An Unusual Pattern Read online

  Published by Common Deer Press Incorporated.

  Text Copyright © 2019 David Cole

  Illustration Copyright © 2019 Shannon O’Toole

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Published in 2019 by Common Deer Press

  3203-1 Scott St.

  Toronto, ON

  M5V 1A1

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Cole, David.-First edition.

  The Math Kids: An Unusual Pattern / David Cole

  ISBN: 978-1-988761-37-4 (print)

  ISBN: 978-1-988761-38-1 (e-book)

  Cover Image: © Shannon O’Toole

  Book Design: Ellie Sipila

  Printed in Canada

  WWW.COMMONDEERPRESS.COM

  CHAPTER 1

  The first thing I noticed was how quiet it was. I expected there to be a bustle of activity and plenty of noise, but it was so quiet I could hear the squeaking of my right sneaker as we walked down the freshly waxed hallway. I could see Justin looking around, taking in everything we passed. There were framed photographs on every wall with grainy black-and-white images of famous criminals who had been brought to justice by the FBI: Bonnie and Clyde, Al Capone, Machine Gun Kelly, John Dillinger, and lots of others whose names I didn’t recognize. We passed doors labeled Cybercrime, Tax Fraud, Terrorism, and Kidnapping. We went by a large cafeteria where agents were sitting at tables, finishing breakfast before starting their day. Even here, the volume was low as agents stared down at their cell phones or spoke quietly to each other over coffee.

  Agent Carlson, who was leading the small parade of me and my friends, finally stopped at the end of the long hallway in front of a door marked Cold Cases. He opened the door and herded us through the doorway.

  “Well, here we are,” he said.

  I looked around the room. Four large tables were covered with stacks of yellowing papers. The walls were covered with old wanted posters with names I didn’t recognize. A row of printers was overflowing with printouts. And one wall was lined with gray metal file cabinets with neat lettering across each drawer. Two men in matching gray suits looked up from their laptop computers as we entered.

  Agent Carlson made the introductions.

  “Kids, these are Special Agents Perkins and Wilson.” There was a nod from each agent as their name was mentioned. “And these are the Math Kids: Jordan Waters, Stephanie Lewis, Catherine Duchesne, and Justin Grant.”

  The agents gave us a thorough look, like they were memorizing our faces for future reference.

  Agent Perkins asked, “Duchesne? Wasn’t that the kidnapping case you worked on recently?”

  “Good catch, Dan,” Agent Carlson responded. “It was Catherine’s dad who was kidnapped.”

  “You made pretty quick work of that case, if I recall,” Perkins said.

  Agent Carlson smiled. “I got credit for the arrest, but actually it was the Math Kids who did all of the work. Mr. Duchesne sent a coded message that the kids were able to solve with their math skills.”

  “Impressive.” Agent Perkins nodded, looking at us with newfound respect. “So, what brings you to Cold Cases?”

  “Care to explain, Jordan?” Agent Carlson looked my way.

  How was I supposed to know? I’m just a fourth-grade student at McNair Elementary School. All I really knew was that Agent Carlson had asked us if we wanted to work for the FBI, although I guess “volunteering” is more accurate since, as Justin had correctly pointed out, we weren’t getting paid.

  “Agent Carlson thought we might be able to help with an old case that has some math in it.”

  “Wait, you’re not talking about the Robbins bank robbery case, are you?” Agent Wilson asked.

  “That’s the one,” Agent Carlson said with a smile.

  “Good luck with that.” Agent Wilson shook his head. “We haven’t been able to make any progress on it at all.”

  I saw Justin’s eyes light up. We had started the Math Kids club because we all loved math and solving problems.

  “I don’t know if we’ll be able to solve it, but we’d love to try,” I said.

  “Great, then let’s let these guys get back to work and we’ll get started,” said Agent Carlson.

  We settled in at one of the long tables. Justin pulled out notepads and pens from his backpack so we could take notes.

  Agent Carlson proceeded to outline the case that had baffled him and the other FBI agents working in Cold Cases.

  “Fifteen years ago, there was a bank robbery in Dallas, Texas. Two men wearing masks and carrying shotguns entered the bank just as it opened on a Saturday morning. They pushed the customers and bank tellers into the manager’s office. While one of the robbers kept an eye on their captives, the other forced the bank manager to open the vault and load up large duffel bags with cash.”

  Justin interrupted with a question. “How much did they steal?”

  “It was a little over two million dollars,” the agent replied.

  Our mouths dropped open. None of us could comprehend that much money, especially in cash.

  “They were preparing to make a clean getaway,” the agent continued, “when the bank’s security guard walked into the bank carrying a drink holder with four large cups of coffee. The guard saw the men and went for his gun, but one of the robbers clubbed him over the head with a shotgun and the two made their escape.”

  “Did they leave any clues behind?” Stephanie asked.

  “Not a trace. They wore masks, so no one could give a good description of the two men, and they wore gloves, so they didn’t leave any fingerprints. Despite the best efforts of the police and the FBI, no trace was ever found.”

