Nerds Who Kill: A Paul Turner Mystery (28 page)

Paul used the phone in the room to call Macer. “Is it a real fire?”

“We’ve got a lot of smoke in the dealers’ room, and we got a second alarm from the top floor near the restaurant.”

“Arson?”

“That’s my guess. We’re evacuating everybody.”

Paul hung up. “We’re going to leave.” They’d have to carry Jeff’s wheelchair down all the stairs. They rushed to the emergency exist. There was no smoke up here now, but the elevators had all stopped. There was a knot of people at the stairs. They waited in line. People were grumbling about the need for evacuation. A few had their suitcases, others toilet kits, one his laptop. Most were a bit disheveled and in odd states of dress. It was late and many might have been awakened.

“The wheelchair’s going to clog everything,” said a newly arrived hotel guest waiting in line behind them.

Fenwick started to say something. Paul put out a hand. “He’s right.” He picked up his son.

“Hey,” Jeff protested.

“I’ll carry you,” Paul said. “It’s the only way.” The stairs were filled with people filing orderly down. People murmured and a few even chatted. A few were cranky. No one seemed out of control. Fenwick huffed a lot. Paul knew that if they were going up, his partner would have been in real trouble.

Halfway down they met some firemen coming up. All stood aside to give them quick passage.

Two thirds of the way down Ben asked, “You need some help?”

Paul refused any assistance. No matter how far it was, he would not tire of carrying his son.

At the ground floor, he took his family outside. An army of fire trucks and personnel had been added to the official confusion in the streets outside the hotel. After ensuring Sanchez and another beat cop were guarding his family, Turner and Fenwick made their way toward the battalion chief at the Incident Command Post. Firemen in their black coats and rubber boots hurried about.

“Turner said, “The killer’s using this.”

“Got to be,” Fenwick said, “but why?”

“He needs to get something out of the hotel?”

“The incriminating broadsword is my guess,” Fenwick said.

“He’s dressed as a fireman,” Turner said. “That’s what this is about. Think about all the costumes in Slate’s room. Was there a fireman’s disguise?”

“A black rain slicker,” Fenwick said. “I thought it was kind of odd.”

“The killer planned that well ahead?” Turner asked.

They arrived at the command center. Molton, the battalion chief, and the local police commander were huddled together. Showing their badges, Turner and Fenwick moved past the other personnel and joined the commanders.

Turner explained their theory.

The fire commander said, “The fire in the dealer’s room was fairly serious, but the sprinklers worked. They’ll lose most everything from fire or water, but it’s out. The fire on the top floor was a bunch of linens and things for the restaurant.”

“Was it arson?” Turner asked.

“I’ve examined both sites,” the battalion commander said. “We’ll have an official investigation, but I’ve been to enough of these. Unofficially, we’ve got an arsonist on the loose.”

The streets were thronged with guests. “Are they going to be letting people back in soon?” Turner asked.

“It’ll be a few hours before we’re done checking the whole complex to make sure it’s safe for people to go back in.”

Turner and Fenwick stepped across the street. They could see Brian, Jeff, Ben, and their police escort about fifty feet away. Jeff waved. Paul waved back. They had propped his younger son on a hotel chair. Brian hovered close by.

Turner saw Oona Murkle moving toward his family. Her matronly bulk proceeded slowly.

“It’s another fake,” Turner said. “The fire isn’t to cover any kind of escape. All the killer has to do is walk out, check out at a normal time if he’s a hotel guest. There’s no need for this.”

“Unless he’s planning another killing.”

Turner whirled to look for his family. Oona was about five feet away from Jeff. She walked awkwardly. Turner dashed forward. Fenwick followed. Turner heard several people gasp as he leaped forward and tackled Oona Murkle. He felt her bulk fall under him. He heard the clank of metal as she hit the ground. Moving the folds of her billowing nightgown, he saw a broken red feather and a broadsword with flecks of blood on it.

29

“How’d you know it was her?” Molton asked.

“I didn’t until the damn sword hit the ground. I was suspicious. Bentworth told us she was in charge of the small stuff. She was the one in charge of the rooms. She’d have had the easiest access to get Slate in.”

