Nerds Who Kill: A Paul Turner Mystery (12 page)

“Can I stay?”

“Yes, if you’re very quiet.” Paul’s tone as much as his words informed the boy that something serious was going on. Mrs. Talucci remained in the background.

“Where’s your broadsword?” Paul asked. This was the only one unaccounted for so far. He knew his son wasn’t a killer, but he still felt uneasy.

“That’s the thing,” Brian said. “I don’t know. I was talking with this girl.” He blushed. “Okay, I was doing more than talking. There was this one corner of the virtual game room that was kind of dark.”

Turner watched his son carefully.

“When we came up for air, the sword was gone. It was kind of in the way. It kept clunking against my legs, her legs, a chair, so I kind of loosened it. I put it only a foot away from me on a table.”

Paul asked, “About how long was it between when you remember you last had it and when you noticed it was missing?”

Brian turned more red. He muttered, “Half an hour. Maybe a little more. It wasn’t the kind of moment you’re thinking about timing yourself.”

“Where exactly was this?” Paul asked.

Brian gave him the geography of the game room.

“What did you do when you found it was gone?”

“At first I thought it was Jeff playing some kind of game. He’s always trying to one-up me. I looked for him first.”

“So you began looking about what time?”

“Must have been about ten thirty or eleven.”

Before the second body was found, but after the first.

“What did you do then?”

“This is a big convention. I hunted for him for half an hour. I ran into Mrs. Talucci. I was pretty steamed. She made me report it to the convention security people. They told me they had to notify the authorities. I said my dad was a detective on the Chicago police force. I don’t think it made much of a difference. They told me I had to wait. I began to hear rumors. A few of the convention organizers were in the security area. Even they weren’t sure what was going on. People kept coming in with all of the weirdest stories. They were trying to separate fact from fiction. This whole convention seemed to be about blurring the line between fact and fiction. I asked to talk to you. I didn’t get snotty or rude about it. I just asked. I didn’t know you were here. They made me wait around forever. I still thought it might be Jeff playing a stupid joke. I guess a missing weapon is a pretty big deal. Then they told me I had to come up here. Officer Sanchez told me on the way up in the elevator that it was your case. Somebody said that some old lady in a Xena costume died. Muriam Devers? She the one Jeff got all hyper about seeing last night?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t meet her. Not really. She was one of the judges of the qualifying category I was in last night. I remember because she had that red feather. She wasn’t in a costume then. Wouldn’t she be way too old to wear that?”

“Now you’re a fashion critic?”

“Wouldn’t it be obvious to everybody?”

“Did you talk to her at all?”

“No, but as I walked past the judges’ table somebody pinched my butt. I turned around. It could have been that Devers. A lot of hot girls were hanging around. I thought it was kind of odd to get pinched, but I figured it might be one of the cuter ones. I wasn’t upset or anything. I just hoped it was who I wanted it to be. Everybody was laughing and having a good time. That Devers did have this stupid grin on her face. I don’t mean to be rude, Mrs. Talucci, but she was like, old. It would have been kind of creepy. I guess it was sort of funny. She looked like she’d just gotten away with something. It wasn’t a big deal. Girls have grabbed …” He blushed.

“Grabbed what?” Jeff asked.

“Hush,” Paul said. His younger son subsided. Paul asked, “Was the stone in your hilt different or the same as the other broadswords at the convention?”

“I wasn’t paying much attention to other people’s swords. Only guys had them. I had my mind on other things.”

“You and the young lady didn’t take a detour up to her room?”

“If she has a room, she didn’t invite me to it. Am I in trouble?”

“No,” Turner said.

“Am I going to be here for a while?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“How come?”

“The sword sticking out of Muriam Devers had a blue stone surrounded by glittery stuff on the hilt.”

“Oh.” Brian turned pale.

Paul was relieved that Devers’ murder had been reported long before Brian remembered being without his sword, but the sword that killed Foublin had yet to be found. They had to pin the time down on the second murder.

“Who did it?” Jeff asked.

“We don’t know.”

“It wasn’t Brian,” Jeff said.

“Your brother is not a murderer.”

“I heard him bragging earlier that he’d been propositioned.”

“And that’s your business because?”

“Well, it’s not.”

