Nerds Who Kill: A Paul Turner Mystery (6 page)

Fenwick said, “We’d like the names just to be sure.”

She gave them three or four who were at the convention. When done, she said, “Those are all good people. These petty fights would not be a cause for murder. Maybe I shouldn’t have given them to you.”

Fenwick said, “We check everything in a murder investigation.”

Turner said, “She didn’t have any critics who gave her lousy reviews?”

“She didn’t care about the reviews. She didn’t have to care about the reviews. Her fans didn’t care about the reviews. They bought her books. Each new volume brought out herds of people stampeding to the stores. Everybody loved her.”

“Was she ever depressed or down?” Turner asked.

“Heavens, no. She was always upbeat and cheerful. She was one of the most patient people.”

“When did you see her last?” Fenwick asked.

“We talked this morning at breakfast. Later, I waited until her signing was finished. I kind of like to hover around. Then I had several business meetings. I was working on her next tour to a number of media outlets. Many of them sent representatives here.”

“Any problems setting up her appearances?”

“No, everybody wanted her. It was a matter of scheduling and perks, you know, like tea in the green room before being interviewed. It was mostly details. There’s always lots of details. I have a law degree as well as an undergraduate degree in business, minoring in negotiations.”

Turner said, “You’re listed as Ms. Devers’ personal publicist. I’m not sure exactly what that means.”

Granata said, “Muriam had a publicist at her publishing house. Those people have many authors to service. I was her personal publicist. I could give the care and attention to her career that was needed.”

“And for a hefty fee,” Fenwick said.

“Yes,” Granata said.

Before Fenwick could get snarky about the briefness of this last response, Turner asked, “Do you know who was the last person to see her at the book signing?”

“I’m not sure. I didn’t recognize any of the people waiting in line. If I remember right, the last one was in a Beastmaster costume.”

Turner flinched internally at the mention of the costume, the same as his son’s.

Fenwick asked, “How many people in Beastmaster costumes were there in attendance?”

“You didn’t have to register your costume. A lot of people use these conventions to be as daring as possible. To wear as little as possible and call it a costume when they’re being exhibitionistic. There’s a whole cult of nearly naked strong guys. Tarzan for the comics and movies, Beastmaster, those kind. Some of those comic costumes can be pretty revealing. I’ve seen Superman costumes that were so tight they revealed everything except the expiration date and the wearer’s imagination. Too many of them don’t have the figure for what’s exposed. It’s gross.”

Fenwick said, “Which isn’t against the law but should be.”

Turner knew Fenwick never displayed his ever expanding bulk offensively. Except for red suits and white beards once a year, he didn’t draw attention to his heft.

Turner asked, “Did Ms. Devers have a broadsword?” “Pardon?”

Turner repeated the question.

She said, “Good heavens. I can’t imagine she would. Why do you ask?”

“That was the weapon used.”

“How awful. What an odd thing. How strange. There must be a madman loose.”

“Did you ever see her in a Xena, Warrior Princess outfit?”

“No. That’s impossible. She never mentioned a costume of any kind. Was there one in her luggage?”

Fenwick said, “She was wearing one.”

“That is totally out of character. Muriam was not a costume person, not that I knew of anyway.”

She knew no more. After she left, Fenwick snorted, “More sweetness and light. Gag.”

Turner said, “Brian was wearing a Beastmaster costume.”

“You think he’d be interested in a relationship with a woman old enough to be his grandmother?”

“I sure hope not.”

Fenwick said, “We could get a whole
Harold and Maude
thing going here.”

Fenwick loved movie comedies, the more offbeat the better. Turner happened to like
Harold and Maude
as well. He didn’t particularly think his son was a granny chaser. Then again, he wasn’t sure whether or not his son was still a virgin, and he’d rather not have to find out that information. And he definitely didn’t want to find it out in the middle of a murder investigation. Turner said, “I’d rather avoid familial speculation.”

Fenwick said, “I’m not buying suicide.”

“Certainly not from what Granata and Murkle said. On top of that it would be a hell of a thing to stab yourself with an unwieldy weapon that you had to drag here yourself.”

Fenwick said, “Be a hell of a thing to stab yourself with anything.”

