I CAN’T BELIEVE ANYONE would name their son Isaac Newton,” said Bobbi. Of the 157 listings I’d obtained from directory assistance, there were three Isaac Newtons. One in Vermont, one in New Jersey, and one in Ohio.
“Who’s George Boole?” Bobbi asked as they continued scanning the notes I’d prepared. Of the thirty-four mathematical names I’d chosen to work with, that was the most common. I had telephone listings for twelve George Booles.
“Boolean algebra,” I said.
“What’s Boolean algebra?” Bobbi asked. She wore cut-offs and a red sleeveless top that accentuated her ample bustline.
“It’s a system of symbolic logic,” Scott said. He was focused on my notes, so it came out sounding like her question had been a distraction.
“Oh, that’s right,” she said. “I remember learning that when I studied for my broker’s license.” She elbowed him playfully. He smiled, put my notes aside, and reached for a bagel.
“Thank God these guys all have unusual names,” he said. He wore a white tank top and green running shorts.
“There was one named Henry Smith,” I said, “but I decided not to bother.”
It was nine o’clock on a Saturday morning. We were in Scott’s kitchen eating bagels from Moe’s and enjoying Bobbi’s gourmet coffee. Aspen Blend, or something like that. Bobbi was in the process of updating the kitchen, so the wallpaper had been stripped from the walls. Buck and Wheat played in the backyard. Outside, it was shaping up to be a gorgeous day.
Inside, it was shaping up to be a tedious day. In addition to the 157 phone listings, Gilbert had faxed seventy-two driver’s license abstracts. I handed those to Scott, then began to spread cream cheese across a garlic bagel.
“Why the red and green marks?” Bobbi asked. I’d sorted the abstracts into two categories.
“Red means the license was issued before Tobias disappeared. We can forget those people.”
“How many green ones are there?” Scott asked.
“There were seventeen,” I said, “but I eliminated ten based on age, race, or height.” Tobias was thirty-five years old and white. His employment application had listed his height as five-eleven. I’d culled any man under twenty or over fifty. I’d also cast aside anyone shorter than five-seven or taller than six-three.
“These are just the Western states?” Scott asked.
“Yeah,” I said. He put the abstracts aside and poured more coffee for all.
When she’d had her fill of bagels and coffee, Bobbi carried her dishes to the sink and said, “You boys have fun today. I’m off to the farmer’s market.” Boulder hosts a farmer’s market every Saturday from May through October. She gave Scott a peck on the cheek. He responded with a pat on her rear and asked her to buy some fresh corn. We heard her Porsche start, then resumed our discussion.
“I showed you mine,” I said, “now show me yours.”
“I took your suggestion,” he said. “I monitored the math and science forums every night this week, but they were deader than dead. I spent four hours on-line last night and found one chat room open. There were two people in it.”
“Jesus.” Scott subscribes to AOL and all the other services, so I knew he’d covered all the bases.
“I went through a shitload of message boards and BLOGs too, but the only people using them are computer geeks and graduate students.”
“Any mathematical nicknames?”
“One guy called himself Alex the Great, but he lives in Ontario.”
“How’d you learn that? I thought all you could get from message boards was the person’s e-mail address.”
“It’s called extraction,” he said. “If you have the right software, you can retrieve the on-line service’s billing information for anyone who’s been in a particular forum or section. Marketing companies use it all the time to develop mailing lists for people with specific interests.”
“So tell me about Alex the Great.”
“He’s not our man,” Scott said. “He and some other guy were trading messages about the pros and cons of a new programming language, and a math professor would’ve known the answers to the questions he was asking.”
“Thanks for trying,” I said. I stood and took my dishes to the sink.
“I’m not done,” he said. “I didn’t think of it until Wednesday, but it occurred to me we’re looking for someone with an interest in the history of mathematics, so I visited a lot of web sites and posted as many messages as I could. Said I was a high school senior writing a paper on the history of mathematics and wanted to learn as much as possible about it.”
“Get any responses?” I resumed my seat.
“Eight as of last night.”
“Anyone using a nickname?”
“No, but I got a billing address for each of them, and I figure we might as well check them out.”
“Might as well,” I said.
He gulped the last of his coffee. “How do you want to start?” he asked.
“Let’s start with the phone numbers,” I said. “Of those hundred and fifty-seven listings, only forty-eight are in the Western states. There’s an on-line crisscross service that will give us a street address for each phone number. We’ll compare those with the driving abstracts to avoid duplication, then take a look at the people who responded to your messages and come up with some sort of master list.”
“Okay,” he said, “let’s get to it.” I followed him downstairs to what had become known as the War Room. Scott’s basement contains more computer and electronic equipment than any home office I’ve ever seen. The floor is covered in beige carpeting and the walls are finished with wood paneling, but with all the maps, scientific tables, and astronomical charts he has tacked up, the room resembles a military command post.
The crisscross service turned out to be more useful than I had anticipated. In addition to providing a street address for each of the forty-eight phone numbers we’d submitted, we were able to learn how long the person had been receiving phone service at that address. By eliminating those who had obtained service prior to Tobias’s disappearance, we shrank the list of possibles from forty-eight to eleven.
By noon we had sorted through all the information and created a list of fourteen men. Fourteen men in the nine Western states known to be using one of thirty-four names prominent in the history of mathematics. Fourteen men who had obtained a driver’s license or phone service after Tobias’s disappearance.
“The scary part,” Scott said, “is that all this assumes he’s in the Western states.”
“And that he has a driver’s license or phone service,” I added. I didn’t say it, but most frightening was the possibility that Tobias might not even be the killer. We really had nothing on him.
“Now what?” Scott asked.
“On Monday I’ll start calling county officials and learn as much as I can about these people. Anyone who registered to vote before Tobias disappeared is off the list. Anyone who paid property taxes before Tobias disappeared is off the list. Anyone who registered a vehicle before Tobias disappeared is off the list.” Scott turned off the computer he’d been using, then stood and stretched.
“Boy,” he said, “being a private investigator sure is glamorous.”