TUESDAY. DAY TWO IN LINCOLN. We began the morning by taking the dogs for a run, then had breakfast at a pancake house across from the motel. Scott had bacon and eggs; I opted for a strawberry waffle.
“So what’s the plan?” he asked.
“Figured I’d mosey over to the university and interview Carolyn’s colleagues. Figured you’d drive over to her house and talk to her neighbors.”
“I can do that,” he said. We walked back to the motel. I put on a tie and suggested Scott do the same. As a private investigator, I don’t have the authority of a police officer, so I depend on my ability to persuade. My experience had been that people were more cooperative when I dressed professionally.
The academic year having ended, the math department at the University of Nebraska wasn’t a hotbed of activity. I found only two faculty members. The first, Gordon Schutt, was the department chairman.
He was in his early fifties and looked like he’d just stepped out of the 1950s. His thick, black hair was parted on the left and held in position with some kind of gel. He wore Buddy Holly glasses, the kind the military issues new recruits. His loose-fitting chinos were secured by a thin black belt. He was a pear-shaped man. Six feet tall, wide hips, not much muscle tone. I introduced myself and told him I was looking into the possibility that Carolyn Chang’s death might be related to two others. He invited me in.
“I didn’t know her that well,” he said.
“Any particular reason for that?”
“No, we just had different interests and lifestyles. Didn’t see each other much outside this building.” He reminded me of my seventh-grade math teacher, Mr. Folvin. I had spent the bulk of that year sitting in the back of the class perfecting a new paper airplane and shooting spitballs at Lisa Lawlor through a hollow Bic pen. Which probably helps explain why I ended up in law rather than one of the sciences.
“Professor Chang had been here five years?”
“That sounds about right.” He removed his glasses.
“I read some of her papers,” I said. “They were well written.”
“Carolyn had exceptional writing ability. I often used her papers as examples of what professional writing ought to be.”
“Do you know whether she was working on anything at the time of her death?”
“No, but I’m sure she was researching or writing something. She always was.” I continued down my mental checklist.
“Did Professor Chang have any enemies?”
“None that I know of.”
“I saw some graffiti in the men’s room that wasn’t particularly complimentary.” Juvenile stuff, most of it sexual in nature.
“Carolyn could be abrupt with people,” he said. “And she was quite willing to humiliate students who were unprepared. Her theory was that they’d either get with the program or drop the class.”
“Had she had problems with any male students?”
“She never mentioned any, but she would’ve tried to handle that sort of thing on her own. She was not a meek person.”
“Problems with male colleagues?”
“No, Carolyn got along well with all of us. Outside class, she was very personable.”
“Was she dating anyone?”
He laughed. “I’d be the last to know,” he said. “I’ve been married thirty years and don’t pay much attention to that sort of thing. You might try speaking with Glenda; I think she’s here, and she probably knew Carolyn better than anyone.”
We talked for another twenty minutes. I thought about probing him for information about Finn, but I decided against it. He and Finn might still be in contact, and I didn’t want to do anything that might make it easier to ascertain the identity of my client. Nor did I want Finn to know the true nature of my business with Jayne Smyers.
Glenda Sarkasian’s door was wide open and covered with cartoons. She wore jeans and a powder blue T-shirt she’d apparently earned by running a local 10K. Late thirties, dark brows, long brown hair with strands of gray, tight body, smooth olive skin. Armenian? She had her feet on her desk and was reading the morning paper. Given the cartoons, I figured it was safe to ham it up.
“Excuse me,” I said, “that desk is government property. I’m going to have to ask you to remove your feet from it.” She put the paper down, removed her feet from the desk, and looked at me.
“Damn,” she said, “that’s the second time I’ve been busted this year. One more and I lose my desk.” She gave me a warm smile.
“Actually,” I said, “my name is Pepper Keane. May I come in?”
“Please do.” She motioned me in.
“I’d like to talk with you about Carolyn Chang.” I handed her one of my cards and explained the nature of my investigation, then sat down opposite her.
“Yes,” she said, “I spoke briefly with the FBI about this, but I was under the impression they had determined the deaths were unrelated.”
“They did,” I said, “but I get paid to make my own determination.”
“Someone must think highly of you,” she said.
I didn’t comment. “Professor Schutt told me you and Carolyn were close.”
“We were friends.”
“Good friends?”
“I don’t know if I’d go that far. We talked a lot, and went out occasionally, but she was a hard person to get close to.” She was sitting up straight now, arms folded on her desk. Serious.
“Did you ever discuss her social life?”
“A little.”
“Was she involved with anyone at the time of her death?”
She studied my face. “I told the police and the FBI, so I might as well tell you. For the past year or two, Carolyn had been seeing one of the professors in the business school, a man named Dale Hawkins.”
“Do you know him?”
“I’ve met him a few times.”
I detected something in her voice. “And?”
“I don’t know. He’s tall and good looking—”
“I hate him already.”