Turner and Fenwick heard murmuring in the hall. A moment later Sanchez, the beat cop, entered. He said, “We’ve got another dead body.”

4

Turner, Fenwick, and Sanchez hurried down one flight of stairs. A small crowd of uniformed cops was outside a door about halfway down this hall.

About thirty feet past them, a woman was being supported by Brandon Macer and a man Turner didn’t recognize. She was in her early to mid-thirties. She wore a whole lot of blue body paint and very little else.

Sanchez filled them in. “The woman in blue down there, Michaela Diaz, came up to meet her boyfriend. She forgot to write her room number down, and she wasn’t sure which one it was. It’s not on those little plastic cards the big hotels use nowadays. You’ve got to remember it or write it down. She got to this door, found it open. She thought it might be the right one. Thought her boyfriend might have left it open for her convenience. She walked in and found the body and started screaming. That got the attention of a couple of passersby.”

“Who’s the dead guy?” Fenwick asked.

“Dennis Foublin. He is not Ms. Diaz’s date. The still-living date is the guy who isn’t Brandon Macer down there with her. No one reported hearing anything at all before she started screaming.”

Turner and Fenwick entered the room. It was a mess. Lamps were overturned. The mattress was half off the bed. One of the legs had broken off the table. The television screen was smashed.

“This one fought,” Fenwick said.

“Or the killer went berserk,” Turner said. “Somebody must have heard the commotion.”

Foublin’s left arm was flung high, revealing a wide gaping hole just under his left armpit. There was another gaping wound on his right shoulder. Blood had gushed from both spots. He had a convention badge hanging around his neck. His throat was bruised, red, and raw in various spots. Foublin wore a purple spandex muscle T-shirt, poufy black pants tucked into black engineer boots, and a gauzy purple shirt. The gauzy shirt, now more remnant than shirt, was ripped and torn and hung nearly off his torso. There were cuts on Foublin’s arms from wrist to shoulder. He lay half on the bed and half on the floor.

“These large enough to be made by a broadsword?” Fenwick asked.

“I’m not sure,” Turner said, “this is only my second broadsword murder. We don’t get a lot of those this century.”

Fenwick said, “This broadsword shit could become all the rage. Issuing broadswords to gang bangers. Now there’s a concept. Better yet, Marlon Brando in
The Godfather
wielding one to chop off various parts of recalcitrant people’s bodies. I’m there.”

“Pleasant as that concept might be, let’s focus,” Turner said. “The killer skewered this guy and then took the weapon. In Devers’ murder, he leaves it there. Why not do the same thing at both?”

Fenwick said, “The killer had more time?”

“Presumably. Unless the same sword was used here first then there. One sword, two dead bodies. But I think we’ve got even more problems. So the killer’s running around using a sword, which is kind of okay, because there’s a lot of them at the convention. But if he used it at the first murder, he’d have to rinse off before he goes on his merry way. And he runs or walks around in bloody clothes? A change of clothes?”

Fenwick said, “We better check to see if anyone’s broadsword is missing. It’s possible the killer brought his own supply. Do we want to confiscate all of them?”

“We need to round up everyone who for sure brought one.” They sent Sanchez to accomplish this task.

Turner know this group would include his son. He was uneasy about that.

Turner pointed to a corner of the room. “We’ve got another broken feather.”

“Our killer is leaving signatures,” Fenwick said. “I like that in a killer. Adds zest to the operation.”

Turner said, “I’d be happy if it turned out to be a moronic affectation on the killer’s part that gave him or her away.”

Fenwick said, “Well, aren’t you the technical one.”

“Red feathers strike me as silly. I wonder what it had to do with in the book.” Turner shrugged. “The bigger problem is time. Did the killer bring broken feathers with? Was there an interview with symbolic feather breaking so the victims knew why they were going to die? Or did the killer risk taking more time after the murder to arrange a message? And if they’re a message, for whom is he leaving them?”

Fenwick said, “Takes only a second or two to break and drop a feather.”

“If you’ve got one handy. If not, you’ve got to find one. Or you’ve got to remember to bring a supply. You’ve got to be thinking clearly. Even if it’s well planned, you do something this violent, it’s got to shake you up.”

