Nerds Who Kill: A Paul Turner Mystery (17 page)

“Did she know this?” Turner asked.

“I’m not sure. I seldom actually talked to her.”

“What threat did you make?” Turner asked.

“I was in her agent’s office when she gave me the news. I’ve found things out since then. Muriam was not a nice person. She was a certifiable bitch. She was never going to give me the rights in the first place. I found that out months later. I could have been the first one in with my bid, and it wouldn’t have made any difference. Chadwick offered her more money and a better deal than I could. I was led to believe mine was the highest bid. I tried to make sure of that. I got hoodwinked. By her agent who had been told to lie to me by Muriam herself.”

“Who told you this?” Fenwick asked.

“I’m not stupid. I pieced things together.”

“Who told you?” Fenwick repeated.

“It’s not one person telling you something. You find out little things from ex-employees, from friends in the industry that might have worked with you before and then become part of another corporation. There is some loyalty in Hollywood, although not much. Muriam was vicious and her viciousness went back a long way.”

“How long?” Fenwick asked.

“The director on the very first movie being made from her work was a new guy. He was working very hard to make it in Hollywood. It was his first big break. She got him fired. He never worked in movies in this country again. He went to Europe and India to work in the industries there.”

“What was their fight about?” Turner asked.

“I heard it wasn’t a fight. I heard that she went behind his back in the most sneaky and underhanded way. She wanted to preserve her image as Ms. All-Holy Good and Pure, but she wanted him out. I heard that he refused to listen to her complaints and problems. Instead of talking to him, like a normal adult, she pulled strings behind the scenes.”

“She had that kind of clout?” Fenwick asked.

“I’m sure that was part of the reason she had to work behind the scenes. Normally she wouldn’t have. Not on a first movie.”

Fenwick asked, “Don’t most authors with movie deals just take the money and run?”

“Depends on how big a deal you are and how much ego you’ve got and how your contract reads. Muriam wanted to run things. She was a micromanager. Did you ever hear her speak in public? She tried to come across as this soft-spoken Madonna. Hah. She was a bitch incarnate.”

Turner said, “Mr. Cavali, you still haven’t told us about your threat.”

“It was silly. It was stupid. I made all kinds of threats I couldn’t back up. That I would stop the funding for her next movie. That I would put a halt to production on her next project.”

“Could you do either of those things?” Turner asked.

“No.” He sighed. “Not even close to it. I like to think I’m a player. On a really good day, sometimes I am.”

“Did you know what her costume was for the convention?”

“Costume? As far as I know she always appeared elegantly dressed. You know how these conventions have costume fanatics. Those people have no lives. Well, Muriam just laughed at them behind their backs.”

“You’re in a costume,” Fenwick observed.

Cavali blushed. “I usually don’t. I guess most of this dressing up is pretty harmless. It seems like a lot because this convention is so huge. What did somebody say, a hundred thousand people? I’m here to try to make money. This outfit is connected to my latest project.”

Fenwick said, “We found her dressed in a Xena, Warrior Princess outfit.”

“Is that significant?” Cavali asked.

“We’re trying to find out,” Fenwick said.

“I never saw her in a costume. You’ll have to ask other folks about that. Xena? I find that hard to believe. Muriam was very conservative. She was always in fashion but never ahead of it. She wore sensible, nondescript clothes every time I met her. Maybe she was into some kinky stuff.”

“Maybe,” Fenwick said.

“Do you know anything about the members of her writing group?” Turner asked.

“Not really. Just the usual ribald jokes and rumors. They were a bunch of young studs, and she was their literary Mrs. Robinson. I have no idea if they were having sex. I don’t know any of those people.”

“Did you ever get invited to the parties in Aspen?”

“No. Us younger people seldom were. She had an ‘in crowd’ that she invited all the time. The whole Aspen thing was really a joke. The rich go to Aspen to party, and Muriam wanted to think she was one of them. I heard she got shut out of lots of social functions. She may have had as much or even more money than some of them, but I don’t think she was ever really one of the stars of the circuit. She had a home there, but I heard she was never really accepted.”

“Did you resent not being invited?” Turner asked.

