Part 5 (1/2)
”Three-o-three, that's Colorado, right?”
”Yeah.” The 303 area code had once encompa.s.sed the entire state, but in less than a decade the influx of people from California and New Jersey had forced whoever runs the deregulated mishmash once known as the telephone company to carve the state into three distinct calling areas. Now 303 covers only Denver/ Boulder, and they've started using yet another area code for new numbers in the metropolitan area, so you have to dial ten digits even for local calls. ”I've been hired to see if I can find a link between the death of Professor Fontaine and the deaths of two other mathematicians.”
”You know the FBI already investigated that?”
”I was a federal prosecutor for years. I don't take the bureau's conclusions as gospel.”
He laughed. ”Lawyer turned investigator, huh? You're movin' up in the world.”
”Long story.”
”Well, what do you want to know?”
”What I'd really like is to see your file. I've read everything these people ever wrote, but all I know about their deaths is what was in the papers and what I learned from talking with a detective in Boston.”
”You probably know more than me. All I know is, I've got a dead math professor, no motive, and no suspects. And this guy wasn't just shot, he was executed. Single bullet to the back of the head at point-blank range. Then I find out two other math nerds are dead.”
”Any chance I could see your file?”
”You really read everything these people ever wrote?”
”All their professional papers.”
”I'll bet that was fun.”
”Gotta start somewhere,” I said.
”True enough,” he said. ”Tell you what, I'll make you a deal. I'm up to my a.s.s in alligators right now, but if you can find a way up here, I'll show you what I've got and we can kick it around a bit.” It was an offer I couldn't refuse.
”Sounds like a plan,” I said.
5.
ON THURSDAY MORNING I DID something I'd been putting off. I called the Denver office of the FBI. I'd been putting it off because I wanted to learn a little about the case before I called. And because I'm not exactly Mr. Popular down there. On their list of least favorite people I'm right up there with Randy Weaver, Richard Jewell's lawyer, and every congressman on the Waco subcommittee.
”FBI.” She had the sterile voice of a government receptionist. In my kitchen, wearing only flannel boxers, I was making a peanut b.u.t.ter and brown sugar sandwich for breakfast as the morning sun filled my kitchen. The Sinus Infection from h.e.l.l seemed to have weakened.
”Tim Gombold, please.” I was using the speakerphone.
”May I say who's calling?”
”D. B. Cooper. I want to turn myself in.” That had been the name used by America's first skyjacker. He had parachuted out the back end of a Boeing 727 in 1971 with $200,000 in twenties tied to his waist and hadn't been seen since.
”Just a moment, sir.” She put me on hold. I heard a few clicks and listened to forty-five seconds of static. It was just after eight, so I thought I had a good chance of catching him. He'd just gotten remarried a month or two ago-I'd attended the wedding-but old habits die hard. Gumby likes to get to work early, down some government coffee, and read the morning papers before hitting the pavement. He reads both Denver papers cover to cover each morning. Says he likes to know what's going on.
”Jesus, Pepper,” he shouted, ”you can't do s.h.i.+t like that.” I picked up the receiver.
”Have a sense of humor, Tim.”
”I ought to drive up there and shoot you myself for that.” I struggled to keep from laughing. ”What do you want, for Christ's sake?”
”I want to talk about a case you worked.”
”And based on the high esteem the FBI holds you in, you thought we'd be only too happy to oblige?”
”Exactly.”
”Which case?”
”The fractal murders.”
”Oh, Jesus. That math professor hire you?”
”Say she did.” I heard a typewriter in the background. Despite the advent of word processing, every FBI office kept a few IBM Selectrics on hand for use in completing forms that aren't easily scanned.
”Look, Pepper, three people with the same specialty died within six or seven months of each other. Stranger things have happened.”
”Which office ran the investigation?”
”We did.”
”Denver?” None of the deaths had taken place in Colorado.
”Yeah, your math professor was the one who brought it to our attention, and we needed someone who could explain the mathematics to us. The boss figured it would be easier to run it out of our office.”
”Did you check the victims' phone records?”
”No,” he said. ”With all the budget cuts, we've had to stop doing that. Now we just rely on psychics.”
”What I meant was, did the phone records tell you anything?”
”Far as we know, they never spoke with each other, never corresponded.”
”Three of the best-known people in their field,” I said. ”Seems strange they never communicated with each other.”
”Pepper,” he said, ”we ran down every lead and couldn't find a connection. Fontaine takes a shot to the back of the head, the girl in Lincoln gets raped and stabbed. Totally different MO. And there's nothing to indicate Underwood didn't commit suicide.”
”While he was jerking off,” I said.
”How'd you know that?”
”Give me some credit, Tim.”
”It doesn't even matter,” he said. ”Our guys say it was a typical autoerotic death. Happens every day.”
”Not to a Harvard professor,” I said. He sighed.