Nerds Who Kill: A Paul Turner Mystery (26 page)

“Are you registered at the convention?” Turner asked.

“No. It was on CLTV news that Muriam Devers had been killed here at the convention. Melvin’s mom called me. She frets and worries. She asked me to come down here. I asked for Melvin at the registration desk. They said people were looking for anyone who knew him. I met this older woman who took me to hotel security.”

“We never asked about him at the registration desk,” Fenwick said.

“We had no reason to,” Turner said.

“How could he have died such a violent death?” Timson asked. “He was so meek and mild. He was always in his room writing away. That’s all he did in his spare time, write and go to the library. They couldn’t afford the Internet charge at home so he had to go to the library to get on the net. Except for his job, he didn’t go out much. Never on a date. Besides work, the library and the grocery store were about the only other places he went.”

“What did he write?” Turner asked.

“I only read one short story once. A very short one. I don’t read much. It had all kinds of flowery descriptions, and he used a lot of big words. He must have been well educated, very smart, but kind and gentle.”

“Did he ever try and get anything published?” Turner asked.

“I don’t know.”

Turner said, “He wore black and gray thumb rings.”

“Yeah, he said he got them at a garage sale out on Montrose. He said he had to take a bus to get to it.”

“Sometimes people who wear them are members of some pretty dangerous cults.”

“Melvin? A member of a cult? I don’t think so. He was so gentle. You should have seen him with his mother. He was wonderfully patient.”

Turner asked, “Did red ostrich feathers have any special meaning to him?”

“Not that I know of. I think I saw one when I was in his room once. He was showing me his latest manuscript. He had stacks of unfinished manuscripts.”

“Did he ever mention anyone named Dennis Foublin?”

“No. Wasn’t that the other person who was on the news?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, dear. He’s dead also. Oh, dear.”

Turner said, “Melvin was dressed in a costume when we found him. Did he wear lots of costumes?”

“I don’t know what he did at these conventions. He went to a lot of them. On the weekends he was gone, I always checked in with his mom once or twice.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Turner asked.

“Cancer. Long, lingering, painful cancer. Melvin is a saint for how he helped her. I felt sorry for both of them.”

25

As Nettie Timson was leaving, there was a commotion outside their door. Turner heard Sanchez’s voice and several others. The two detectives hurried to the entrance. In the hall Sanchez had his feet spread, his hands on his hips, and was facing Darch Hickenberg. The supercilious author was surrounded by several other beat cops. Hickenberg was pointing his finger at Sanchez and speaking loudly. “This is an outrage.” He spotted the two detectives and advanced toward them. The uniformed officers moved to bar his way.

Turner and Fenwick stepped forward. “What the hell is going on?” Fenwick asked.

Hickenberg had on one of the hotel’s fuzzy blue bathrobes, the sides of which were flapping open. Underneath he wore a pair of purple sweatpants and a black sweatshirt with the logo of a California winery imprinted on it.

Hickenberg was holding a broken red ostrich feather.

“Where’d you get that?” Fenwick demanded.

Hickenberg said, “I want to know what the hell is going on around here. Aren’t the police doing anything to protect us?”

Turner thwarted any attempt by Fenwick at bombast. He wasn’t in the mood. He needed answers, and he needed them now. Turner said, “We want to know what is going on as well. Why don’t you step in here, and we can discuss it?” But Turner’s patience was on a thin edge. Part of him would welcome a Fenwick eruption.

They entered the interrogation suite. Hickenberg took up half the couch. He flung the feather on the coffee table.

Turner asked, “What’s happened?”

“About six I decided to see if I couldn’t get a poker game started in spite of all this. I figured if a group of us were all together, no one could accuse us of committing a crime. I’d been up in my room all afternoon since before you questioned me. When I wanted to go back to my room, the police wouldn’t let me on the elevator until I produced my room key. I didn’t realize we wouldn’t be let back up. That’s an outrage.”

“You went to the lobby,” Turner prompted.

“I couldn’t get anybody on the phone. I thought I’d check around.”

“In your bathrobe?” Fenwick asked.