“He’s just so—” She paused. “I don’t know, I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something strange about him.”
“Can you give me an example?”
She thought for a moment. “Yes,” she said. “Sometime last fall we were at a party. Dale kept trying to impress me, telling me he’d been a CIA analyst and all sorts of ridiculous things. I felt he was coming on to me, but it only happened once, so I never mentioned it to Carolyn.”
“Nothing unusual about a man trying to impress a woman,” I said. “Had he been drinking?”
“No,” she said, “he’s not much of a drinker. Maybe I’m being unfair.”
“What else can you tell me about him?”
“Not much,” she said. “Like most economists, he thinks he knows everything.”
I smiled. “Anything else?”
“It’s just my opinion,” she continued, “but I think he has a real need for recognition.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s just the way he is. He likes to be the center of attention. Sometimes I think he spends more time generating publicity for himself than he does teaching. He gets his name in the paper more than any other faculty member I know.” She laced her fingers together. “He even has a weekly show on public television here. It’s called This Week with Dale Hawkins.”
“Impressive,” I said.
“He lives to impress,” she said.
“Who else knew about them?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t think anyone in the department knew. Carolyn insisted they keep a low profile.”
“Why?”
“She didn’t want people to perceive her as being involved with someone. She wanted the option of seeing other men.”
“Did she?”
“I suspect she did.”
“Why?”
“Women know these things,” she said.
I took her word for it. “How would Dale have reacted if he’d learned she’d been seeing another man?”
“He’s not violent,” she said. “He would’ve kept it to himself. He knew he had a good thing with Carolyn—sex without commitment—and he wouldn’t have risked losing it by confronting her.” She paused. “Besides, I suspect he was seeing other women.” Women know these things.
“Sounds like they never planned on getting married and raising a family.”
“I think that’s accurate.”
“What about Carolyn’s professional life? Was she working on anything at the time of her death?”
“She was always working on something—she loved to write—but we didn’t talk shop much. I know very little about geometry and even less about fractals.”
“This is a shot in the dark,” I said, “but did Carolyn have an interest in the arts?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“One of her papers had to do with fractals and the arts.”
“I remember that paper. Yes, Carolyn enjoyed painting and was quite good. She did that one behind you.” I turned around and saw a farmhouse surrounded by colorful hollyhocks.
“It’s beautiful,” I said. Watercolors are usually too subdued for me, but Carolyn’s work was alive with color. She’d captured the early morning light perfectly.
We spoke for more than an hour. If threats had been made against Carolyn, Glenda was unaware of it. She’d never heard of Paul Fontaine or Donald Underwood until questioned by the FBI. As I had with Gordon Schutt, my inclination was to refrain from asking her about her former colleague Stephen Finn, but I’d established a good rapport with her and some inner voice was urging me to probe a bit.
“Stephen Finn,” she said with a smile. “There’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. Is he involved in all this?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Why are you smiling?”
“Stephen was funny,” she said. “He was a fine teacher, but he was young and seemed lonely. I don’t think there was a woman in the department he didn’t try to hit on.”
“Carolyn Chang?”
“They went out a few times.”
“Were they an item?”
“Not that I know of,” she said. “Carolyn might have slept with him—just for the novelty of having a fling with a younger colleague—but it wouldn’t have been an ongoing thing. He would’ve been too clingy for her.” There was an awkward pause and we both smiled. The conversation had run its course, but I liked Glenda Sarkasian and I think she liked me. I would have asked her out if Jayne Smyers hadn’t been floating around in the back of my mind. “I hope I’ve been helpful,” she said.
“You’ve been very helpful,” I said as I stood to leave, “and I know you were under no obligation to speak with me.” A final question occurred to me as I neared the door. “Just out of curiosity,” I said, “how many times did the FBI interview you?”
“Twice,” she said. “Once in person and once by telephone.”
“Let me guess. Two agents from Lincoln interviewed you here and an agent from Denver called you a week or two later.”
“Yes,” she said.
“The one on the phone make any kind of impression on you?”
She thought about it. “He seemed a bit high on himself,” she offered. I shook my head up and down knowingly and said good-bye.
I walked back to the motel, changed into shorts, took the dogs around the block, flopped on my bed, and clicked on CNN. I listened to the anchorwoman highlight the day’s events as I paged through the university’s catalog. Dale D. Hawkins, associate professor of finance, had received his B.S. at Duke, his M.B.A. at the Wharton School, and his doctorate at the University of Chicago. He’d been at Nebraska six years.
Scott came bopping in an hour later holding a large white T-shirt with “Nebraska Football” emblazoned across it in big red letters. “Might as well blend in with the locals,” he said. “Got one for you too.” He tossed it to me.
“Jesus,” I said, “let’s just buy some overalls and John Deere hats while we’re at it.” He removed his pants and changed into shorts.
“What’d you learn?” he asked.
“Buddy Holly is alive and Carolyn Chang was dating a business professor. What’d you learn?”