They took Oona to Area Ten police headquarters to interrogate her.

Turner asked, “Why my family?”

“I saw you last night when your sons did well in those costume competitions. Everybody was happy except me. Everybody cheered and clapped for the poor kid in the wheelchair. Pah. I hated your family on sight. All those clever costumes in that group, and you in that stupid sport coat. You stood out. I asked about you discreetly. I knew who you were. I remembered. I thought your family might come in handy.”

“What started all this?” Fenwick asked.

Murkle sighed. “Everybody is always happy at these. I’m up. I’m always up. I’m known as the cheerful one. I’m the one they can successfully shunt aside. Old Oona. Poor Oona. She won’t mind, we’ll give her all the shit work. Never the honors. Never the recognition. Never a nibble from a publisher. Never a moment’s recognition. Nobody ever wanted to make me fan guest of honor. Nobody dreamt of doing something nice for poor old Oona. I saw your older boy necking behind that curtain. I kind of keep a watch on things. I notice things. I’d seen your kids. The older boy was pushing the younger until the older met the young lady. I saw where they were headed. Nobody is supposed to be behind there. I was going to kill Muriam Devers from the start. I had it all planned perfectly. When I saw your kid, I saw my chance. I saw him go back here with that girl. I knew he wasn’t supposed to be back here. I followed him. Kids these days. No respect. He unbuckled his sword. He couldn’t maneuver with it on. He was occupied with his young lady. I took the sword. It fit in with my schemes.”

“How did you plan to get away with a public murder in the street?”

“If I got the chance, I would do what I could to any member of your family. There was a lot of confusion and chaos. There was only one sword with tell-tale blood on it. I know from what I’ve read, they can find traces on anything. I had to get rid of it. If nothing else the confusion would let me get the thing out of here.”

“Why not just put it in your car?”

“Guards were everywhere. You had people watching the exits to the parking garage. I couldn’t risk it. It’s safer to hide something in as public a way as possible.”

“How’d you hook up with Slate?”

“He was a bonus. It didn’t hurt that at the last one of these in Chicago I caught him in a room he didn’t belong in. He knew how to break into the rooms. He had one of those deals you see in television and the movies. You know, one of those plastic cards connected by wires to a box about as big as a calculator. It had a read out. I have no idea where he got it from. He’s been breaking into rooms at conventions for years.”

“Why didn’t you turn him in?” Fenwick asked. “You couldn’t have had any connection to him.”

“I felt sorry for him when I’d seen him at previous conventions. The poor soul was such a mess. I pitied him. I was kind to him. He was grateful. My pity got me an ally. Then I saw them giving him a hard time at the registration desk at this convention. Something about a late payment. He didn’t think what I had planned was going to go nearly as far as I thought, although he was almost as frustrated and angry at some of these people as was I. At first he was just helping me plant the damn feathers and the bloody clothes. He thought we were just going to mess with their minds.”

“Slate had been breaking into rooms?” Fenwick asked.

“At numerous conventions. For years. He confessed quite readily to me. Once he knew I wasn’t going to turn him in to the police, he seemed quite eager to join in the original mischief. He seemed pleased to actually be treated with respect by anyone. When it escalated, at first he seemed quite eager.”

“How did it escalate?”

“We were in Muriam’s room. I thought she’d be down at that damn signing forever. She was, but not as long a forever as I thought. When we heard her come in, we hid in the unused bedroom in the suite. She changed into her Xena costume. What a joke that was. I think she was waiting for one of her boy toys for a late-morning assignation. Slate made a noise. She searched and caught us. We had an argument. Slate began swinging around that damn sword. She was going to expose me. She was going to embarrass and humiliate me in front of everyone.”

“Why’d you pick her room in the first place?”

“Up to the last minute, she’d been trying to ruin the convention. I’d worked so hard to make it perfect.”

“How was she going to ruin it?” Turner asked.

“She didn’t really want to show up. She tried to get out of it. She didn’t tell any of her lackeys. No one was supposed to know. She made threats to me. I stood my ground. The bitch. On the ride in the from the airport she said she was going to try and get people to not go to the banquet, to not go to the panels, to criticize everything.”

“Why?” Turner asked.

