Fenwick held one up. “Another fetish. I prefer grit to fetishes.”
Turner said, “Maybe it was a gritty fetish.”
Fenwick asked, “Was the feather in the other room put there by the killer as a statement, or was the damn thing just laying around, and why was it broken?”
“The killer will know,” Turner said.
“Assholes always keep secrets,” Fenwick said.
In the closet they found a full-length red evening gown and a matching pair of high heels. There was a blue bathrobe made of thick, fuzzy cotton. It had the hotel’s logo on it. They found an iron and an ironing board. In a large economy-size Band-Aid box they found basic personal items along with prescription allergy pills. On the night stand they found books by Ursula K. LeGuin and Agatha Christie. Muriam Devers’ convention schedule was in a packet on the bed. They found a sheet of paper listing her activities. She’d appeared at a signing that morning. Later this afternoon she was scheduled to be on a panel, the topic of which was “Existential Realism in the Gothic Fantasy Novel.” Fenwick nudged Turner and pointed to the title. He asked, “What does this mean?”
Turner said, “That pretentiousness isn’t limited to any single literary genre?”
Fenwick said, “I love it when you say ‘genre.’ I get all tingly inside.”
“You getting ‘tingly’ is not a pretty concept. Besides, you’re the poet in this relationship. I’m just trying to catch up with you.” Turner held out his arm across the front of Devers’ dark brown suitcase. “Broadsword could fit in here sideways.”
“Did she bring her own death weapon?”
Turner said, “You can’t just drag one of those things onto a plane. Even in your luggage it’s got to be a pain in the ass to take along.”
“That’s if she was the one who brought it,” Fenwick said.
The two detectives watched from an unobtrusive corner as the Crime Lab techs and Medical Examiner’s people worked.
“Nothing’s out of place,” Fenwick said.
“Just the corpse,” Turner said. “Other than the sword, I don’t see any evidence of another person’s presence. Only one glass used in the bathroom. Only one wet towel.”
The ME people joined them. The ME said, “The obvious is true. Dead from the broadsword through her chest. Can’t be a lot of those floating around.”
“Chests or swords?” Fenwick asked.
Everybody sighed.
Turner filled the void. “You forget, this is the largest science fiction convention ever. There could be all kinds of the damn things.”
“No signs of a break-in,” Fenwick said. “She knew her killer?”
“Got to be,” Turner said. “Or she opened her door to strangers a lot.”
Fenwick said, “She couldn’t have committed suicide, plunged the sword into herself or propped it up and fell onto it?”
“Done it herself?” the ME said. “I don’t know. Her hands are bloody and cut, like someone tried to shred them. Normally those are defense wounds. Question is, are they real defense wounds or do they just look like defense wounds? It could be from trying to keep the sword from going in or trying to get it out. Or a neural reaction of trying to clutch the wound. Nothing under the fingernails. Her arms show no trace of a fight. No bruises or abrasions on her head or torso.”
The police personnel knew that if it was not clear whether a death was a suicide or murder then the occurrence was treated as a homicide until it was clearly not a homicide.
“No suicide note,” Turner said.
“The sword is heavy,” the ME said. “Doesn’t mean an older woman couldn’t wield it, just means it would have been awkward. Whichever it was, she would have been very alive while she was being skewered.”
“She couldn’t have tripped?” Fenwick asked. “Maybe been fooling around with the damn thing, lost her balance, fell on it somehow, rolled onto her back?”
“Blood stains say she didn’t move far after she was stabbed. She didn’t go staggering around the room. There’s a lot of blood within a foot or so of where she lay. She may have flopped around for a few seconds involuntarily. That would be caused by her body shutting down. Once she was skewered, she probably died pretty fast. She lost a lot of blood very quickly. She got plowed from the front and down she went.”
Fenwick said, “Somebody heard a tremendous shout.”
“Her vocal chords didn’t get sliced. She could have screamed before she was skewered, when the stab started, or for a few seconds during. Blood rushing into her throat would have choked her too fast for it to last very long.”
Turner asked, “Did you see any evidence that the killer tried to silence her?”
“We’ll do some checking,” the ME said. “Nothing visible to the eye says that the killer did anything like that.”
Turner said, “How did the killer know someone wouldn’t be just outside the room and hear what was going on? Maybe she was yelling for help. The killer seemed to be taking an awful lot of chances. Either he surprised her or he was lucky.”
Fenwick said, “How strong does somebody have to be to ram a sword through an entire human body? Can’t be easy.”
“Ever tried to skewer somebody?” the ME asked.
“Not lately,” Fenwick said.
“Not easy, even with the sharpest of swords,” the assistant ME said. She held up two pieces of paper and said, “The edge of the sword split this easily. It was very sharp. The sword would need a powerful thrust behind it to skewer her like it did. Just less powerful because it was so sharp.”
“Somebody reasonably strong,” Fenwick said. Head nods.
A younger member of the ME’s staff said, “Maybe the sword could have been hurled from across the room.”
The ME glared at the speaker. She said, “Doesn’t seem likely.”
“You ever try to pick one of those things up?” Turner said. Head shakes. “They are heavy and unwieldy. You’d have to be incredibly strong to toss it even the slightest distance.”
