“The convention had insurance, but the sword owner had to post a bond as well. We also required that everyone with a weapon had to have it wired shut so that it couldn’t be drawn. Everybody who attends these things knows you are not to draw your weapon. Everyone knows that you are not to touch someone else’s weapon.”
Fenwick said, “People must break the rules sometimes.”
Murkle said, “Less often than you might think. These people are fans. Lots of folks think that means they’re kind of silly and funny. Just kind of dressed up and delusional. These are good people. Very serious people. Very committed people. They really are not violent. They are committed to worlds of fantasy that bring them comfort and enjoyment. It’s mostly harmless.”
“It wasn’t today,” Fenwick said.
“What am I going to tell everyone?” She looked at her watch. “I don’t know how we’re going to tell everyone. The convention can’t possibly go on.”
Turner said, “We’ll want to round suspects up as soon as possible. For now, I’d say let everything proceed. We don’t want people to leave.”
Fenwick said, “Even if the festivities are canceled, many of them probably have hotel reservations until tomorrow.”
Murkle frowned. “I don’t know how I’m going to get through this. I’ve never been involved in something so awful.” She took several deep breaths. “It hasn’t sunk in yet. I’ll need to tell the convention organizers. They’re going to want to know what this is about. By the end of the day, we can make a decision on canceling all of Sunday’s events. I’ll begin getting people for you to question.”
There was no particular reason for Murkle not to tell. Everyone would find out sooner or later. The news might shock some of the convention goers, but their getting the news sooner or later was unlikely to affect the killer. The fact of the murder wouldn’t be a secret from the killer: he or she already knew Devers was dead.
Turner said, “There’s no need to make a general announcement, but you can let people know.”
Murkle sniffed. “The convention organizing committee deserves to know before the others.”
“You might start with them. We’ll send an officer with you. We can begin interviewing the people you mentioned.”
They thanked her. She left.
“Okay,” Fenwick said, “I’ll ask. Devers wasn’t into costumes or Xena. What the hell was she doing in such an outfit?”
“Not baking cookies,” Turner said. “Unless warrior princesses bake cookies.”
“Not that I ever saw,” Fenwick said. “Speaking of cookies.”
“And we were.”
“All this sweetness and light about our warrior princess is enough to make me gag. She lived a saccharine-drenched life? She never kicked a puppy?”
“You’ve never kicked a puppy.”
Fenwick said, “Yeah, but I’m not dead with a sword through my gut.”
Turner said, “Okay, sweetness and light didn’t get her killed. I’m open to opinions on what did.”
“Gotta be sex,” Fenwick said. “How can it not be? You don’t get into a Xena outfit unless you’re after something. Nobody just casually puts this shit on.”
“Lot of costumes at the convention,” Turner said.
“Yeah, but you heard Murkle. Devers wasn’t into costumes. This is out of character.”
“Or Murkle didn’t know her as well as she thought,” Turner said. “Lots of lesbians are into a Xena thing. Is there a lesbian angle to this murder?”
“Could be any number of angles,” Fenwick said. “Whatever angle leads to the killer is my favorite.”
Turner asked, “Is what was out of character part of what got her killed?”
“Are you saying her costume killed her? Or because of her costume, she was killed? If she’d been wearing leather chaps and a motorcycle helmet, she might not have been killed?”
“Depends on our killer.”
Macer entered with a gentleman who looked to be in his mid-forties. He had a bright red face and a pot belly. A couple more years, Turner thought, and he’ll be stroking out from high blood pressure. Macer said, “This is the head of weapons for the convention.” Bram Stivens shook their hands.
Without preliminaries he said, “I warned them this kind of thing could happen.”
“Murder?” Fenwick asked.
“Those damn swords. We had to have them. We had to be authentic. We had to be better than any other convention. Oona is a dear, sweet woman. We assigned her simple tasks. She escorted stars to different events such as the afternoon tea and the banquet. And she’s a tremendous fan and so good-hearted. But she’s so unrealistic. People do stupid stuff. We had to have dangerous weapons. Lots of conventions ban them and we should have, too.”
“They didn’t listen to you,” Turner said.
“Goddamn right. We wouldn’t be having this problem right now if they’d listened to me. You can have any kind of accident with real weapons. You can have any kind of loony tune trying to do something stupid.”
