Nerds Who Kill: A Paul Turner Mystery (11 page)

“We’ve heard all kinds of rumors about rifts in the convention.”

“Mostly silliness. We wanted this convention in Chicago. We got voted down three straight times by factions in other cities. It wasn’t fair. We decided to go ahead with our own. We planned extremely well. We had stars here from movies, books, and comics. We had millions of things for fans to do, but we didn’t neglect the professionals and serious writers who might attend. We had sessions on how to write books in all the distinct subgenres of science fiction and fantasy. We had strands on how to write and illustrate comics. We had editors’ and agents’ forums. We had script-writing seminars. We had manuscript critiques. We had one room with movies and another with old television shows—all running continuously. We’ve got the world premier of
World Domination
, which is supposed to be the next hot SF movie. We had more game rooms than any previous convention. We had panels of stars for fans.”

“Where do you get this kind of money?” Fenwick asked.

“You start with seed money. My husband is a successful used car salesman. He’s got dozens of lots all over the Midwest, four here in the Chicago metropolitan area. Once you buy and pay for a few big stars, set up your web site and get the word around at the other conventions, it just spreads. By the time we landed
World Domination
, we were already big. Once the movie was on board, we became gigantic. We took out full-page ads in all the science fiction periodicals. We had links on the net with every site that would have us. We tried to meet every need. We had more and better give-away gifts in the convention packets. We went to previous conventions and had tables to sign people up. Once people started registering for the convention, we were able to use that money to parlay it into something even bigger.”

“You got the Greater Chicago Hotel and Convention Center on your husband’s used car business?”

“He’s very successful.”

Turner asked, “What do you know about red ostrich feathers?”

“I was the one who suggested to Muriam about adding the feather in the first place. I told her it would make the character stand out. The thing went from a marginal MacGuffin to a central symbol in that series of books.”

“What did it symbolize?” Fenwick asked.

“Trust, truth, the triumph of good. There wasn’t a lot of that connected with Muriam until tonight, and what little now exists is only because she’s dead.”

Turner said, “You must have really hated her.”

“She ruined my career in New York.”

“Where were you between ten and eleven?”

“I had a small problem with an author and the hotel. He’d originally decided to come then he’d changed his mind. We’d gotten him a fairly nice suite. Do you know Darryl Hammer?” They shook their heads. “He’s the latest rage in the SF world. So he changes his mind again and decides to show up at the last minute. I want the convention to be a perfect experience for everyone. We’ve gotten nothing but compliments.” She frowned. “Although I guess that’s going to change.” She shrugged. “At any rate, Darryl was starting to make a fuss. We had to do some quick rearranging. The hotel is booked, but we’ve got these complimentary suites. We managed to work something out for him, but it took awhile. I don’t understand why people who screw up think they are entitled to a free ride. I held his hand for the hour and a half it took to talk to people and then for him to reregister and get everything straightened out.”

Fenwick asked, “Who else was on the list of people who didn’t like Ms. Devers?”

“I’m not sure. You might try talking to Darch Hickenberg. He’s an author who Devers didn’t like.”

“Why didn’t she like him?”

“I know one example. He’s got this web site, blog. Mostly he’s devoted it to long, rambling self-descriptions and long-winded diatribes against other authors. If he’s got an opinion, he’s going to share it.”

“He had opinions about her?” Turner asked.

“He dumped on everybody and everything. Publishers, editors, other authors.”

Fenwick asked, “Why did they keep publishing him?”

“Because he made whoever he was working for tons of money. A lot of people liked his blogs. They thought they were funny. Muriam didn’t.”

“Humor management,” Fenwick muttered.

“Pardon?” Bentworth said.

“Nothing,” Fenwick said.

Turner asked, “Do you know Melvin Slate?”

“Who?”

Turner described him. “Oh, yes. The loon. There’s always one. At least one. I had to step between him and several of the authors. Muriam was one.”

Fenwick said, “You didn’t like her, but you defended her?”

“There are proper ways to do things. Muriam may have been a back-stabbing, conniving bitch, but I was going to run a perfect convention. If that meant getting in between the loon and the participants, I would. You can’t let the loons run around on the loose.”