“Carolyn Chang was a harlot.”
“A harlot?”
“That’s what one of her neighbors called her. Little old lady who spends all day listening to some AM station preaching hellfire and damnation. Said sometimes Carolyn wouldn’t come home at all.”
“The slut.”
“Sometimes a man would stay at her house until the wee hours of the morning.”
“Same man?”
“Same guy for the past year.”
“She describe him?”
“Tall, trim, dark hair, always wears a tie.”
“Dale Hawkins,” I said. “M.B.A. at the Wharton School.”
“That’s his name?”
“Yeah. You talk with anyone other than grandma?”
“Yeah. It’s an older neighborhood. A lot of the houses are rented by students. I talked with as many as I could, but a lot of them weren’t living there last winter. Of those who were, a couple of people remembered seeing a sedan in front of her house around six that evening.”
“The cops have that?”
“Yeah.”
“You get a description on the car?”
“Nothing firm. It was dark and cold and nobody was paying attention. The consensus seemed to be it was a big Ford or Mercury. Dark blue. Brand new. Definitely a four-door. Possibly with Nebraska plates, though one guy insisted it had Colorado tags.”
“Anyone get a plate number?” I asked.
“The guy who thought it had Colorado tags said the first three letters were A-M-K. He remembered because those are his initials.”
“That’s a Denver prefix,” I said. “I wonder if anyone checked that.”
“If it was a Colorado plate, that would narrow it down to ten thousand vehicles, at most.” In Colorado, the first three characters on most license plates are letters, the last four are numbers.
“Out of every ten thousand cars, there can’t be that many brand-new Ford or Mercury four-doors that are dark blue.”
“Be nice if this broad Amanda would talk with us.”
“That’s not going to happen,” I said. “What else did you get?”
“Nobody saw anything. Nobody heard anything. But a couple of people swore up and down she would never get into a car with a strange man. She was real rape conscious. Carried pepper spray and wasn’t afraid to confront strangers who looked out of place in the neighborhood. She was like a mama bear to all the coeds in the neighborhood.”
“She would’ve fought like a bobcat if someone had tried to force her into a car.”
“That’s the impression I got,” he said. “You want to go visit this Hawkins tonight?”
“Let’s catch him tomorrow,” I said. “I’m sure the cops have interviewed him and obtained pubic hair samples, so I’m assuming he’s not a suspect.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Why’s that?”
“The blondes are down at the pool.” I closed my eyes because I knew what was coming. At a minimum, I was going to drink more than I should. I didn’t even want to think about the worst-case scenario. “C’mon, marine,” he yelled as he changed into his new shirt, “the party’s just getting started.” What could I do? I put on my new shirt and followed my pal to the pool.
Except for the blondes, the pool was deserted, but Scott laid claim to a table right next to them. Real subtle. The table was protected from the sun by a giant green-and-white umbrella. “We’re albinos,” he explained as we sat down. “Can’t take much sun.” They laughed. “My name’s Wally,” he continued, “and this is my friend Theodore.”
“My friends call me the Beaver,” I said from beneath my aviator’s glasses.
“Monica,” said the taller of the two.
“Mindy,” said the other.
We gave them our true names and got their story. They had just completed their junior year at USC and had been driving home to Ohio when the fuel pump on Mindy’s ’79 Duster gave out. They’d been stuck in Lincoln since Sunday, waiting for the right part, and hoped to leave the next day.
“So,” Monica said, “what brings you to Lincoln?”
“We’re private investigators,” Scott said. “We’re on a case.”
“Give me a break,” said Mindy.
“We are,” he insisted. He turned to me and said, “Show them one of your cards.”
“First of all,” I said, “I don’t keep business cards in my swim trunks. Second, I’m a private investigator; he’s an unemployed astrophysicist who just likes to hang out with me.”
“A groupie,” Mindy said.
“Exactly,” I said. “That’s what he is. A groupie.” I stood up, removed my shirt, and dove into the pool. By the time I emerged, my flirtatious friend had convinced them we were, in fact, investigating the mysterious fractal murders.
The four of us spent forty-five minutes discussing everything from the Nebraska National Forest (they had never heard of it) to their majors (economics for Monica, anthropology for Mindy). When we’d been there an hour, Scott asked if they’d like to join us for dinner. They looked skeptical. “You’ll be safe,” he assured them. “We were Eagle Scouts.”
They knocked on our door just after six. Both were clad in tan hiking shorts; Mindy wore a blue short-sleeved shirt and Monica a thin white shirt with a mandarin collar. They were somewhat surprised to see that we were sharing a room with Buck and Wheat. “I thought they didn’t allow pets,” Mindy said.
“We’re not very good with rules,” I said.
“The Eagle Scouts?” Monica teased.
“We do pretty well,” I said, “with trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, cheerful, thrifty, brave, and clean, but we’ve always had problems with obedient and reverent.”
“That’s still eighty-three percent,” Scott said.