“What’s the deal on this red feather?” Turner asked.
Mrs. Talucci said, “I read that one. It’s this ostrich plume that’s out of control. It was the only book of hers I read. Here’s what I understood. Whoever had the feather in some ancient realm had great powers. I could never figure out if the powers came from the feather or if the feather was a reward for using those powers for good.”
“Like The Fifty-First Dragon,” Jeff said. Paul raised an eyebrow. “This character believed a feather was magical so he could go out and kill dragons. When someone told him it wasn’t magical, he no longer felt he had the power to kill dragons when he never did in the first place. It was only a feather. Not magical.”
Brian said, “When am I going to be able to go home?”
Paul said, “If you were an actual suspect, you’d probably be able to go home already. You aren’t. All the people with broadswords are going to be questioned. Like I said, yours matched the murder weapon.”
Brian said, “That can’t be good.”
Paul said, “We’ve seen several of them. My guess is there were any number of those kind around the convention. I’m going to make sure no one has even the slightest suspicion about you.” He turned to Jeff. “You should probably go home.”
“Can’t I please stay, Dad?” He rubbed the wheel of his chair. “I’m worried about Brian.”
A whine would have brought a reprimand. A child’s demand to stay would have elicited a parental rebuke. Concern for his brother was the right altruistic note. And Paul knew the younger brother idolized the older, even if he’d cut out his tongue before he admitted it. He permitted him to stay.
Paul said, “Everybody should just sit tight. It’s probably going to be a lot of boring hours before we’ll be able to get out of here.”
“Am I going to be a suspect?” Brian asked.
“We’re not going to worry about that yet. You might as well get comfortable.” Paul got up to leave.
Mrs. Talucci and Ben stepped forward. Ben asked, “Is there anything else we can do?”
“Your presence is plenty,” Paul said.
Brian walked with his dad to the door. He said, “Am I going to be okay?”
Paul gazed at his son. “Yes.”
Brian met his dad’s eyes. “You sure?”
“You’re going to be okay.” He gripped his son’s shoulder, the only paternal gesture of intimacy the teenager had permitted the past few years.
Turner left the room. He knew his son was more than strong enough to inflict the kinds of wounds he’d seen. He also knew his son well. Brian was not a killer. Paul knew he was the kind of kid who would be overwhelmed with weeping and guilt if he committed a crime, much less something as horrific as these murders. The last time he’d accidentally hurt his younger brother, two years ago, he’d sobbed with guilt and remorse. Brian had come bounding down the stairs from his room at a clip that an athletic teenager could quickly reach. Jeff had turned into the living room at the last second. Both boys had gone head over heels. Jeff had required a visit to the hospital to check his wrist, which turned out to be severely sprained but not broken. Brian had moped about for days. He’d finally made it up to Jeff by bringing his brother copies of five of the newest video games that the younger boy couldn’t afford on his allowance. Then Brian spent hours playing them with his brother. Much as Jeff might wish for independence, time together with his older brother was precious. Besides, Paul loved his son, knew his son. He’d stake his life on the fact that Brian was not a killer. But the boy being connected in an investigation, however peripherally, caused him anxiety. He thought that immediately would be a good time to solve this case.
Turner found Sanchez. He told him to post a uniformed guard on this floor to keep watch. Turner said, “I want the fingerprints from the murder weapon as soon as possible. Get someone to run matches as fast as you can.” If necessary, to eliminate his son as a suspect in his boss’s eyes, he’d take Brian’s fingerprints. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. It seemed likely that they would be on the weapon they had. If forced to take them, he would. And there was always the possibility of the second weapon, which they did not have.
He found Fenwick and told him what Brian had told him.
“Let’s go look at the swords we do have,” Fenwick said. “Sanchez had the uniforms collect them. The damn things are in the room next to Devers’.”
They examined six broadswords. None was covered in blood. A crime lab technician was handling them carefully. Each had a tag with a name, address, and phone number on it. The tech explained, “We got their names from the convention costume register. We’ve got three from people who weren’t wearing them when we went to question them. The swords were in their rooms. We have three from people who were wearing them. We found them at various parts of the convention. So, six swords accounted for. Seven if you count the one in Devers. The convention people said there were officially eight.”
Turner said, “And the one that killed Foublin could also be the one sticking in Ms. Devers, or it could be the missing one.”
The tech said, “You also supposedly have some unofficial ones. We’re still hunting them down. We’re going to have a hard time finding who they were, if there were any. Of the people with the weapons, all claim to have alibis. None of the beat cops who talked to them said anybody was suspicious.”
Turner said, “Which means that unless they had a second or third sword, theirs was not used in the killing.”
Fenwick said, “Any number of the official and unofficial swords could have been used already without the bodies being discovered. In addition, there’s no telling how many random broadswords people might have walked into this convention with. This is kind of a strange bunch.”
“At least they don’t play around at crime scenes every day,” the tech said.
“Speak for yourself,” Fenwick said.
The tech guy said, “We’re going to have to get all of these to the lab. I’ll get you a report as soon as I can. I’ll get a couple guys in here. Nobody wants to tote these around the convention without some kind of protection.” He left.