“Precisely.”

“Is Brian going to be arrested?” Jeff asked.

“This is not time for eleven-year-olds being overly dramatic,” Paul said.

“What’s happened?” Brian asked.

“There seem to be some undercurrents of in-fighting among the convention goers. Lots of glitz and glitter and smiles on the surface.”

Jeff said, “Dad, you’ve got to understand how this stuff works.”

“Explain it to me.”

Jeff spun his wheelchair around. “Okay, here’s the deal. There’s factions all over the place. Some of it’s serious. Some of it’s silly. Some people get really hyper. Like in the game rooms. You’ve got to know what you’re doing. People get mad if you’re an amateur playing at an advanced table.”

“What about these fights between rival conventions?”

“That’s mostly adult stuff. I don’t get it. Why not just have a good time wherever you are?”

“What can you tell me about Muriam Devers’ books?”

“She’s got a bunch of different series. One was for kids. The Freddy books and the Harry Potter books are way better. The kids’ books have a lot of girl main characters, which is okay, but they didn’t seem like any of the girls I know. They were always outspoken, inquisitive, and cute. Then she describes everything about seventeen times. In her latest one set on an alien planet, she was describing the plants on the world she was creating. It went on for three pages. She spent even more time in her adult books describing things. What was the point? She needed an editor.”

“What’s the deal on this red feather?” Turner asked.

Mrs. Talucci said, “I read that one. It’s this ostrich plume that’s out of control. It was the only book of hers I read. Here’s what I understood. Whoever had the feather in some ancient realm had great powers. I could never figure out if the powers came from the feather or if the feather was a reward for using those powers for good.”

“Like
The Fifty-First Dragon,
” Jeff said. Paul raised an eyebrow. “This character believed a feather was magical so he could go out and kill dragons. When someone told him it wasn’t magical, he no longer felt he had the power to kill dragons when he never did in the first place. It was only a feather. Not magical.”

Brian said, “When am I going to be able to go home?”

Paul said, “If you were an actual suspect, you’d probably be able to go home already. You aren’t. All the people with broadswords are going to be questioned. Like I said, yours matched the murder weapon.”

Brian said, “That can’t be good.”

Paul said, “We’ve seen several of them. My guess is there were any number of those kind around the convention. I’m going to make sure no one has even the slightest suspicion about you.” He turned to Jeff. “You should probably go home.”

“Can’t I please stay, Dad?” He rubbed the wheel of his chair. “I’m worried about Brian.”

A whine would have brought a reprimand. A child’s demand to stay would have elicited a parental rebuke. Concern for his brother was the right altruistic note. And Paul knew the younger brother idolized the older, even if he’d cut out his tongue before he admitted it. He permitted him to stay.

Paul said, “Everybody should just sit tight. It’s probably going to be a lot of boring hours before we’ll be able to get out of here.”

“Am I going to be a suspect?” Brian asked.

“We’re not going to worry about that yet. You might as well get comfortable.” Paul got up to leave.

Mrs. Talucci and Ben stepped forward. Ben asked, “Is there anything else we can do?”

“Your presence is plenty,” Paul said.

Brian walked with his dad to the door. He said, “Am I going to be okay?”

Paul gazed at his son. “Yes.”

Brian met his dad’s eyes. “You sure?”

“You’re going to be okay.” He gripped his son’s shoulder, the only paternal gesture of intimacy the teenager had permitted the past few years.

Turner left the room. He knew his son was more than strong enough to inflict the kinds of wounds he’d seen. He also knew his son well. Brian was not a killer. Paul knew he was the kind of kid who would be overwhelmed with weeping and guilt if he committed a crime, much less something as horrific as these murders. The last time he’d accidentally hurt his younger brother, two years ago, he’d sobbed with guilt and remorse. Brian had come bounding down the stairs from his room at a clip that an athletic teenager could quickly reach. Jeff had turned into the living room at the last second. Both boys had gone head over heels. Jeff had required a visit to the hospital to check his wrist, which turned out to be severely sprained but not broken. Brian had moped about for days. He’d finally made it up to Jeff by bringing his brother copies of five of the newest video games that the younger boy couldn’t afford on his allowance. Then Brian spent hours playing them with his brother. Much as Jeff might wish for independence, time together with his older brother was precious. Besides, Paul loved his son, knew his son. He’d stake his life on the fact that Brian was not a killer. But the boy being connected in an investigation, however peripherally, caused him anxiety. He thought that immediately would be a good time to solve this case.

