12 The Letter
In the week following Josh’s lecture/demonstration, I learned that everyone who watches television feels they know something about serial murder. And wants to tell someone about it.
In that one week, the station received more than three hundred emails in response. A rewarding number of them were just “attaboys.” It must be nice to know someone appreciates your work, even if you’re already a world-acclaimed mathematician like Josh.
Josh asked for a printout of all the emails to be placed with the snail-mail letters on paper. When the station delivered the letters, we split up the pile, popped a enormous heap of popcorn, and sat on the floor in front of the Rosemonts’ fireplace for a read-in.
About half the letters were harmless nut-jobs, which the network assured us was typical for interviews. At first we found them amusing, taking turns reading them out loud. Helen went first, with one that preached, “Repent. Jesus is coming to punish you for your sins.”
It wasn’t his turn next, but Raj insisted on reading one of his letters, because of the contrast with Helen’s. “Our Lord Jesus Christ Loves You and Your Dog.”
After a while, though, this insensitive game grew boring. Sonia put an end to the process by saying, “I will not read any more. We should think of the poor people who wrote these.” She clutched her last two printouts as if they were her babies, needing a mother’s comfort. “These people are sick in their heads. They need help, not laughing.”
I put down my nut-case letters, feeling a little ashamed. “They’re not all sick. Some of them are just cons, trying to pry loose some of our money. I picked up the second pile and read the top letter out loud:
“No more wrinkles!!!” Cosette pronounced each and every exclamation point. “No surgery!! Make ten years disappear from your face!! Men will pursue you with proposals of marriage!!!! Special offer!! Trial size, only $19.95 plus S&H!!!”
“I have another one of those,” I said, feeling my face as if hunting for wrinkles. “Ten years younger? Do I want to marry a man who wants to marry a six-year-old?”
“I have three,” said Carmela when she managed to stop laughing. She tilted her head to one side so we could see her cheek. “If I make three treatments, will I lose thirty years? I could go back to high school.”
Raj tightened his face into an ugly grimace. “Yuk. Not high school. How about four applications, and enroll in kindergarten?”
Most of the letters showed no evidence of having watched Josh’s program at all, but Sonia had one that obviously referred to his theme of randomness:
“You are absolutely right. The lottery is not random. My program will generate the winners for you. Guaranteed!!! For only $10 (cash or money order, no credit cards), I will give you a winning combination, fully guaranteed. If my numbers do not win, I refund your $10. Or, you can ask me for another winner, free of all charges.”
She placed the letter by itself on the coffee table. “I do not need a theory of statistics to analyze this.”
Cosette couldn’t help herself. “Do Americans really fall for such scams?”
I asked, “What? Europeans don’t?”
“Oh, no,” she told us. “We definitely do, but I thought Americans might be smarter. This scan is isomorphic with an ancient European swindle where you pay a ‘wizard’ who guarantees a pregnant woman she will have a son. Money back if she has a girl baby.”
That line seemed to awaken Helen from her torpor. “Like in China, everyone wants boys. Girls are thrown away, like garbage.”
“Same in India,” said Raj. Unlike Helen, he didn’t sound upset.
“What’s so great about boys?” I asked, but Sonia gave me a “look.” Sonia’s fascinated with boys, but maybe in a few years I will be like her–in love with love. In the meantime, Cody is keeping Sonia safe from herself, with my purity as a side benefit.
A handful of the letters–literally five–conveyed some bit of useful information to add to what Josh had said. But one of the snail-mail letters stood out from the rest of the nut-job collection. It was one of the few letters that was formally formatted, not just a bunch of lines of text. In the upper right-hand corner, a crowned woman sat on a throne, holding some objects in her hands.
But that picture wasn’t the reason the letter stood out. If it had been serious, and not an obvious nut-job, it would have been cause for city-wide alarm:
‘I watched you spouting about your speciality, on “Citizen Crime-Fighters”, last week. You sounded very knowledgeable, but you are wrong about serial killings. Serial killings do not always have a pattern that leads you to solve them. To prove how phoney and arrogant you are, I am now committing a series of murders for which there is no pattern. I have already killed more people than you can count on one hand. I will continue to add to the series unless you can find a pattern and catch me. It’s up to you to save these people’s lives. Are you truly as clever as you think you are?’
The letter was signed, “Randy.” It made a good point. Mathematics teaches us not to make claims we can’t prove. Randy correctly challenged Josh on his own turf, but he couldn’t have been serious. His bloody method of disproof was just too farfetched.
We filed away the letter with all the others, but I, at least, had no trouble remembering it when we finally recognized that the random murders had already begun.