Fenwick pointed out, “People throw javelins.”
“The balance would be all wrong for tossing it any kind of distance,” Turner said. “Say the blade is as sharp as possible to penetrate someone. Could the killer grab it by the middle of the blade and throw it? He’d have to risk cutting himself pretty severely. If he threw it while holding it by the hilt, he’d have to aim directly upward and hope it came down on a probably supine and hopefully unmoving body with enough violence to penetrate all the way to the back.”
“Maybe he wore gloves?” the assistant ME said.
“Nobody threw the damn thing,” the ME said.
Fenwick said, “Get a grip.”
The ME said, “There are never enough broadswords around when you really need them.”
Fenwick said, “If the killer didn’t have a change of clothes, he should be easy to spot. The guy’s gotta be drenched in blood.”
Turner said, “So we have a bloody somebody, a naked somebody, or someone who planned ahead. Somebody who’s got a gym bag or a plastic bag that won’t let moisture out. If it happened a while ago, the killer could be out of his bloody clothes and be right next door or on his way to the airport for a flight to Bombay.”
They thanked the ME. She promised to get them fingerprint information in a timely fashion. Turner knew the prints would only start to do good when they began lining up suspects. They needed to begin their interviews.
Sanchez reported finding all of Turner’s party except Brian. They were all at various parts of the convention. All were fine and having a good time. So far the demise of the night’s keynote speaker had not been broadcast.
Macer, the head of security, gave them a computer key card to get into the suite the hotel was making available for them to use for questioning.
“Pretty fancy,” Fenwick said when they entered. Turner noted that the decor was similar to Devers’ suite: hotel art, gray carpet, and brass lamps. Turner didn’t think it was fancy or un-fancy. He was used to ta
king camping trips with his family. They’d spent a week in northern Ontario last summer. Mostly it was tents, and sleeping bags, and hard ground, and bugs. When they stayed in motels along the way, they were the kind that lined interstates. Turner said, “Don’t you know how to tell if a hotel is pricey or not?”
“It costs a lot?”
“Without knowing the price, you can tell. The fancy ones have irons and ironing boards in the room, and the fanciest ones have those thick, fuzzy bathrobes.”
“Ain’t never been in a place with all that.”
“Me neither, but I was told.”
Fenwick plopped down on one of the easy chairs. He said, “I know where they scrimped on money. This thing has no bounce.” He thumped the cushion under his butt. “This does not qualify as comfy.”
“I’ll call the Zagat guide.”
Sanchez escorted Oona Murkle into the room. As she sat down, she said, “Something has happened. The police don’t keep a presence this long unless something is very wrong. I know it’s bad.”
Turner said, “I’m sorry. Ms. Devers is dead.”
Ms. Murkle put a hand to her throat and gave a small gasp. “How can that be? She was so vibrant and alive. I talked with her at breakfast. She was. She was …” She gasped again. She began to cry. Turner found the tissue container in the bathroom, pulled out a neat handful, and put them within her reach.
Turner and Fenwick let her take as long as she needed to compose herself. Some minutes later, she asked, “What on earth happened? I know she wasn’t ill. She’d have told me. Was it a heart attack?”
“She was murdered,” Fenwick said.
“No.” Ms. Murkle’s eyes shifted from Fenwick to Turner and back. “That is not possible. She was kindness itself. Everybody loved her. She went out of her way for everybody. It was a coup for the convention to get her as the guest of honor. It’s one of the reasons we had a record number of people in attendance. We got Muriam on board early. Once she was in, it was easier to get others interested. It began to snowball. Eventually everybody who’s anybody wanted to be here. She only went to a select few events. When she did attend, she always had time for everyone. Her fans loved her. She always took extra time with them. Always. She was never rude. She was just … she was just …” She dabbed at her eyes. “She was my friend.” She used a tissue to dab at fresh tears.
Turner and Fenwick waited patiently. When she was composed, Turner said, “We’re sorry to have to ask you questions at such a difficult time, but the first few hours of a case can be vital.”
She nodded.
Turner asked, “Can you remember the exact time you last saw her?”
“Let me see.” She thought. “About nine. She had an enormous line of fans waiting to have their books signed. You know how some authors don’t like it if fans bring more than one book? Muriam didn’t mind. If you had one, some, or all of her books, she was flattered. So many authors get offended if fans want to chat. She always smiled for the photographs. She left people thinking she had all the time in the world just for them. She didn’t even mind if people disturbed her for an autograph while she was having a meal. That’s supposed to be forbidden. People can be so rude. But she didn’t mind.”
“Do you know of any problems she might have had lately?” Turner asked. “Fights or disagreements with anyone?”
“I don’t know of any problems. She never fought with anyone. A large crowd of us had dessert in her suite last night after all the activities were over. It was a very informal get-together. We had room service deliver the house specialty, these most exquisite chocolate confections.”
“We’ll need a list of those people,” Fenwick said. “We’ll probably have to get all their fingerprints, too.” With any luck, the results would match any the killer left.
“Did anyone act oddly at this meeting?” Turner asked. “Do something out of character? Have any disagreements?”