It was Fenwick’s turn to shrug. He said, “We’ve seen some very cold killers. I can’t believe our dead guy here wouldn’t have bellowed when he was stuck. I sure as hell would have. Would someone have heard the noise with the door closed? The killer couldn’t be sure no one would hear the noise of a fight.”

“But the door was open,” Turner pointed out.

“Which would be most likely to happen as the killer made his escape.”

“You’ve got time to break a feather but not close the door?”

“Don’t forget, we don’t know when the feather was broken.”

They experimented with the acoustics and various noise levels. Turner stood out in the hall. Fenwick bellowed at various levels from behind the closed door. Turner had heard Fenwick reach remarkable volume levels of bellowing. Fenwick also turned up the television and the radio to full volume.

Turner reentered the room. “I could hear plenty.”

Fenwick said, “Maybe the guy didn’t yell. Maybe he was too busy fighting for his life.”

“What about the people above and below?” Turner asked.

Sanchez reported that no one on this floor or the ones above or below had heard anything. Silence had reigned until the body discoverer had let loose.

With his plastic gloves on, Turner picked up the man’s wallet by one corner and opened it carefully. He examined the driver’s license. Foublin was from Minnesota. He found a ticket for the hotel parking garage. He showed it to Fenwick. Turner said, “He drove. He didn’t have the problem of transporting weapons on planes. He could just stash a heap of them in his car. If he was the one who had the weapon.”

“Yeah,” Fenwick said. “Was the sword his or the killer’s? Did our killer come to kill him or was it done in a moment of passion?”

“We’ll have to check the car, if necessary, get the forensics guys to go over it.”

Fenwick said, “One murderer or two? I’d prefer one. It’s easier on the paperwork.”

Turner said, “I’m sure whoever did these is doing his or her best to accommodate you. We have no evidence of more than one. Can’t rule it out yet. I still don’t get why the door was open.”

“The killer fled in a blind panic? He wanted the body discovered quickly because he’s on a tight schedule? How many guesses do I get?”

Ignoring these feeble attempts at humor, Turner said, “Who died first? Was Foublin killed earlier but found later? Was this another thing the killer was leaving to chance?”

Fenwick said, “I hate it when you ignore my feeble attempts at humor and start asking questions.”

“It’s part of my humor management technique. I took a class.”

“There is no such class.”

“A twelve-step program?”

“Only in your dreams.”

“For those of us who know you, they have both.”

“I’d be miffed, but that’s a pun waiting to be exploited.”

“Can we get back to this?”

Fenwick said, “You’re just jealous. Did I tell you, they’re setting up a government program? They’re going to pay me to not tell jokes. I’m supposed to keep it a secret.”

“I’d be willing to pay half my salary in taxes to fund such a program. So would anyone who knows you. People would stampede to pay higher taxes. It could become a whole new concept in government.”

“Paradise without my humor? Pah.”

Turner said, “Can we get back to this?”

Fenwick said, “Unless the killings were done quite a while apart, forensics won’t be able to tell us which one happened first.”

“Makes sense if we’ve got the sword at the Devers’ scene that this one happened first. One killer. One sword. Wiped the blood off.”

“It works,” Fenwick said. “Now all we have to do is find out if that’s what really happened.”

Foublin only had the one room. They examined it carefully and worked around the Crime Lab people when they arrived. Foublin had much less in his luggage than Muriam Devers had had in hers. In the bathroom they found a shaving kit with deodorant, a razor blade, a comb, and other normal stuff. In his luggage they found underwear, socks, and the latest Barbara D’Amato novel.

They met with the Medical Examiner. Fenwick said, “I hope this kind of thing isn’t catching.”

The ME said, “Murder by unleashing a broadsword virus? There’s a lot of twisted terrorists out there, but my guess is this wouldn’t be the most efficient way to do in a large group of people.”

Turner said, “From the marks on his throat I thought the convention badge we saw around his neck might have been used to strangle him.”

The ME said, “Not sure yet. From the amount of blood, I’d say he was alive when he was stabbed. Could have fought while somebody tried to strangle him. Whether or not he was conscious when stabbed is another matter. We’ll have to check.”