“You can’t resent something you don’t want or need. The real reason why I didn’t get the movie rights was because she double-crossed me. That’s how I lost out on the bidding. I was led to believe I’d be the one to get the rights. She backed out. I was never given an explanation about why. I’ve always believed Chadwick was behind it. He’s been a bigger jerk since he’s been living with that Rackwill guy, who is a rat.”

“How so?” Turner asked.

“If there’s a conflict or disagreement, he’s always willing to throw gasoline on the flames.”

Fenwick asked, “Did you know Dennis Foublin?”

“He was the fan guest of honor at this convention, wasn’t he? I saw that in the program. I didn’t know him.”

Turner asked, “You know anything about red ostrich feathers connected with Ms. Devers?”

“I saw her with them. She carried the damn things everywhere. She insisted they be in the movies of her books as well. I suppose she may have slept with them or taken a shit with them. I always thought it was one of the silliest affectations. She could have burned all the red feathers on the planet and still sold a ton of books. It was dumb.”

“Where were you between ten and eleven today?” Fenwick asked.

“I was addressing a seminar on the director’s vision for popular heroes.”

“What’s the director’s vision for popular heroes?” Fenwick asked.

“Sex sells.”

Perhaps a bit of a narrow vision, Turner thought. Cavali left.

14

Sanchez entered again.

Fenwick said, “I hope you’re showing up here with some kind of solution.”

“Nope,” Sanchez said. “We’ve got more problems.”

They followed him down the corridor to the stairs. It was easier than trying to summon an elevator. Since the elevators were on lockdown, they would have needed a special key to summon one of them. Fortunately for Fenwick’s bulk, they were walking downstairs. At each landing was a cop. They weren’t going to be able to keep up this kind of intensive presence for long. Other crimes were still being committed in the city. Turner knew they’d have the help longer than usual because of the injury to the officer, but the extra help was a finite thing.

They walked down to the seventeenth floor. Sanchez said, “One of the hotel guests used this excuse to get to his room. He said his kid needed his inhaler.” He led them to the bathroom. The shower stall was covered in blood.

“I think this is real blood again,” Turner said.

Fenwick said, “We better get the Crime Lab personnel in here quick. We’ve got a Hollywood crowd here. Maybe they could fake this stuff pretty convincingly. Hell, some of these people dedicate their lives to making fake things look real.”

Turner said, “We could try and find some Hollywood type to do that trick of sticking their finger in the questionable substance and then tasting it.” No cop Turner knew, including the dumbest rookie, ever put an unknown substance from a crime scene in his mouth. Turner had seen an awful lot of real blood in an awful lot of contexts. This looked real to him.

“Whose room was this?” Turner asked.

“They’ve got the guy next door.” He glanced at his notebook. “Guy named Donald Diekman and his family were staying in the room. He says he doesn’t know a thing.”

Turner and Fenwick strode next door. Diekman wore chain mail that reached to his knees, brown leather pants underneath, and a pointy peasant’s helmet. He was a beefy guy.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “Why is there blood in our room? There’s all kind of crazy rumors going on downstairs. Did someone get in our room? Is someone trying to kill us? Did somebody die in our room? All our clothes and things are in there. Are we going to be able to get in and get them?”

“What time did you leave your room?” Fenwick asked.

“A little after one. We’ve been gone all day. Mostly we were playing wizards’ chess in one of the ballrooms. My wife and kids love the game.”

“Did people have broadswords?”

“Yeah. Bunch of different people. One of the first rumors I heard was that someone stole a sword and chopped somebody’s hand off. Now supposedly there’s a serial killer running around with a broadsword. I’ve heard about sixteen different rumors. Why don’t they just announce what is going on? Nobody can get into their rooms. People are starting to get pretty angry.”

Fenwick asked, “You ever have run-ins with the Chicago cops?”

“I got a ticket on Lake Shore Drive once. Does that count? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Did you deserve the ticket?” Fenwick asked.

“Pretty much.”

“Did you notice anyone hanging around your room?”

“No. Our room was fine when I left. I showered this morning. Neither my wife nor I have been up here. The kids don’t even have keys so they couldn’t have gotten in.”