  “But how we can we help?” asked Stephanie. “We’re just kids. We don’t know how to catch a bank robber.”

  “It’s not about what happened at the bank that day, Stephanie,” Agent Carlson said with a smile. “It’s what happened twelve years later.”

  “Twelve years later?” she asked.

  “Three years ago, one of the bank robbers died.”

  “How do you know it was one of the bank robbers?”

  “Simple. He told us,” the agent explained. “Walter Robbins had a change of heart as he was dying in his hospital room. He wanted to make up for the bank robbery, even though he insisted until the end that he was not the one who knocked out the security guard. He confessed his crimes to the FBI before he died.”

  “What about the money? Did you get it back?” I asked.

  “No. When he found out he was dying, he left all his savings to the Dallas Veterans Hospital.”

  “Well, at least the money went to a good cause,” Justin said.

  “Since the robber died, the case is closed, then, right?” I asked.

  “Except for the other robber,” said Agent Carlson. “And the other million dollars.”

  “Did Robbins say who the other robber was?” asked Catherine.

  “Or where the money was?” added Stephanie.

  “No, but I think he was trying to tell us,” the agent answered.

  “Trying to tell us? What does that mean?” I asked.

  “He left us a poem,” Agent Carlson said, adding, “and that’s where the Math Kids might be able to help.”

  The agent pulled a single sheet of paper out of a thin file folder l
abeled First National Bank of Dallas. He placed it on the table and we all crowded around to read it.

  I’ve lived a life with many faults; I’ve tried to fix a few My partner in the theft of vaults? I’ll leave you with a clue

  It’s hidden in the middle of a dessert that’s not sandy No pattern there, and GPS won’t come at all in handy More difficult to find than a single grain of sand Slipping through your fingers, the digits on both hands

  To make a shape you need at least these to arrange Add it makes it bigger, but multiply doesn’t change The wonders of the ancient world so many miles away The colors soar above us on a sunny rainy day Up or down it stays the same, but on its side, it goes and goes

  The only prime that stands alone as everybody knows Now it’s time to start, right where the clues do end Is anybody smart enough to call upon my friend?

  There was silence in the room while we read and reread the poem. Agent Carlson finally broke the silence.

  “So, Math Kids, any ideas?”

  We looked at each other but nobody said a word. We had agreed to volunteer for two reasons. First, we were hoping to get some cool FBI stuff. Justin really wanted a badge. I was pretty sure that was out of the question, but maybe we could at least score some FBI jackets or hats. The second reason was that Agent Carlson had gone to bat for us with the classroom bullies and we owed him one.

  Those reasons didn’t matter now, though. All I could think was that we were in way over our heads on this one.

  CHAPTER 2

  We met in the school library after school the next day. For three hours, we stared at the poem Agent Carlson had given us. Three hours of reading and rereading the words, trying to figure out where to start. Three hours and we had come up with absolutely nothing.

  “I think the bank robber was just having a little fun with the FBI,” Justin complained. “There’s nothing in the poem that makes any sense.”

  I was about to agree when I heard the library door open. I glanced at the clock and saw it was almost six o’clock. I waited to hear Old Mike call out to us in his loud, jovial voice. Old Mike was the janitor at McNair Elementary. He wasn’t that old, really, but he had been at the school as long as anyone could remember. He got his nickname because people were always saying things like “Old Mike will take care of that” or “see if Old Mike can find it.” Old Mike was always there in the morning when we got to school and was usually the last one to leave at the end of the day, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him when he wasn’t in a great mood.

  Instead of our friendly janitor, though, I was surprised to hear a raspy growl instead. “What are you kids still doing in here?” a man’s voice barked out. “School was over three hours ago.”

  We looked up at the bearded man standing over the table. He had a frown on his face and smelled like he had just stepped out of one of the trash dumpsters behind the school.

  “Well?” he asked gruffly.

  “We were just leaving,” I stammered. “I guess we didn’t realize how late it was.”

  “What grade are you in?”

  “Fourth.”

  “And you still don’t know how to tell time?” He sneered. “Go on, now. Get out of here.”

  We scooped up our papers from the table, grabbed our backpacks, and left the library as quickly as we could. The man watched us from the hallway until the exit door had closed behind us.

  “Who was that?” I asked as soon as we were safely on our way home.

  “I don’t know, but it sure wasn’t Old Mike,” Justin answered.

  “Maybe he was sick today,” Catherine said.

  “No, I saw him this morning when I took the attendance slip down to the office,” Stephanie added. “He was in the principal’s office.”

  “Well, I sure hope he’s back tomorrow,” Catherine said.

  But Mike wasn’t in the next day. We saw the bearded man as soon as we entered the school. He was wiping down the glass display cases just inside the front door. He stopped what he was doing and stared at us as we stepped through the doorway. Old Mike would have called out a jolly “good morning” to us, but the bearded man just stared as we hurried past him to our classroom.

  “There’s only one way to find out what’s up with Old Mike,” Justin said.

  I nodded in agreement. We had to ask Susie McDonald.