Turner asked, “Does someone have a list of who was in what costume?”

“If they were entering the contest, they would be on a list. I’ll get it for you. If you wore a costume, you didn’t have to enter the contest. An amazing number don’t. They feel that they are in character, and it isn’t some competition.”

Fenwick said, “When we found Ms. Devers, she was in a Xena, Warrior Princess outfit.”

“Muriam? That is hard to believe. She was pretty straitlaced. Isn’t that kind of young for her? Why would she be in such an outfit?”

“We’re trying to find out,” Fenwick said.

“Could she and Foublin have been having an affair?” Turner asked.

“I certainly never heard anything like that. I met Foublin for the first time here at the convention. I thought he was a perfectly nice man. Wasn’t he considerably younger than Muriam? Or course, almost everybody was younger than Muriam.”

“Did they know each other before this convention?” Turner asked.

“They may have. At the dinner and dessert get-together last night, they didn’t seem close or not close.”

Fenwick said, “We heard that there might have been something sinister in Mr. Foublin’s past.”

“I don’t know anything about him having a furtive past.”

Turner said, “We heard some negative things about her writing group.”

“Pah. Her little stable of no-talent hacks. She had pretty boys around her all the time. I don’t think she ever did anything with them. Back when I was her editor, she’d flirt with studly young men, but when she went to her hotel room, she was always alone. I’m not sure whether she wasn’t paying them enough, or she or they weren’t interested enough. It was a standing joke among those in the know. Writing group? Ha!”

“They did write books,” Turner said.

“Not a one of them deserved to be published. Not a one. She got a few of them into print over the years. She got them some attention. They made some sales. That doesn’t make talent or a meaningful relationship or even a quickie. Her having that group just doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

Turner said, “You mentioned there was a faction that wanted someone other than Foublin as the fan guest of honor. What was the problem there?”

“I never could figure that out. I just put it down that more people knew the Florida gentleman. His name was Bill Lifton. You know how people can form into factions over minor things. I remember them being enthusiastic for their candidate, but I don’t remember anyone becoming hostile.” She gave them the names of the people on the committee who were pro-Lifton. She sighed. “This convention is going to be a disaster. Poor Oona. She put her heart and soul into it. Sometimes we had to help her out.”

“How so?”

“She is a dear and relentlessly cheerful, but the poor thing has trouble organizing herself out of a paper bag. We put her in charge of simple things, getting special guests picked up from the airport. She organized the hospitality suites. She would give authors tours around the city. Do all the little things to keep them happy. We kept her busy with little things. She was happy. Not anymore. She’s going to take this hard.”

They followed Bentworth out to the hall. Sanchez said, “We’ve got a lot of angry people downstairs.”

“We’ve got two dead ones up here,” Fenwick said.

They instructed Sanchez to bring Darch Hickenberg to the interrogation room.

After Bentworth left, Fenwick said, “If this negative shit keeps up, we’re going to be ankle deep in it. We could get herds of people claiming what a shit Devers was and wishing she was dead or even claiming to have murdered her.”

“That should make you happy.”

“I don’t want herds. A small cluster would do nicely.”

Drew Molton, the Area Ten commander, turned the corner and strolled toward them. He asked, “What have you got?”

They told him.

Turner said, “We’ve got to interrogate everyone who used a broadsword as part of his costume. We’ve got people who could have changed costumes. They could disguise themselves any number of ways.”

“I love disguises,” Molton said. “I dressed up as Zorro last Halloween.”

Fenwick said, “You’re not making that up?”

“I have been known to relax and have fun,” Molton replied. “It’s just you’ve never seen me kick back.”

“Something to look forward to,” Fenwick said.

“Better get these interrogations organized,” Molton said.

“The killer could be roaming the halls,” Fenwick said. “We need enough beat cops to have one at the entrance to every staircase. We need at least one stationed in every elevator.”

Molton said, “They’ve put you in charge of overtime for the police in the City of Chicago? And you’ve canceled all the crime in the rest of the local district and in Area Ten.”