“Have you had a chance to examine your belongings?” Turner asked.

“I glanced. Everything looks like it’s where we left it.”

“Did you know Dennis Foublin?” Turner asked.

“Yes. He was a good friend.” Diekman looked from one detective to the other. “What’s happened?”

Turner told him the news. Diekman sat down on the bed with a thump. He put his elbows on his knees and put his head in his hands. “This can’t be true.”

“I’m sorry. It is.”

“What happened? Wait. Someone confiscated our swords. He was killed with a sword. My god, that’s barbaric. Poor Dennis. He was such a good guy.”

“He gave a lot of positive reviews,” Fenwick said.

“His reviews were always thoughtful and fair-minded. I helped him maintain his web site. I even wrote some reviews for the comic book section. He was second only to me in the SF world in knowledge about comics, although he knew way more than I did about science fiction and fantasy novels.”

“Anybody ever get angry about his reviews?” Fenwick asked.

“Oh, people always get angry. Sometimes it was funny. Dennis would mention something in his review and a writer in his or her next book would try and dig back at Dennis.”

“Nobody had fights about this?” Fenwick asked.

“It was all very proper, English-department professorial. Nobody in a college gets homicidal.”

Fenwick said, “I heard departments in colleges can be breeding grounds for double-dealing, hostility, and homicide.”

“That’s not what he was like.” Diekman began to cry. “He was such a good guy.”

When Diekman was calmer, Turner asked, “Where’d you guys meet?”

“We were working in the same coffee shop at the University of Minnesota.”

“He ever have fights with anybody?” Turner asked.

“Nobody I know of.”

Turner said, “We heard a rumor that he might have had something sinister in his background.”

“Not that I know of.”

“What do you know about his connection with Muriam Devers?” Fenwick asked.

“Muriam is mostly harmless. As far as I know, they got along.”

“She used red feathers as part of her schtick,” Fenwick commented.

“Yeah. I only knew her slightly, but every time I saw her on the television talk shows, she had that stupid feather.”

“Did you know the members of her writing group?” Turner asked.

“I heard they thought of themselves as some kind of an SF mafia.”

“How so?” Turner asked.

“Well, they kind of presumed to power. Like, they knew somebody rich, so they should be listened to and catered to for no apparent merit of their own.”

“And were they catered to?” Turner asked.

“In their imagination, they certainly were. I suppose there are always those who think by sucking up, they’ll get ahead. I suppose some people were nice to them because they were close to Muriam. Maybe a few thought they were genuinely good people. I thought they were mostly harmless.”

“But you didn’t know them personally?”

“If I ever met them connected with Muriam, I certainly don’t remember them. You meet an awful lot of people at conventions. Who remembers them all?”

He knew nothing else helpful. He left.

Turner said, “The killer planned this extremely carefully. This is not random. This is made to keep us looking, to keep us confused. Are these people all connected in some way?”

“I don’t believe all the people we’ve talked to are killers,” Fenwick said. “Unless there’s some vast conspiracy going on. We’ve got no proof any of these folks conspired together. Some of them knew one another, but not all of them knew everybody.”

“My worry is that we’re going to find more corpses as people are allowed into their rooms.”

Fenwick said, “There aren’t going to be any new corpses up here. Everyone at the convention is downstairs.”

“Unless they’ve been napping in their rooms or reading in their rooms or sitting and brooding in their rooms.”

Fenwick said, “People come to conventions to sit and do nothing?”

“Plus we could have old corpses,” Turner said. “That’s what I’m worried about. With perfect planning or incredible luck, he could have left a heap of dead bodies.”

“Dead bodies in a heap?” Fenwick said. “Not a pretty thought.”

“The killer would have had lots of opportunities to find victims. He could have been at work for hours before the first body was found. He could have been skipping down the corridors flinging bloody clues in every nearby receptacle.”

Fenwick said, “I want to see a killer skipping. I want to testify to that fact in court.”

Turner asked, “Was he tossing his signature blood or feathers before he even committed the first murder? I can’t imagine a purpose for leaving the bloody clothing around unless the killer was trying to screw with the investigation.”