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I phoned the Lincoln Police Department and asked for Detec- tive Slowiaczek, the woman quoted in the news clippings. I was transferred three times, but finally got her. “Slowiaczek," was all she said. I identified myself and explained the reason for my call. "Who's your client?" she demanded. She sounded like she was in her thirties. Her abrupt tone suggested my call was about as welcome as one from a sales rep asking her to switch long- distance companies. "My client," I said, "is a concerned citizen who finds it hard to believe these deaths were unrelated." I heard some noise in the background. "Tell that asshole I'll be with him in a minute." "What?" "I wasn't talking to you," she snapped. "You sound busy," I said. "All I'm asking is a chance to see what you've got." "Out of the question," she said. "I understand it's an open investigation," I said. "If you don't want copies of documents floating around, how about I fly to Lin- coln and review them in your presence." "I'm sure that would be a real treat for me," she said, "but it's not going to happen." Losing her patience. "Look," I said, "I was a federal prosecutor for seven years. I know what I'm doing. I need to gather as much information as possible about these deaths." "Uh-huh," she said, not impressed. "Don't you think it's strange," I persisted, "that all three of these people were experts in fractal geometry?" It was one question too many. "In the first place," she shot back, "I see strange every day of my life. In the second place, you're asking me to violate department policy. And in the third place, the FBI already investigated that and I'll be damned if I'm going to go over it again with some