“She wasn’t getting the kind of attention she felt she deserved. She wasn’t enough of a star of the show. She said she had been under the impression she was to be the main attraction. That I’d lied to her. That is absolutely not true. She just wanted to wreck. She had everything and I had nothing. She wouldn’t read my manuscript. She wouldn’t help me get it published. That’s the main thing I’ve wanted my whole life. She wouldn’t do a thing for me after all that I’d done for her for years. She wouldn’t help. She wouldn’t be faithful.”

Fenwick asked, “What was it that you had done that you thought had earned reciprocation on her part?”

“I always tried to help her. I was loyal. Even though her last fifteen books were error-laden drivel, I was supportive. I always gave a hundred ten percent. Do you know how hard it is to be relentlessly cheerful in the face of someone who is so awful to you?”

Turner asked, “Which of you actually killed Ms. Devers?”

“Slate. He was swinging the damn thing to threaten her. He slipped. It was quite sharp. I’d made sure of that. If he hadn’t done it, I would have. My, how she screamed. I’ll enjoy that scream for a long time.”

Turner thought she sounded tougher than a lot of hardened gang bangers he’d dealt with. Her anger and frustration must have built for years. She was also probably nuts. Turner wasn’t sure they’d ever have enough forensic evidence to prove which of them did the killing. He was more than willing to listen to Oona Murkle, but he was less than willing to buy her story without a lot of convincing data.

“Why’d you leave the door to Devers’ room open?” Turner asked.

“Her scream stunned Slate. I had to practically drag him out of there. He was behind me. There was no time to go back. Someone could have come around a corner or poked a head out a door at any second.”

“Why’d you murder Dennis Foublin?” Turner asked.

“He was a monster.”

“How so?”

“He ignored me. Him and Muriam together. They plotted against me.”

“You had proof of this.”

“People talked.”

“Did you ever talk to either of them about what they were trying to do?”

“I didn’t have to. I knew what they thought. I saw how they looked at me.”

Turner wasn’t heavily into the interpretation of random looks from people.

Murkle said, “Foublin wouldn’t read my manuscripts. He’d send them back unopened: He never gave me a chance. He could have talked to people. He could have given me a boost on his web site.”

“Slate gave us the information that there was something sinister in Foublin’s background.”

“I told him to tell you that. I thought it would send you off in a wrong direction when investigating.”

“Who actually killed Foublin?”

“When we ran out of Muriam’s room, we rushed down the stairs. Foublin was entering his room. He saw us. We couldn’t be seen together. Slate had blood on his clothes. We got him in his room. Slate held him. Foublin had been mean to Slate at a convention. For a while the first murder seemed to bring something out in him, something cruel. I was a little worried. Foublin was struggling and thrashing. It was lucky that I stuck him instead of Slate.”

Fenwick asked, “How come you had an extra feather to leave with Foublin’s corpse?”

“We were carrying stuff around in Slate’s backpack. If you’d have looked in it, you’d have seen broken feathers and bloody clothes. When I brought him to the attention of one of the cops, he didn’t have it with him. Some friend came up and brought it to him. Said he’d left it at a table he was sitting at. An unattended backpack? I shuddered. I thought it was hopeless, but it was too late by then. He did well enough. It wasn’t your questioning that got to him. I think it was the blood.”

“You’re the one who brought Slate to our attention,” Fenwick said. “Why?”

“It was part of the plan. It would be an obvious red herring. The convention nut.”

Turner said, “He was just kind of sad.”

“That was the point,” she said.

“You left the door to Foublin’s room open as well,” Turner said.

“That was more by design. The killing had to happen more quickly, but he died without a sound. It was all so quick. We had time to plant the feather and get some bloody clothes. I wanted the corpses found. I wanted there to be uproar. I wanted to watch chaos. I’ve always lived by the rules and it got me nothing. I wanted the world to revolve around something I did.”

“How’d you get so many broadswords?” Turner asked.

“Collected them over the years. I planted some of them on Wednesday. I’d been given a very thorough tour of the hotel. I knew the outdoor café section of the restaurant at the top of the hotel was closed until May. That storage area was unused.” Turner remembered the dust.