Fenwick asked, “Do we need to worry about more possible murders?”
Turner said, “Even if we could check every single room in the hotel, it probably wouldn’t do much good. People could have stacks of swords in their cars or scattered around the metropolitan area.” He examined the swords without picking them up. Five had glittery stuff on the hilt. Two had blue stones. Turner used his hanky to touch the top of one of the swords. “One of these could be Brian’s.”
Fenwick said, “We’ll have to check fingerprints.”
Sanchez entered the room. He said, “This Hickenberg guy you wanted me to get? He says he’ll meet you in his hotel room, that he is not at your beck and call.”
Fenwick said, “I’ll do some becking and calling.”
9
Darch Hickenberg sat in his hotel suite. He puffed on a large cigar. The atmosphere in the room told Turner this hadn’t been the first cigar the author had smoked during his stay. Hickenberg’s corpulent mass rested in a swivel chair at a desk. He looked to be in his mid-fifties. His white shirt was half untucked from his blue dress pants. Turner saw a mustard stain on the front of the shirt.
Murky hotel prints on the murky walls of murky flowers. Industrial-strength couches with matching cushions. Tough to sit on. Tough to relax on.
According to Melissa Bentworth, Hickenberg and Devers had a history together. Turner asked, “How long have you known Muriam Devers?”
“There are rumors she’s dead.”
“She is.”
Hickenberg drew a deep breath. “Well. My word. I’ve known her for thirty years. She was in a writing seminar I was giving in Buffalo one summer. Back in the days when I used to give writing seminars. Who needs the competition, I always say. Giving them seminars just encourages them.” He looked like he expected the detectives to pick up on his humor. Or maybe he was deadly serious and was waiting
for them to huzzah in praise. They waited silently. Hickenberg resumed, “They don’t want to listen to criticism, constructive or otherwise. They want to hear that you’re going to give them a leg up and wave your magic writing wand to make them fabulously wealthy and give them the secret computer program that has the books write themselves. At that time her writing needed a lot of work.”
Fenwick said, “A lot of people read her books. A lot of kids began to read because of her. Didn’t she sort of pave the way for J. K. Rowling?”
“Really, you can’t count what Muriam Devers wrote as writing. And reading her! That’s not reading.”
Turner knew cracks like this inflamed Fenwick’s irritation index. As a barely published poet, his partner took umbrage to others’ writing being dismissed cavalierly. Turner said, “But she did get published.”
“Yes, she found a publisher who happened to like the very things in her work that I disliked the most. I’m afraid she took umbrage at my honesty. She certainly did get published without any seal of approval from me, although back then, I must admit I only had a few books out.”
“We were told the two of you didn’t get along,” Turner said.
“How absurd, but I suppose you’re desperately looking for suspects. She might not have gotten along with me, but I didn’t care enough to dislike her. I was far more successful than she. I had more books out. More movies made of my works. More foreign rights sales. She had every reason to be jealous of me, not the other way around.”
“Was she?” Turner asked.
“I don’t know what was in her head. I never gave her much thought. I really seldom saw her after that first seminar. Oh, I’d run across her occasionally at one of these conventions, but it was nothing significant. I was surprised when she got published. Even more so when she became successful. She joined all those silly fan and writer organizations. She was always trying to make them more democratic—or was it less democratic? Who cares, really? Those kinds of people need to get a life. Fighting over commas and semicolons! Who cares whether or not a fan organization is headquartered in New York or Newton, Iowa? I believe she actually wanted to move the headquarters out to the provinces, or was it the other way around? Either way, it was silly.”
Turner wasn’t sure how he felt now that he knew he was considered to be living in a province. He was sure that this guy was a pompous jerk, but so far he was doing reasonably well on negatives about Devers. Solutions to murders seldom resided in the praise of the departed’s friends. Enemies and gossips more often gave better information.
“Did you see her at this convention?” Turner asked.
“I saw more people than I care to imagine. I did not directly speak to her. I spoke to very few people. My circle consists of my agent and several movie producers and my editor. You constantly have these know-nothings from the provinces asking for autographs, giving you ideas you’re supposed to use in a book, hanging on your every word. It is so difficult to take these conventions seriously. All these people dressed up in these nonsensical outfits.”
“Don’t a lot of these people buy your books?” Fenwick asked.
“Fans! Really! Nerds and dweebs! The real reason I come to these conventions is to play poker with some of the other writers. We often play on Friday nights, but we always have a game during the Saturday night banquet. There’s always a Saturday night banquet at these things. They’ve been serving the same chicken since the first convention back in the deeps of time. The poor bird needs to be retired. My friends and I order room service. This whole mess with the murders has interrupted our game. Several of the players thought it would be irreverent for us to play when there had been death. I think that’s absurd. There’s death every day in the world. The rest of us go on. They were more afraid of losing their money to me than anything else.”
Since Hickenberg had launched his literary diatribes, Turner had seen Fenwick’s left fist clench and his face get redder. Turner recognized those signs. They usually preceded Fenwick letting someone know they had reached the limits of his temerity index.
