculty and placed red marks next to a half dozen names. "Since your time is limited," she said, "I suggest you start with these six." She handed me the list. "I'll instruct them to cooperate fully." Thus a.s.sured, I asked if I could leave my bag and began my journey through the mathematics department.

I first spoke with a computer science professor named Singh. Mrs. Rutherford had already contacted him by the time I arrived. He was from India and had a dark complexion accented by jet black hair. Six feet tall, thin build, love handles developing on the waist. "It's a shame about Donald," he said. "We miss him very much." I asked some questions to gain a sense of Singh and his relations.h.i.+p with Underwood, then turned to more specific matters.

"Professor Underwood specialized in fractal geometry?"

"Yes, he was quite well known in that field."

"I read his articles," I said, "and I noticed one of them concerned neural networks."

He smiled. "Donald and his neural networks."

"Is that something which interested him?"

"Neural networks are simple programs," he said, "but they fascinated Donald."

"Why is that?"

"Donald was consumed by a desire to demonstrate the usefulness of fractal geometry in the real world, and neural networks offer one way to do that. With sufficient data, a neural network can recognize patterns and a.s.sist in predicting the future behavior of certain phenomena."

"Things like the weather?"

"Precisely."

"What about economic markets," I continued, "did Professor Underwood ever attempt to apply his knowledge to business or economic issues?"

"Ah," he said, "you should talk with the people at NPS."

"NPS?"

"New Paradigm Systems. It's an economic consulting firm. Donald did some work for them. They'll tell you all about neural networks and economic markets."

"Did you tell the FBI about this?" I asked.

"The gentlemen never asked," he said.

By midafternoon I had interviewed five men and a diminutive woman who could've been Donna Shalala's twin sister. All agreed that Underwood had not seemed depressed prior to his death. All denied knowledge of any kinky side to his personality. Three mentioned New Paradigm Systems. I hailed another cab.

New Paradigm Systems was located in a nicely landscaped office park in the Boston suburbs. The building was five stories of greenish marble and smoky gla.s.s. A young security guard at an octagonal black kiosk near the entrance asked me to sign in. I told him I had business with NPS and he directed me to the fifth floor. Large metallic letters above the entrance to the suite spelled out "New Paradigm Systems." Smaller letters beneath that announced the company's line of work-"Economic Consulting."

The suite had been decorated by a professional. Gla.s.s doors led to a reception area with scarlet linen wallpaper, rich walnut paneling, and elegant French provincial furniture. A highly polished receptionist's desk was centered in front of the rear wall, but there was no receptionist. A heavy wooden door to the receptionist's left guarded the rest of the suite. I noticed security cameras in two corners. I started toward the door, but it opened before I reached it.

"I hope you haven't been waiting long," the man said. "I just noticed you on the monitor." He was my age, a few inches taller, and thin. Gray slacks, blue oxford-cloth s.h.i.+rt, no tie. He had something resembling a Roman haircut, and it was short enough that I could see the tops of his ears, which tapered to rounded points. "I know," he said, "I look like Spock." I smiled to show appreciation for his self-deprecating humor.

"I just walked in the door," I a.s.sured him.

"Good," he said. "What can I do for you?" He used his left foot to prevent the door from closing.

"My name is Pepper Keane," I said. "I'm a private investigator." I handed him a card. "I'd like to speak with someone about Donald Underwood." He noticed the J.D. after my name.

"I used to practice law," he said. "Hated it."

"It's an illness," I said. "Like gambling or alcoholism. I'm thinking of founding a twelve-step program for lawyers who want to get out of it."

He grinned. "That's good," he said. "I'll have to remember that."

"Do you have a few minutes?"

"We really liked Don," he said, "so I'll be happy to talk with you, but I'm not sure I'll be much help."

"I'm not either," I said. "I'm just trying to cover all the bases."

"Russ Seifert," he said as he extended his right hand. "C'mon back." He held the door for me, then led me down a hall. Considerably less had been spent decorating the suite's interior; it was modern and functional. There were workstations and offices, but most were unmanned. Much of the s.p.a.ce was occupied by a gla.s.s-enclosed, climate-controlled computer room.

Except for the stock quotes scrolling across the digital display on the wall opposite his desk, Seifert's office was much like that of any moderately successful insurance salesman. He had a nice view of the parking lot and much of the office park. One wall was dominated by framed etchings of old clipper s.h.i.+ps. His desk held some nautical trappings, including a bra.s.s barometer, and I guessed he might have a thing for sailing. He motioned for me to sit, then fell into an oxblood leather executive chair behind his desk. "I thought the Underwood thing had been put to rest," he said.

"The local cops and the feds have put it to rest, but-"

"The feds?"

"Let me explain," I said. I repeated the story for the umpteenth time: Two other specialists in fractal geometry had been murdered and I was looking into the possibility that the deaths might be related.

"I had no idea," he said.

"I'm surprised the FBI didn't interview you," I said. "I spoke with some of his colleagues at Harvard, and it's no secret he did work for your company."

"He designed software for us."

"You paid a Harvard professor to write code?"

"It's sophisticated software," he said.

"What exactly does your firm do?" I asked. "'Economic consulting' is a broad term."

"In essence," he said, "we a.n.a.lyze data and try to predict what a market or security is going to do in the future."

"Using principles borrowed from fractal geometry?"

"Fractal geometry, chaos theory, nonlinear statistics. It's all intertwined."

"You're the president?" I asked. I took a card from his gold-plated holder: "Russell J. Seifert, M.B.A., J.D., LL.M."

"I started the company five years ago," he said. "I practiced law on Wall Street for eight years and decided there had to be an easier way to make money."

"Looks like you've found one."

"We've done well," he said. "When I started, it was just me. Now we have ten employees." One of them, a bookish woman in jeans, stopped at the door immediately opposite Seifert's office, entered a code in the keypad, and stepped into what looked like a small library. "That's Dr. Long," he said. "She's an economist."

"Why all the security measures?" I asked. All the doors had keypad locks.

"It's a very secretive business," he said.

"Why is that?"

"We're not the only ones doing this," he explained. "There are other firms offering this type of service. Some of the larger banks and brokerage houses have in-house teams doing exactly what we do." I nodded.

"All of these firms," he continued, "have access to the same information. What matters is what you do with the information."

"I'm not sure I follow you," I said.

"We rely on certain theoretical ideas we have about market behavior-part of Underwood's job was to design software to implement those ideas-and those are all that distinguish us from the compet.i.tion."

"You're afraid someone might steal your ideas?"

"It happens," he said. "You can't put a value on a good theoretical model."

"What makes one model better than another?"

"Consistency," he said. "n.o.body can predict the future with certainty. We don't measure success by how much money we make; we measure it by how often we're right. When you provide investment advice to people managing hundreds of millions of dollars, you'd better be right more often than you are wrong." I ma.s.saged my temples and thought about what he'd told me.

"You said you can't put a value on a good model, but I'm trying to get an idea of what one of these models would be worth. Suppose I came to you and tried to sell you on a model I'd developed. How would we arrive at a value?"

"It doesn't work that way," he said. "In order for me to evaluate the model, you'd have to reveal it to me and show me data to prove it works. And once you'd done that, I wouldn't need you, though I might offer you a job if I felt you'd be an a.s.set to the firm."

"So," I continued, "if you're in the business of developing these theoretical models, you can't really sell them door-to-door?"

"Correct," he said. "You can't copyright an idea."

"I could copyright the software," I said.

"Yes, but the model is what has value. If I liked the model, I could buy the software from you or pay someone else to design it."

"So if I develop the mother of all theoretical models, how do I make money on it?"