Turner found Sanchez. He told him to post a uniformed guard on this floor to keep watch. Turner said, “I want the fingerprints from the murder weapon as soon as possible. Get someone to run matches as fast as you can.” If necessary, to eliminate his son as a suspect in his boss’s eyes, he’d take Brian’s fingerprints. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. It seemed likely that they would be on the weapon they had. If forced to take them, he would. And there was always the possibility of the second weapon, which they did not have.

He found Fenwick and told him what Brian had told him.

“Let’s go look at the swords we do have,” Fenwick said. “Sanchez had the uniforms collect them. The damn things are in the room next to Devers’.”

They examined six broadswords. None was covered in blood. A crime lab technician was handling them carefully. Each had a tag with a name, address, and phone number on it. The tech explained, “We got their names from the convention costume register. We’ve got three from people who weren’t wearing them when we went to question them. The swords were in their rooms. We have three from people who were wearing them. We found them at various parts of the convention. So, six swords accounted for. Seven if you count the one in Devers. The convention people said there were officially eight.”

Turner said, “And the one that killed Foublin could also be the one sticking in Ms. Devers, or it could be the missing one.”

The tech said, “You also supposedly have some unofficial ones. We’re still hunting them down. We’re going to have a hard time finding who they were, if there were any. Of the people with the weapons, all claim to have alibis. None of the beat cops who talked to them said anybody was suspicious.”

Turner said, “Which means that unless they had a second or third sword, theirs was not used in the killing.”

Fenwick said, “Any number of the official and unofficial swords could have been used already without the bodies being discovered. In addition, there’s no telling how many random broadswords people might have walked into this convention with. This is kind of a strange bunch.”

“At least they don’t play around at crime scenes every day,” the tech said.

“Speak for yourself,” Fenwick said.

The tech guy said, “We’re going to have to get all of these to the lab. I’ll get you a report as soon as I can. I’ll get a couple guys in here. Nobody wants to tote these around the convention without some kind of protection.” He left.

Fenwick asked, “Do we need to worry about more possible murders?”

Turner said, “Even if we could check every single room in the hotel, it probably wouldn’t do much good. People could have stacks of swords in their cars or scattered around the metropolitan area.” He examined the swords without picking them up. Five had glittery stuff on the hilt. Two had blue stones. Turner used his hanky to touch the top of one of the swords. “One of these could be Brian’s.”

Fenwick said, “We’ll have to check fingerprints.”

Sanchez entered the room. He said, “This Hickenberg guy you wanted me to get? He says he’ll meet you in his hotel room, that he is not at your beck and call.”

Fenwick said, “I’ll do some becking and calling.”

9

Darch Hickenberg sat in his hotel suite. He puffed on a large cigar. The atmosphere in the room told Turner this hadn’t been the first cigar the author had smoked during his stay. Hickenberg’s corpulent mass rested in a swivel chair at a desk. He looked to be in his mid-fifties. His white shirt was half untucked from his blue dress pants. Turner saw a mustard stain on the front of the shirt.

Murky hotel prints on the murky walls of murky flowers. Industrial-strength couches with matching cushions. Tough to sit on. Tough to relax on.

According to Melissa Bentworth, Hickenberg and Devers had a history together. Turner asked, “How long have you known Muriam Devers?”

“There are rumors she’s dead.”

“She is.”

Hickenberg drew a deep breath. “Well. My word. I’ve known her for thirty years. She was in a writing seminar I was giving in Buffalo one summer. Back in the days when I used to give writing seminars. Who needs the competition, I always say. Giving them seminars just encourages them.” He looked like he expected the detectives to pick up on his humor. Or maybe he was deadly serious and was waiting for them to huzzah in praise. They waited silently. Hickenberg resumed, “They don’t want to listen to criticism, constructive or otherwise. They want to hear that you’re going to give them a leg up and wave your magic writing wand to make them fabulously wealthy and give them the secret computer program that has the books write themselves. At that time her writing needed a lot of work.”