Fenwick said, “You’ve trashed your fans and taken a swipe at your friends. Is there anybody you like besides yourself?”
“Is that comment designed to irritate me so that I will make some kind of emotional mistake in my wrath and admit I’m a killer? That kind of crap died ages ago.”
Fenwick said, “I’m trying to tell you that you’re an egotistical slob who has no notion of what is good, or polite, who doesn’t have a sense of gratitude or perspective about how lucky you are or what an asshole you are.”
Hickenberg laughed, “That’s a hell of a nerve. I think I’d like to have you in our poker games.”
“Cut the crap,” Turner said. He was a bit on edge and spoke more sharply. His concern about Brian’s connection to the crime had made him uneasy.
Hickenberg said, “I hate these conventions. How’s that for cutting through the crap? I’ve been on dozens of panels at these stupid things. I’m bored at all the panels, and I’m on the damn panels. I’m bored with the questions. I’m bored with the people. The same people go to the same conventions year after year. I don’t go to many conventions anymore, but this one was supposed to be big. And it was. I have sold one hell of a lot of books so far, outsold everyone else, so I’ve been told. I’ve made two movie deals. I won a lot of money last night. I expected to win more tonight.”
“How nice for you,” Fenwick said. “Where were you around ten this morning?”
“I was napping here in my room.”
“Any witnesses?” Fenwick asked.
“Not a one.”
“A morning nap?” Fenwick asked.
“I’m good at napping. I take as many as I can every day. I figure, go with your strength, and napping is something I’m very good at.”
Turner was certain they were looking for a big person. He’d tried wielding Brian’s sword back at the garage. Hickenberg was big enough. His bulk might give him the heft to impale someone with a sword, but if a victim wanted to avoid Hickenberg’s attack or outrun him, it wouldn’t be that hard. Foublin had definitely fought back.
“You have any fights with the people here?”
“No. I came to play poker and make deals. I heard rumors about petty disputes. I don’t listen to that drivel. I’ve made my cash.”
“What petty disputes?” Fenwick asked.
“Has anything changed in thirty years? I’m sure it’s the same old prattle. The national organization isn’t sensitive to our needs. What are we getting for our dues. Let’s all exchange e-mail addresses. As if I needed more people to write to.”
“Do you know of anybody that Devers had problems with?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“She was in a writing group,” Turner said.
“Those things are so absurd. I certainly never needed a writing group.”
“Do you know any of the people in hers?” Turner asked.
“I’m not sure I ever met any of them. I heard about them. Poor old Muriam. She was so desperate for companionship she used her fame to lure younger men into being interested in her.”
“You mean sexual liaisons?” Fenwick asked.
“I hope not. She was old enough to be their mother and sometimes grandmother. She just wanted them as part of her circle. She could have pretty young men hanging around, so why shouldn’t she? Not that many of us make real money doing this. When we do, why shouldn’t we use our money any way we want?”
“You take part in the costume festivities?” Fenwick asked.
Hickenberg looked like he’d been asked to taste his own shit. “Please. That is juvenile nonsense.”
“Anybody dress up like your characters?” Turner asked. He thought the character Hickenberg would fit most closely would be Jabba the Hutt.
“I wouldn’t want to know. I’m not interested. I write these genre books to make money. I just sit down with an idea or two and they write themselves. They’re really very simple. I make ton
s of money from them. My real work is essays. I publish them constantly.”
“Do they write themselves?” Fenwick asked.
“Very much so,” Hickenberg replied. “They’re quite simple.”
Fenwick said, “Ms. Devers was in a Xena, Warrior Princess costume when we found her.”
Hickenberg chuckled, “Old Muriam had some life in her. No, I don’t know why she would be wearing something so patently outlandish.”
“Did you know Dennis Foublin?” Turner asked.
“Oh, yes, everybody did. He wasn’t in a Xena costume as well?”
“No. Did he review your work?” Fenwick asked.
“I’m rich. I don’t have to read the reviews so I don’t.”
Fenwick said, “I’ve been told that when an author says that, he or she is lying through their teeth.”
Hickenberg laughed. “Even if I am lying, what difference does it make?”
Fenwick said, “Maybe you were angry at a negative review he wrote.”
“You can’t seriously think that would be a motive for murder.”
Fenwick said, “Can you think of someone who would have a motive to murder Mr. Foublin?”
“No.”
“We heard there might have been something sinister in his background.”
“Well, I suppose you hear lots of things in a murder investigation. That doesn’t make them true.”
“Have you heard a rumor even close to that?” Turner asked.
“No.”
Fenwick asked, “Do you know if Ms. Devers and Mr. Foublin were close?”
“They could have been having a mad, torrid affair for all I know or care. I have no idea. Sex with Muriam Devers sounds like a gross concept to me.”
Fenwick said, “We found broken red feathers near both of the corpses.”
“Muriam’s stupid signature piece of fluff. I’ll bet she was heartily sick of the damn things by this point. Once you start a bit of silly kitsch like that, you’re stuck with it forever. Every goddamn reporter wants to ask you about it, or wants to have a picture of you with your schtick for their paper. It’s pathetic.”
Nerds Who Kill Page 10
