OUR TECHNICIAN INVENTORIED and examined the files on both computers and all the floppy disks,” Gilbert said, “but she never attempted to recover any deleted material.” It was eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning. I’d phoned him two hours ago and he was just now getting back to me.
“She had no reason to,” I said, “because she didn’t know about the other deaths.”
“What about the bureau?” he said. “They were supposed to be looking for a connection.”
“I reviewed the file this morning. In Fontaine’s case, they relied on your technician’s report and never conducted an independent examination of his computers. The hard drive in Carolyn Chang’s computer had been replaced by the time the feds got involved, so there was nothing they could do there. They did conduct a thorough examination of Underwood’s hard drive, but didn’t find anything.”
“Maybe Underwood did his work at New Paradigm Systems.”
“I’ll check that,” I said. “In the meantime, can you have someone take another look at Fontaine’s computers?”
“You bet.”
“Did you check with the college about possible break-ins?”
“Yeah, I spoke with their chief of security this morning, but it’s not a real sophisticated operation. They pay a student to walk around the campus all night and check the doors on the buildings. No record of any break-in or vandalism. You’re right, though. I drove past the campus after you called. Anyone who wanted to could get into that building just by standing the bike rack up under a window.”
I said good-bye to Gilbert, drove to the Texaco to buy a large coffee and a copy of the News, came home and read the paper, then contemplated the rest of my day. There wasn’t much I could do on the case. Finding Amanda’s name in Finn’s address book had aroused my curiosity, but I didn’t want to bother Susan Thompson on a Sunday. I had yet to review the documents Scott had obtained pertaining to Polk’s divorce, but those were unlikely to contain anything earth shattering. I decided to take a drive.
“C’mon, boys,” I said, “let’s go see what there is to see.” The tone of my voice told the dogs all they needed to know. They ran straight to the truck. I loaded them, then went inside for a jacket. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, but that can change quickly in the mountains. I grabbed the Polk documents on the theory I might stop to read them along the way. Hit the B&F for a diet Coke, popped in a Turtles tape, and headed south on Colorado 119 with no particular destination in mind.
We ended up near Leadville, a mining town ten thousand feet above sea level. There are four national forests in that area and plenty of dirt roads. I picked one and followed it nearly five miles to an abrupt end. There was one other vehicle at the trailhead, a white Jeep Cherokee with a “Trout Unlimited” emblem on the rear window. Serious fishermen. I studied the topographical map and guessed they had headed north to a small lake. With both dogs off leash in violation of forest service regulations, I wanted to avoid others at all costs, so I chose a different trail—one that didn’t lead to any lakes or designated camping areas. It meandered west, at times following a narrow creek.
Our hike took four hours, but the dogs loved it. They sniffed and raced from one curious object to the next. Seeing them frolic in the creek brought joy to my heart. If I accomplished nothing else in life, I had taken care of the two creatures entrusted to me. But I hoped to do more than that. I hoped to be able to care for my parents when the time came. I hoped to marry someday. And I hoped to solve the fractal murders.
As for short-term goals, I hoped to find a restaurant. It was past six when we finished our trek and I was hungry. So were Buck and Wheat. I keep a supply of dog chow in the truck, so feeding them was easy, but I wanted something better than Science Diet for myself. I drove into Leadville.
It was Sunday night and most restaurants were closed. A few taverns on the edge of town were open, but they appeared to cater to bikers. Not the kind who wear spandex shorts. The kind who deal meth and can smell a prosecutor—even a former one—a mile away. I ate at the Tastee-Freez.
The atmosphere wasn’t much, but the crinkle fries were good and the fluorescent lighting made it easy to read the documents Scott had copied at the courthouse. I began with the complaint.
Janice Polk had filed for divorce a year ago, citing irreconcilable differences. They’d been married less than four years and had no children. It should have been a simple matter, but Janice had retained J. Bradford Compton, a silver-haired ass who calls himself a “matrimonial attorney.”
