Nerds Who Kill

by Zubro, Mark Richard

  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.”

  Fenwick said, “Maybe he was unconscious while he was fighting.”

  The ME said, “Stop that. No humor. None. Zero. Zip. I don’t get paid enough to listen to that crap.”

  Turner said, “Is there much point to strangling him after he’s dead?”

  “Not you, too,” the ME said.

  “It’s catching,” Turner said.

  “I’ll put it in my notes,” Fenwick said. “Ask killer when he strangled him.”

  The ME muttered, “I’d say there’s a shortage of good, usable broadswords in here.”

  Turner said, “So he was skewered in the middle of a fight.”

  The ME said, “More like the end of a fight. He wasn’t doing much of anything but dying after he got stuck. It would be sensible to assume the wounds we see killed him, but you know us. We’ll check everything at the lab and let you know. Those throat marks especially have to be checked.”

  Turner said, “It had to be done by someone very strong. Or it could have been two or more people. One strangling him and the other with the sword.”

  “A very strong person,” the ME said, “or someone in the grips of an incredible passion. Certainly the former would be most likely, although you can’t rule out the latter.”

  “Could be both,” Fenwick said.

  “Or could be two people,” the ME said.

  Turner added, “Who could be both passionate and strong.”

  “Any chance of it being suicide?” Fenwick asked.

  The ME considered a second or two. “He could have wedged the sword firmly into something. I don’t see anything in this room strong enough to hold the sword. Then he could have stood on his head backwards, stabbed himself, and removed the wedge that was holding the sword.”

  “I gotta ask the question,” Fenwick said.

  The ME said, “You’re not the only one who can try to be funny. As many people laughed at my crack as they do yours.”

  “My crack or yours,” Fenwick said.

  Turner said to the room at large, “They’re offering a humor management course in the department. Anybody want to sign up?”

  Everybody but Fenwick and the corpse raised their hands. Then an assistant ME, on his knees next to the corpse, accounted for the only other one present without his hand raised.

  Fenwick glared at the corpse and said, “Et tu, you son of a bitch?”

  Turner said, “So it wasn’t suicide?”

  “No,” the ME said.

  5

  Turner and Fenwick strolled down the hall to talk with Michaela Diaz. In the room, she still had her blue makeup on, although she now wore one of the hotel’s bathrobes. A young man in his mid-twenties in a pirate outfit held out his hand. “I’m Frank Cay. What’s happened? Why did they take my cutlass?”

  “We need to talk to Ms. Diaz,” Fenwick said.

  Diaz sat in a chair staring out the window. She turned at her name. “I will never forget what I saw. I will never forget those moments. I do not wish to discuss them. Please leave me alone.”

  Turner said, “Ms. Diaz, it would help if we could ask some basic questions. We’ll try to make it as painless as possible.”

  Cay walked over to her and sat on the arm of the chair. He held her hand. She gazed at him then turned to the detectives and nodded her head half an inch.

  Turner asked, “Did either of you know Dennis Foublin?”

  “Is that the dead guy?” Cay asked.

  “Yes,” Turner said.

  “I never heard of him,” Diaz said. “I’m here to be with Frank. He wanted us to wear costumes to the convention. I came in second in my preliminary category last night. I liked the X-men character that had all that blue makeup. I thought it would be fun. I may never have fun again.”

  Cay said, “I’m into science fiction movies. I never heard of Foublin until I got to the convention. I saw his name as fan guest of honor. There’s always some fan guest thing.”

  “You go to a lot of these conventions?” Turner asked.

  “At least one a year since I was sixteen,” Cay said.

  “This is my first one,” Diaz said, “and it’s going to be my last.”

  Turner asked, “Did either of you know Muriam Devers?”

  “I love her books,” Diaz said. She looked from one to the other of the detectives. “Did something happen to her? Is she …?” Her voice trailed off.

  “She was murdered,” Fenwick said.

  Both detectives watched their reactions carefully. Diaz clutched Cay’s hand convulsively. He leaned over and said soothing words.r />
  When Diaz was calmer, she said, “I didn’t know her personally. Her books were fantastic. I’ve read them since I was a kid. I always liked her women characters. They were strong.” Big gulp of air. “I guess I’m not.”

  Cay said, “You’ve had a shock.”

  Diaz said, “I saw the movies they made out of her books that had most to do with science fiction. They were okay. Some were pretty short on action.”

  Everyone’s a critic, sometimes at the most inopportune moments.

  “Do you know anything about the red ostrich feathers she carried with her?” Turner asked.

  Diaz said, “I heard it was some publicity thing she started way back when. One of the women in her first book had one as some kind of symbolic thing.”

  Cay said, “She always had one with her when I saw her at conventions. It was a symbol her main character adopted.”

  They knew no more. They left.

  The detectives met with Oona Murkle in the suite they were using for interrogations. Fenwick said, “Dennis Foublin is dead.”

  She clutched at her throat and gasped. “My God, what is happening? What is going on? Is there a madman on the loose?”

  Turner said, “We know this is difficult for you, Ms. Murkle, but if you could answer a few more questions.”

  “I suppose. I can try.”

  “What can you tell us about Mr. Foublin?” Turner asked.

  She said, “His wife is here. She’s probably downstairs. I told the convention organizers about Muriam’s death. Word has gotten out. I’m afraid rumors have started to spread.”

  They dispatched a beat cop to find Mrs. Foublin. They asked Ms. Murkle for background on Foublin.

  Murkle said, “Dennis was the web master for an Internet magazine, Science Magic. He was also the editor and nearly the only staffer. His wife helped him with it. He wrote numerous short stories. He was a good, good man.”

  “But someone killed him,” Fenwick said. “Someone must be upset with him. Do you have any idea who?”

  She thought for several moments and finally said, “The only thing I can think of is that a few unprincipled people said he was the kind who always got almost all of his facts right.”