Part 6 (1/2)
The next batter was called out on strikes and the Dodgers came to bat.
”What's the other reason?” I asked.
”Computers,” he said. ”If you're going to mine vast amounts of data in search of fractal patterns, you need a computer that's up to the task. Today's computers are so much faster and more powerful than they were even a few years ago-”
”More people have the technology?”
”Absolutely.”
A pimple-faced beer vendor with stringy black hair pa.s.sed us as he made his way up the concrete steps. ”You have anything in a raspberry wheat?” Scott asked.
Not realizing Scott was pulling his leg, the youngster replied, ”Just Coors.” Scott grinned at me, handed him a five, and told him to keep the extra buck.
”This fascinates me,” I said. ”I'd never heard of fractal geometry before Monday, and now I can't look at a cloud or tree without searching for that 'hidden order' she talked about.” Scott just smiled and sipped his beer.
”a.s.suming,” he said, ”these people were murdered because of their work with fractals, why them? Every major university has someone who teaches fractal geometry.”
”That's the question,” I said.
”They never had any contact with each other?”
”That's what Gombold told me.”
He pondered that. ”Maybe the killer is the connection.”
”That's where you come in.”
He looked at me. ”Lay it on me,” he said.
”I need a list of people who might've taken cla.s.ses from all three victims.” He nodded, said nothing.
Meanwhile, the Dodgers's leadoff man had walked and the count on the current batter was three b.a.l.l.s, one strike. The next pitch looked good from our angle, but the umpire yelled, ”Ball four!”
”Jesus!” Scott screamed as he stood up. ”That was right down the G.o.dd.a.m.ned middle.”
I remained silent despite the call, but one of the Cub Scouts stood and yelled, ”Umpire needs gla.s.ses.” The den mother slapped his arm and shot us a look as if we'd just flashed ourselves in a nursing home. Scott winked at her and took his seat.
”This guy Fontaine had been teaching at the same place for more than twenty years?” he asked.
”Since seventy-seven.”
”What's the name of that school?”
”Whitman College.”
”Never heard of it.”
”It's a liberal-arts school. One of the best if you believe U.S. News & World Report.”
”So we're probably looking for someone who went to school up there, then took graduate cla.s.ses from the others.”
”Probably,” I said, ”but not necessarily. Could even be someone who taught with all three of them.” He said nothing, but I saw the wheels turning. ”Can you do it?” I asked.
”Yeah.”
”Knew you could,” I said. I have considerable respect for Scott's computer-hacking skills. I'd seen him access cla.s.sified defense databases just for fun and didn't figure he'd have much trouble with enrollment records at a few colleges and universities.
The first game ended in an eight-to-three loss and we didn't stick around for the second. We arrived at Scott's South Boulder home to find Bobbi watering her flowers. She owns a condo, but spends most of her time with Scott. They'd been seeing each other for three years and the arrangement seemed to suit them. Scott had been married briefly when he was in the navy and swears he'll never marry again. Which is too bad because Bobbi is what my father used to call ”a real peach.” A perky dishwater blonde with a great figure, she works as a property manager for a commercial-leasing company. She doesn't have a college degree, but she's a bright lady with a fine sense of humor.
Scott had never been one for gardening, but Bobbi's TLC had transformed his previously barren yard into the envy of the neighborhood. ”Next thing you know,” I said, ”you'll have pink flamingos on your lawn.”
”She likes football and doesn't mind the occasional use of words such as 'skunkf.u.c.ker,'” he said. ”Flamingos are a small price to pay.” We exited my truck.
”Hi, handsome,” she said to me. She put her arms around me and gave me a hug.
”Why don't you leave this guy,” I said, ”and check out life with a real man?”
”I thought about it,” she said, ”but he said marines were poor lovers because they were always thinking about s.h.i.+ning their shoes.” Scott grinned.
”It's an old joke,” I replied. ”And I told it to him.”
6.
FRIDAY EVENING. I was on the front deck with my dogs, continuing my laborious reading of Being and Time and listening to Gordon Lightfoot. Feeling a little melancholy. A girlfriend once told me I spent too much time thinking about things. It was true, but it only led to one of those ridiculous chicken-and-egg riddles. Did thinking too much cause my depression or did my depression cause me to think too much?
Tonight I was thinking about the fact that I was forty-four and had never been married. Troy had been married for fifteen years and had two kids. I hadn't had a date in six months. I suppose some of that was my own fault. Plenty of people had tried to set me up, but I hadn't met anyone who tripped my trigger. Once you've been in love, it's hard to settle for mere companions.h.i.+p. I'd been in love once, but that was long ago and she wasn't coming back.
The wind picked up, and I stepped inside to get a jacket. Nederland sits 8,236 feet above sea level. Though it was May, the evenings could still be chilly. When I returned to the deck, the song playing was ”If You Could Read My Mind.” I've always been struck by one verse of that song: I walk away, like a movie star who gets burned in a three-way script; Enter number two.
A movie queen, to play the scene of bringing all the good things out in me.
Was that what I was holding out for? ”A movie queen to play the scene of bringing all the good things out in me”?
This introspection was cut short by Buck's sudden barking. Someone was walking up the path to my home. Tall and thin. Luther. ”Hey, Pepper,” he said, ”how you doin'?” There was no mistaking that laid-back Texas drawl.
”Fine, Luther, how are you?” Recognizing him as friend rather than foe, Buck trotted over and nuzzled him.
”I was just taking a walk and saw you out here.” He extended his hand and offered me a joint, but I declined. Don't get me wrong, I had smoked dope periodically in college, I had inhaled, and I had enjoyed it, but these days my drug usage is generally limited to an occasional gla.s.s of red wine.
”Hey, Buck,” Luther said as he gave the dog a pat on the head, ”you sure are a good boy.” Buck licked his hand, and Luther sat down beside me. I'd found two old rockers at a garage sale and refinished them using a rustic pine stain. ”That dog always reminds me of Astro,” said Luther. ”You know, from The Jetsons.”
”'Rastro,'” I corrected him, using my best cartoon dog voice.
”Rastro,” he agreed.