I had crossed paths with Compton a few times in private practice. He’s tall and has a patrician look, but he’s as trustworthy as a cobra. And arrogant. Once, just before starting a trial, he sauntered up to me and whispered, “My gal’s gonna kill your guy on the stand.” I thought about taking him literally and reporting the death threat to the judge, but that would only have pissed her off. Instead, I looked at him and asked if anyone had ever told him he walked like a peacock.
As you would expect in any Compton case, the complaint concluded with a request for temporary and permanent alimony, an “equitable division of the assets and obligations of the parties,” temporary and permanent attorneys’ fees, and an order restoring Polk’s wife to her maiden name, Janice Ford. I put the complaint aside, ate some more fries, and began reading the decree.
It didn’t take long to see that Polk had gotten the shaft. In addition to paying $1,000 a month in alimony for three years, the judge had ordered him to pay Compton’s fees and the lion’s share of the marital debts. I couldn’t believe it, and I wondered how Compton had done it.
The answer became clear as I reviewed the remaining papers. The most interesting documents in any divorce action are the depositions and answers to interrogatories. Those aren’t usually filed with the court, but they’d been offered into evidence at trial and Scott had made copies.
Janice’s deposition revealed that she held a master’s degree in public administration. Throughout most of the marriage she had earned a good income as executive director of a foundation dedicated to wiping out a disease I’d never heard of. But she had begun to experience depression within a year of the wedding. Six months prior to filing the complaint, she’d consulted a psychiatrist. The shrink—almost certainly handpicked by Compton—met with her several times, conducted a multitude of tests, and diagnosed her as suffering from an “adjustment disorder with work inhibition.” In his opinion, the prolonged and constant stress of marriage to a federal agent had rendered her barely able to work. The foundation allowed her a leave of absence.
That explained how Compton had achieved the result he had, but I read Polk’s deposition just to be thorough. Taken in December, the deposition had lasted four hours. I tried to picture it. Polk, the hulking federal agent accustomed to interrogating suspects, sitting in Compton’s conference room high above downtown Denver, biting his tongue, trying desperately not to lose his temper as he answered question after question. I smiled and continued reading. It was amusing until I came upon this:
MR. COMPTON: Aside from your salary as an FBI agent, have you earned income from any other employment during the past year?
MR. POLK: Yes.
MR. COMPTON: Tell me about that.
MR. POLK: I earned approximately five thousand dollars as a consultant for a small corporation.
MR. COMPTON: What kind of consulting?
MR. POLK: Corporate security.
MR. COMPTON: And when was this?
MR. POLK: I started in August or September.
MR. COMPTON: I didn’t know agents were allowed to engage in outside employment?
MR. POLK: You have to have permission from the special agent in charge.
MR. COMPTON: Did you have permission?
MR. POLK: Yes.
MR. COMPTON: Did you report this income?
MR. POLK: I’m a federal agent. What do you think?
MR. COMPTON: Please answer the question, sir.
MR. POLK: Yes, I reported it.
MR. COMPTON: Are you still doing work for this company?
MR. POLK: No.
MR. COMPTON: Do you plan to in the future?
MR. POLK: If I’m asked.
MR. COMPTON: What is the name of this company?
MR. POLK: It’s called the Koch Group. It’s an economic consulting firm.
MR. COMPTON: Is this a local company?
MR. POLK: Yes. It’s in the Colorado State Bank Building.
MR. COMPTON: During your career with the FBI, have you engaged in any other outside employment?
MR. POLK: No.
MR. COMPTON: All right, let’s talk about your investments.
The remainder of the deposition was unremarkable. I gathered the documents together. From my review of them, one thing was clear—the couple had been living beyond their means. New cars, vacations in Mexico, a condo near Aspen. Polk had been in financial trouble even before the divorce, and that was interesting, but his mention of the Koch Group was what stuck in my mind.
“The Koch Group,” I muttered to myself. I finished my fries, bought a soft-serve ice-cream cone for the road, and climbed into the truck. “Guess what?” I said to the dogs. “One of Daddy’s classmates is gonna die by lethal injection.”