“Everyone was friendly and happy. The convention got off to a smashing start. Muriam was a delight. She talked about the new book she was starting.”
Turner asked, “Did she ever seem suicidal, severely depressed?”
“I thought you said murder.”
“We have to check all the possibilities,” Turner said.
“Well, no. Last night she was talking about how happy she was. She had moods like all of us, I suppose, but she was mostly up. She wouldn’t tell joke after joke at a gathering or anything like that, but she was always pleasant. I’d never dream of her committing suicide.”
Turner asked, “What did she bring for her costume?”
“She didn’t enter the competition. She was one of the judges. She thought costumes were kind of silly. Why ever do you ask?”
Turner said, “She was found in a Xena, Warrior Princess outfit.”
Murkle’s jaw dropped an inch and a half. “Xena? I didn’t even know Muriam had such an interest. Wouldn’t that be a little … young for her? I suppose age doesn’t matter. Although it is odd. I never heard of her having any kind of costume, much less that.”
“Would she have brought a broadsword with her?” Turner asked.
“Impossible. She was not into violence. Why do you ask about broadswords? She wasn’t … oh, dear. How awful.”
The detectives let Ms. Murkle begin to process the information provided by her own insight. Turner figured that most people thought they knew their friends fairly well. Most of the time we run in fairly standard ruts. Details about the entertaining we do for ourselves could quite often be startling to those closest to us.
After several moments, Fenwick said, “We also found a red feather plume thing near the body. Was there a particular significance to that?”
She explained what Jeff had already told Turner. Murkle added, “Over time, Muriam got sick of the silly things. She had this huge supply. For years they’ve been selling them in the dealers’ room at all the conventions. She donates the proceeds to her favorite charities.”
“So they’re readily available,” Turner said.
“Oh, yes. Her fans loved to see her with them. It was the only thing she’d sigh over. That’s the most negative I ever saw her get, a bemused sigh. One of her series characters was so identified with the feathers that people identified her with them.”
“Did she have family?” Turner asked.
“She has two grown children. I believe one lives on the east coast and one lives in France.”
“Where does she live?” Turner asked.
“She has several homes. One in the upper peninsula of Michigan, one in New York, and I believe a condo in Palm Springs. And she always spends a month in Colorado in January for a vacation.”
“Was she married?”
“Not currently,” Murkle said. “She never spoke about her ex-husband. The divorce was years ago. I don’t think they talked much. The children are far beyond the age for any custody dispute and she certainly didn’t need alimony. She never remarried. She never spoke about dating anyone and I’m sure she would have mentioned to me if she was seeing someone. She never seemed very interested in personal relationships.”
“Any problems with people here at the convention?” Turner asked. “Did she have any enemies?”
“Oh, no. She was the most popular person here.”
Fenwick said, “You hear about jealousies between writers.”
“She was involved in none of that. And this convention was far more than just writers. We have fans. Thousands and thousands of fans. This convention covers the entire spectrum of fantasy and science fiction. Movies, games, comics, everything. She may have been a big star, but she wasn’t the only star. She was absolutely gracious and charming at the special dinner we gave for all the stars Thursday night. In fact everyone was charming. It was marvelous. The whole convention was a huge success.” She paused. “Until now. What are we to do? Is there something I can do to help?”
Fenwick said, “We may not be able to talk to everyone who came in contact with her, but we
have to try. We’ll get beat cops to begin interviewing fans who stood in line to have books autographed. Could you give us a list of the people who knew her best and perhaps begin to help get them up here?”
“Certainly.” They took down names as she gave them.
“Anyone else we should try and talk to?” Turner asked.
“There were so many people who knew her. None of them are violent. None would have a reason to kill her. No one is wild, or out of control, or crazy.” She paused a moment then resumed, “Of course, at these conventions there’s always the loon, probably several at this convention because it’s so huge.”
“The loon?” Fenwick said.
“You see them at all kinds of seminars, workshops, and conventions. You know the type.”
“A lot of the people here look loony to me,” Fenwick said. “What’s the difference?”
“You know. They just don’t fit in. They’re kind of odd. Always on the fringes. Never talk to anyone unless they buttonhole some poor schlub, and then they won’t let them go. Or they ask inappropriate or off-the-wall questions at a panel. Or they hang around after a signing and ask an author to read their seven-hundred-page manuscript and help them get published. Or they hang around after an event and try to get close to a celebrity. We have to be careful. They usually aren’t dangerous, but they do make people uncomfortable at times. We’re always careful.”
“Do you know any of their names?” Turner asked.
“I know I saw a couple. I don’t know their names. I’ll try and think of someone who would. Hotel security and convention security might have a notion. I could point them out to you if I saw them. It’s such a big convention, they might be hard to find.”
Turner said, “We need to know how the weapons were handled here at the convention.”
“For what … oh. I’ll get you the person in charge of that. We worked closely with hotel security. We sent out a notice to everyone who was attending the convention about what to do about weapons. Everybody who wanted to bring a weapon had to be bonded.”
“What does that mean?” Fenwick asked.
Nerds Who Kill Page 3