“I tried going to a friend’s room. The police stopped me. I was forced to appear in the lobby as you see me. I was the cause of amusement. The police department will pay for this. I started talking to a few people. Everybody was saying there’s been more murders, and they weren’t being allowed into their rooms or suites without permitting them to be searched. The police were officious about my going, but they were positively obstreperous about my returning. I, however, am not an idiot. If there’s a killer on the loose, then absurd as it may seem, I felt my room should be inspected to make sure it was safe. I ascended to the room with two officers. On top of my laptop computer I found that.” He pointed to the feather.

Fenwick said, “It wasn’t there when you left?”

“Of course it wasn’t there. Why do you think I’m so pissed off? Someone was in my room. I demanded to see you two. They said you were up on this floor. What the hell is going on?”

Fenwick said, “You’ve never had one of these?”

“Never. They’re silly affectations.”

“No one else has a key to your room?”

“Of course not.”

“One of your poker buddies?”

“Not.”

“Did you get two keys when you checked in?”

“I didn’t bother.”

Fenwick asked, “You didn’t let anyone into your room?”

“Are you implying that I could have missed someone planting one of these stupid feathers?”

Turner recognized the empurpled cheeks of his partner. He decided not to attempt to intervene. He was fed up with Hickenberg as well.

Fenwick said, “I asked a fucking question. It was a simple fucking question. How the fuck would I know what you miss or don’t miss? How the fuck would I know how observant you are? How the fuck would I know how stupid you are? You certainly think you’re pretty fucking bright, but you’re the one in this group who’s been tootling around one of the most expensive hotels in Chicago in a fucking bathrobe.” Fenwick could speak very fast and very loudly and very articulately when he was really pissed. He was really pissed. Fenwick glared at Hickenberg. “Answer the fucking question or do I need to break it down into words of one syllable?”

Hickenberg actually looked abashed, like a deflated Rush Limbaugh. “I, uh, I didn’t let anyone in.”

“Fine,” Fenwick snapped.

Turner said, “There’s got to be a reason why you got one of those feathers. There’s got to be some connection between you and Devers and Foublin.”

“Was I going to be killed?”

“Hard to say,” Turner said. “How long were you downstairs?”

“It wound up being over an hour and a half. I talked to a lot of people. I had to wait quite awhile for the police.”

Turner said, “You left before we assigned personnel to each floor. It happened after you left. There’s quite a time gap.”

Turner didn’t mention the notion that Hickenberg himself could in some way be involved. He’d also seen others before try to capitalize on a crime for their own publicity purposes. He didn’t see Hickenberg having the wherewithal to be rushing about the hotel planting clues and wielding swords. Although if there were two killers, he could certainly be part of the planning and do some planting of clues.

26

Hickenberg got escorted off. Turner said, “The Hickenberg feather might not be as helpful as we’d like. He claims he was gone for an hour and a half, but the big blowhard might have been downstairs for several hours.”

“Obstreperous blowhard,” Fenwick said.

“That your new favorite word?”

“Only if that fuck is the killer.”

“Was somebody trying to kill Hickenberg?” Turner asked.

“Justifiable homicide,” Fenwick said, “and this time I’m sticking to my guns, even if he isn’t dead yet.”

Sanchez reentered, “I’ve got another one of those losers. Melissa Bentworth pointed him out to me.” Sanchez spoke into his communicator and summoned the person to be questioned.

Otto Oxenham was tall and even more emaciated than Melvin Slate. He wore a baggy black T-shirt with a death’s head on the front. He wore metal rings on both thumbs. Each ring had alternating flame and pentagram decorations on them. His pants bagged at the waist and knees and hung over his shoes to drag on the floor. He had zits peeking out of his wisps of whiskers on his chin. His prominent nose separated two of the greenest eyes Turner had ever seen. Turner thought he must be wearing contacts. Oxenham looked like he might still be in his teens.

He said, “Is Mel really dead?”

“I’m sorry, yes,” Turner said.

“I just don’t believe that,” Oxenham said. “We were always careful. Always.”

“Careful about what?” Turner asked.

“We talked on the Internet a lot. You always have to be careful when you go out. You never know who you’re going to meet.”

“Anybody specific you had to be careful about?”