Turner said, “We were told the people all had to be bonded and the weapons had to be fixed so they couldn’t be drawn.”
“Ha! As if some lock thing can prevent the crazies of the world from doing crazy things. You’ve got to plan for that.”
“Do you have a list of who had swords?”
“I brought it with me when Oona told me.” He gave it to them. Turner saw his son’s name. His anxiety level rose exponentially.
The detectives dispatched beat cops to find the people on it as soon as possible. They needed to find which swords weren’t accounted for. They didn’t think the killer would be stupid enough to be the only one without his original weapon.
Other than being willing to go on at great length about the failings of those who organized the convention, Bram Stivens knew nothing else of interest to them.
3
Before they started the rest of their interviews, Sanchez gave them a report. “I found Mrs. Talucci, Myra, and Jeff. I couldn’t find Brian. This is a big damn convention. There’s a large luncheon in full swing. Some of the seminars and panels and lectures are still going on. I stopped in at seven of them. Short of getting up in front of the room at each panel or seminar and making an announcement, I don’t think we’ll find him. Do you want me to do that?”
“At this point I’d like him to be found.”
“The last they saw of your older boy, he was talking with what your son Jeff said ‘was a real looker’ of a young lady. I’ll hunt some more.”
“Thanks,” Turner said. He knew Brian prided himself on his ability to attract young ladies. He was concerned that Brian hadn’t been found yet. His deep-rooted father instinct set off tendrils of expanding worry. Brian was usually as sensible as a teenager could be. Still, he wished Brian and his sword had been accounted for.
Fenwick asked, “Any luck with witnesses on this floor?” Sanchez said, “We found three people in their rooms at the other end of the corridor. One said he was in the shower. The other two were kind of embarrassed. They were having sex and were too engrossed.”
“They said ‘engrossed’?” Fenwick asked.
Sanchez looked at his pad of paper. “That’s what they said.”
So far no one had seen anyone covered in blood. No one had reported any bloody clothes in trash cans anywhere in the public areas of the hotel. Turner knew that beat cops with hotel security were looking for all the people with rooms on this floor. Getting into the rooms was another matter. They wanted to hunt for bloody clothing, but a hotel room is considered the same as your home for searches. In the absence of a warrant, you didn’t have to let the police in. So far, they’d found only a few of the people. Even if they were at the convention, they’d be hard to find by room number. There was no one place to make a general announcement. The cops had to wait. On the other hand, the police could prevent people from getting access to their rooms. Macer, of hotel security, was asked to screen those who got off the elevator on this floor. They’d station
personnel at the elevator banks to make sure no one without a key got upstairs. They didn’t have the people to screen all the hotel guests or conventioneers.
Anyone with a room on this floor would be asked to allow an inspection before being allowed in. Those who wouldn’t consent would be asked to wait unless it was an emergency. Turner knew how that worked. Half the people would be claiming to have heart medicine stashed in their overnight bags just so they could look at nothing happening. Cops would accompany all the onlookers to their doors on their “emergency” runs.
The next person they interviewed was the man who called the police after hearing the scream and finding the body. Arthur Bobak wore a tuxedo. Turner thought he might be in his early thirties. He was talking on a cell phone when they brought him in. He saw Turner and Fenwick and told the person on the other end that he had to go. He wasn’t under arrest so there was no question that he could use his phone. His hand shook as he clicked his phone off and put it in his pocket. He said, “I’m supposed to be the best man at a wedding. Am I going to make it?”
Turner said, “We’ll take a statement and get you out of here as soon as we can.” He didn’t add that the finder of the body was always under suspicion. They would question him for as long as it took.
Fenwick said, “Tell us what happened.”
Bobak said, “I came back up because I forgot my gift for the wedding. I know you’re supposed to send them, but I always bring it with. I’ll never do that again.” He shook his head. “I closed my room door, turned into the little corridor with the elevator, and I had my hand out to press the button. I’ll never forget that moment. It was the most awful sound I ever expect to hear.”
“How long did it last?”
“Maybe ten seconds. Maybe fifteen.” He wiped his hand across his forehead. “I think I’ll hear it in my dreams. I guess that’s what death sounds like.”
Turner reflected that the detectives knew better than almost anyone other than those in the medical profession what death sounded like. Mostly there wasn’t a lot of noise. Loud or soft, the finality didn’t change.
