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"Yes." "Did you report this to anyone?" I asked. "I called the police." "And they said it wasn't their problem?" "Yes, because none of the deaths had taken place in Boulder. They suggested I call the FBI." "Did you?" "Yes." "They do anything?" "Not from my point of view," she said coldly. "Two agents from Denver interviewed me. I explained that the odds of it being a coincidence were astronomical. Six weeks later they told me they couldn't find any connection and had closed the case." Her nos- trils flared. She was not a woman accustomed to being taken lightly. "When was that?" I asked. "About two weeks ago. I've been struggling with what to do ever since." "Did you know any of the victims?" "I knew Carolyn Chang. We met at a conference in San Fran- cisco a few summers ago." "Did you stay in touch after that?" "Not really," she admitted. "We exchanged Christmas cards, that's about it." We were silent for a moment, perhaps both recall- ing the names and faces of people who had briefly been friends but had long since been consigned to the category of memories. "And," she said suddenly, "she sent me a note last year compli- menting me on something I'd written for one of the journals. That's the only time someone ever took the time to do that." She seemed on the verge of tears, and I wondered how long it would take her to remove a tissue from the ceramic dispenser on her desk. Like her coffee mug, it boasted a colorful Southwestern design. "Did you know the others?"