“People didn’t like us. We didn’t dress the same way as others. I’m one of the goths in high school everybody else avoids.”

Fenwick said, “If everybody avoided you, who did you have to be careful of?”

“We were hassled in high school. We were hassled at conventions.”

“Who would hassle you?”

“Security guards. Uptight people. I always paid my way. I never tried to cheat on getting in. If you pay, why should they hassle you?”

Turner asked, “How long have you known Melvin?”

“Four or five years. We met in a chat room about SF. He was a good writer. We subscribed to several of the same listservs. I read a bunch of his stuff that he sent me on the Internet. I sent him my stuff, too. He gave good criticisms. I could trust him. You can’t trust a lot of people in the SF world. He taught me that.”

“Why can’t you trust them?” Turner asked.

“If you send script proposals to Hollywood, they try to steal your ideas. Same with editors. You send them a proposal or three chapters and an outline and they try and steal them.”

“Wouldn’t they be sued?” Fenwick asked.

“We’re all just little guys. They’ve got big lawyers and big budgets.”

“But if that’s how they do business,” Fenwick said, “wouldn’t the more famous and richer authors complain and file suit?”

“They’re in it with them. Where do you think all those famous writers get their ideas? From us little guys who are dumb enough to keep sending them stuff.”

“Then how did they get to be famous writers?” Fenwick asked.

“It’s a conspiracy,” Oxenham insisted.

Turner wasn’t in much of a mood to hear this debate. He said, “Did you see Melvin at the convention today?”

“A few times. We met in line to get books signed by Deborah Krenck. She is such a good writer. She isn’t bogged down in patriarchal linearity.”

“What?” Fenwick asked.

Before Oxenham could explain, Turner said, “When was the last time you saw Melvin?”

“We ate sandwiches under an awning across the street in the park for lunch. Neither of us could afford this hotel food. It’s way overpriced.”

“You knew he was staying at the hotel?”

“Yeah. He had to cut corners pretty much. He didn’t have a lot of money.”

“Are you staying at the hotel?” Turner asked.

“I take the train down every day from the north suburbs. I’m a senior at New Trier High School.”

“Was Melvin going to be wearing a costume?”

“He didn’t say anything to me about a costume. We talked about how stupid some of them were.”

“We found a lot of them in his room.”

“We talked about that. If you were going to do a costume, you should do it right. We discussed everything. He didn’t treat me like a kid. He listened to me. We both had dreams.”

“What were those?” Turner asked. He sensed Fenwick’s exasperation beginning to rise. Turner figured if he had to listen to debates about paranoia, then Fenwick could listen to a kid’s dreams. Besides, Turner was still trying to figure out what made Melvin tick. He’d gotten himself murdered and Turner needed to understand the hidden depths there.

Oxenham said, “He wanted to be a published writer. He’d been trying for years. He was dedicated to his craft. Even if he never got anything published, he still wrote. Every day. He didn’t get published because of the people who were out to get him. Authors wouldn’t give you their secrets for getting manuscripts finished and getting them published. It was a closed world. We had to fight against that.”

“Who specifically?” Turner asked.

“The convention planners. I know I don’t dress absolutely perfectly, but you could tell they were always watching you. If you tried to talk to an author, they were always there to try and stop you.”

Fenwick said, “Look at yourself. Would you trust someone dressed like you?”

“Is that profiling? Do I have to wear a Brooks Brothers suit to get respect?”

“Did you ever try it?” Fenwick asked.

“You don’t wear a Brooks Brothers suit,” Oxenham countered.

“I’m not a murder suspect,” Fenwick said. “I’m not a corpse.”

“Does that mean I am a murder suspect or a corpse?” Oxenham asked.

“Neither yet,” Fenwick said.

Turner asked, “Did Melvin say anything about being in danger, being worried about anything specific?”

“We were always careful. We always watched to see who the security guards were. We tried to keep away from them. We tried to watch out for cheaters in the game rooms. We were meeting up with some people late tonight. We were going to go to a fast food place for dinner, although downtown is awfully expensive even at a fast food place. How can they raise their prices when you’re only ten miles away from where it’s much cheaper?”