Bobak was very pale. Turner hoped it wasn’t his natural color. If it was, he thought the guy might join the corpse. “I knew the sound came from down this corridor. No question. I guess I’d begun to move toward it unconsciously.” He shook his head. “I got to the split in the corridor. I could no longer tell which way it had come from. I walked down this way I saw the open door. I called out. I was afraid to go in. I wasn’t sure it was this room. Nobody else was in the corridor. Then I heard this kind of gurgle. As if someone had pulled the plug on a drain. I called out several times. Nobody answered. I entered. I saw …” He gulped and wiped his hand across his face. After several moments, he resumed, “I got sick. I don’t remember making a decision to leave the room. I found myself in the hall. I used my cell phone to call the police.”
“Did you see anyone else?” Turner asked.
“No. The hallway was empty. I thought the door at the far end of the corridor might have just finished closing as I turned into this corridor.”
“You called right away?” Fenwick asked.
Turner knew the fact that he didn’t have blood all over himself meant that either this guy didn’t do it, or he’d done the murder and then changed. Would the real killer have planned on the noise or been aware of the risk of some passerby hearing it? A fit of passion, careful planning, or sheer luck for the killer?
The fortuitous whims of chance ruled their success or failure with cases more often than Turner cared to admit.
“It might have been maybe a minute before I called. Not longer than that.”
“Did you know Muriam Devers?” Turner asked.
“Is she the dead woman?”
Turner nodded.
“I sort of recognize the name. Isn’t she some kind of writer? I think my wife likes her books. Didn’t they make one of those children’s movies out of her stuff? I think I took my kids to one of them. I didn’t know her.”
Once he left, Turner said, “The killer has got to be desperate, or stupid, or both.”
“Maybe he was just lucky,” Fenwick said.
Turner asked, “Why’d he leave the door open?”
“Incompetence? Stupidity? An accident?”
The next person from Oona Murkle’s list was Muriam Devers’ personal publicist, Pam Granata. She walked into the room, sat down, and began to weep. The news was obviously beginning to get out. Granata was in her early thirties. She had wispy blonde hair. When she was finally composed enough to speak, she said, “She was a saint, a veritable saint. She always took time for her fans. Always went out of her way. She was rich enough to never write again, but she did. She felt she owed it to her readers. Instead of holing up in splendid isolation in some rich condo in Paris and enjoying the international jet-set life, she would work hard at her craft. She was a regular person. She was terribly nervous before making presentations. She always wanted to say something meaningful and witty. She made an extra effort to do so. And she was a delight one on one. She would sit in the VIP lounge hour upon hour gossiping with chance acquaintances, casual friends, and colleagues.”
Fenwick asked, “Is there always a VIP lounge?”
“At the bigger conventions, yes. People come and go. Sometimes there are limits on who is admitted to the lounge. There had to be some control here with so many stars and so many fans. Quite often people claimed to be a star’s best friend. It happens all the time. Muriam was close to only a few people. She’d have quiet dinners with her inner circle. She avoided fights and the back-biting and quarrels of her profession.”
“Was there a lot of that?”
“You can find that kind of thing with any professional group. Not with Muriam. She never once said a bad word about her colleagues. She was in a writing group with four other authors. Still, after all of her successes, she was trying to improve.”
“Are any of the people in her writing group at the convention?”
“I believe three of the current members of the group are.” She gave them their names. She sighed. “The five of them were an odd bunch. I never did understand it. Muriam was always singing the praises of anyone who was in her writing group. Who was in the group wasn’t terribly consistent. I think the others were a bunch of no-talent hacks trying to live on her glory. Muriam didn’t see it that way. Of the three who are here, you might check into Ralph Marwood the most. At first he was a sweet man, always willing to help others, but then he got real cynical. I’m not sure the cynicism had anything to do with him being in a writing group with Muriam, but there were rumors that he was unhappy.”
“Were other people jealous of her?” Turner asked.
“No,” Granata said, “not that they made public. I don’t know of anyone.”
“Did she have any quarrels, fights, difficulties with editors? A fan who stalked her?”
“No.”
“Who were the people in her profession who did have fights and arguments?”
“She didn’t know any of those people. She didn’t need to know any of those people.”
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.
Nerds Who Kill Page 4