  Susie’s mom was the president of the PTO and always knew everything that was going on. Some people said that it was Mrs. McDonald, and not the principal, who really ran the school. The teachers and staff were afraid of her because she knew all the school board members and didn’t hesitate to go to them if things didn’t go her way.

  “He was fired,” Susie told us when we asked.

  “Fired? But why?” I asked in surprise.

  “He was stealing from the lockers,” Susie said loudly, loving all the attention for knowing something the rest of the class didn’t.

  “What is there to steal? Pencils and paper?” I challenged.

  “My mom said he stole one hundred and fifty dollars from a fifth grader’s locker,” Susie said, bringing oohs and ahhs from the crowd starting to gather around her. “Phil Duke brought it in to pay for his spring field trip to space camp.”

  “Why do they think it was Old Mike?” Catherine asked.

  “My mom said he also stole a backpack from Tyler Stevens and a cell phone from Jackie O’Keefe,” Susie continued, ignoring Catherine’s question.

  There were murmurs from the whole class as everyone gathered around Susie to hear more. Susie dropped her voice to a whisper so that everyone had to lean in even closer. “My mom said he may even go to jail.”

  “But why do they think it was Old Mike?” Catherine persisted.

  “My mom said that he’s the only one with a master key to all of the lockers,” Susie said.

  “But that doesn’t prove he did it,” I protested.

  “And they found the backpack and cell phone in Old Mike’s closet!” Susie said in a dramatic voice. “Can you believe it? Stealing from students?”

  “No, I can’t believe it!” I responded loudly. “Old Mike would never do something like that.”

  “But my mom said…” Susie began.

  “Yeah, well your mom says too much if you ask me!” Justin said sharply, cutting Susie off in midsentence.

  Everyone in the class gasped and then looked at Justin. They were probably all thinking the same thing, but Justin had been the only one brave enough to say it out loud. Susie turned a bright shade of red and was about to respond when Mrs. Gouche walked into the classroom and told us to take our seats.

  I don’t remember anything Mrs. Gouche taught us that morning. All I could think about was poor Old Mike. I just couldn’t believe he would steal from students. But how could we prove it so Old Mike could get his job back?

  At lunchtime, the Math Kids sat at one of the tables in the back of the cafeteria. We didn’t want to be disturbed while we discussed the situation, and what, if anything, we could do about it. Justin suggested a petition that all the students and teachers could sign, but Stephanie didn’t think that would work if the school board thought he was guilty.

  “The evidence is definitely stacked up against him,” I said, “but I still can’t believe he would do something like that.”

  We were downhearted as we thought about it. Old Mike always had our backs when it came to the bullies. He had a knack for showing up whenever we were in trouble. Maybe it was all coincidental, but I had a feeling he was watching out for us.

  “I just wish there was some way we could help him,” Catherine said.

  “The only way to help him is to prove that someone else did it,” Stephanie argued.

  “Or maybe there’s another way to look at it,” Justin said thoughtfully. “We don’t need to prove that someone else did it. We only need to prove that Old Mike didn’t do it.”

  “But isn’t that the same thing?” Catherine asked.

  “Not if there wasn’t a crime to begin with
,” Justin said.

  Stephanie, Catherine, and I looked at each other—the same puzzled expression on each of our faces.

  The bell rang before we could ask Justin what he meant. I caught up with him on the edge of the playground. He was walking slowly, with one hand brushing the fence, and he responded with “um hmm” when I brought up our lunch discussion. I have known Justin long enough to know that he was in the “zone.” Sometimes he became so deep in thought that he would tune everything else out. I also knew it was useless to try to talk to him when he was in the zone, so I went back over to where Stephanie and Catherine were talking.

  “He’s in the zone, isn’t he?” asked Stephanie, looking over at Justin walking along the fence.

  “Yep.”

  “What do you think he meant?” she asked.

  “You’ve got me,” I answered. “We’ve got money, a backpack, and a cell phone stolen from lockers. Why wouldn’t he think those are crimes?”

  We continued to discuss Justin’s perplexing statement while we watched him from a distance. He followed the fence all the way to the end of the soccer fields, then made a left, and finally another left to walk back toward the school.

  “Why do you think he does that?” Catherine asked.

  “You mean walking along the fence?” I asked. “It’s so he doesn’t get lost.”

  “No, seriously,” Catherine responded.

  “I am being serious,” I said. “In second grade, before they put the fence up, Justin started walking that direction and just kept walking. He told me later that he was trying to figure out what to do for his science fair project. Anyway, he just kept thinking and walking and thinking and walking and ended up almost a mile away from the school. He looked up and he was in a neighborhood he didn’t recognize and had no idea how to get back.”

  “Are you kidding?” laughed Stephanie.

  “Nope—totally serious,” I said with a grin. “Luckily, Jimmy Woodside’s mom noticed Justin sitting on the curb and brought him back to school. When I asked Justin what had happened, all he said was that his science fair project was going to be on how the shape of an ice cube affects how quickly it melts.”