“We don’t have enough personnel?” Fenwick asked.

“We do not. The hotel has sixty floors. I passed two banks of elevators with five each. There’s got to be at least one service elevator, probably more. We don’t have enough people.”

“We can’t be responsible if there are any more murders,” Fenwick said.

“I won’t hold you responsible.”

“Someone will try to,” Fenwick said.

Turner said, “We could get hotel security to get some people in the stairwells.”

“Give that a try,” Molton said. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

Turner and Fenwick organized the logistics of surveillance. They talked to Macer, the hotel security person. “Don’t they have cameras on all of these floors?” Fenwick asked.

“They have them in the lobby and on the front desk. No hotel has a camera on every floor.”

“Don’t the modern ones have emergency call buttons on every floor?” Turner asked.

“I think many do. This one has plans to install them.”

Turner said, “Did they round up all the people who brought broadswords to the convention?”

“They’re waiting for you. Everyone we know of for sure who brought one claims they can account for theirs, except one. We’re collecting them now so they can be checked.”

Fenwick said, “What if someone starts flailing away?”

Macer said, “Something called the Medieval Consortium says their members all have extensive training in sword fighting. They are monitoring their group.”

“That’s great,” Fenwick said. “Unless one of them is the killer. Are we going to have to duel someone to death? We could do like Indiana Jones in that one movie when he’s menaced by a guy with a sword. He just pulls out his gun and shoots him.”

Turner said, “I told Sanchez to have several uniforms on guard with these people. My kid will be among them. I’ll want him brought up to one of the rooms Murkle has made available to us. Him and the rest of the people I came with.”

Macer said, “I’ve got the list of all the people who were at the convention who were in costumes. It was several thousand out of all these attendees. There were ten in costumes that included broadswords. Your kid wants to talk to you. You might have a problem.”

“Is he okay?” Turner asked.

“Yeah, but he’s the only one who can’t account for his sword.”

8

Turner’s stomach lurched. The other two looked at him. He said, “We’ll deal with it.”

Sanchez arrived. He said, “We’ve got some of the people who brought swords down the hall waiting to talk to you.”

Turner wanted to talk to his son first. The rest of the people would have to wait. Brian, Mrs. Talucci, and Jeff met with Paul in a special room the convention people had set aside for them.

Sanchez added, “Guy named Ben Vargas says he knows you.” Sanchez betrayed neither sneer nor knowledge that Ben was Turner’s lover. Turner told him to send Ben up. He felt no obligation to give Sanchez or anyone else an explanation for Ben’s presence.

He met Ben in the hall. Ben carried a gym bag with him. He nodded to the gym bag. “Mrs. Talucci called. She said Brian needed a change of clothes.” Paul filled him in.

“Are you okay?” Ben asked.

“Yeah. I won’t be going home until this is completely cleared up.”

“You have to come home sometime.”

“I know.”

Together they hurried to check in with the family. Mrs. Talucci, having doffed the top half of her Tribble disguise, was sitting on the couch next to which Jeff had parked his wheelchair. Brian now wore a jacket along with his leather harness, the butt flap, and creaky old sandals.

“Whose jacket?” Turner asked.

“A friend of Mrs. Talucci’s had an extra. How she knows who’s going to need what when is a mystery.” Ben handed Mrs. Talucci a bundle of clothes then gave Brian the gym bag. After Mrs. Talucci returned from the washroom in a bulky sweatshirt and warm-up pants, Brian used the same room and returned quickly in jeans, running shoes, and a white T-shirt. Paul sat next to him on the bed.

Mrs. Talucci said, “Is there anything you can’t talk about with us here? Do you want us to leave the room?”

“No, it’s okay.”

Someone had ordered room service. There were bottles of pop and juice.

Paul said, “I could use some juice.” They served themselves from the room service cart. Brian asked for a beer. He was told no. Brian and Jeff had milk. Mrs. Talucci had a small glass of wine.

“Is something wrong, Dad?” Jeff asked.

“I need to talk to Brian,” Paul said.