Nerds Who Kill: A Paul Turner Mystery (25 page)

“I knew Brian wouldn’t leave that room. For a few moments my fears overcame my logic.”

“You okay?”

“I’ll be a hell of a lot better when we’ve solved this.”

“Why’d this guy lie to us about staying here?” Fenwick asked.

“We were threatening to look in his backpack. I imagine he didn’t want his room investigated.”

“He’s the killer?” Fenwick asked.

“It’s got a certain symmetry,” Turner said, “up to a point. He’s the resident loon. He’s the killer. The only problem is, he’s dead.”

Fenwick said, “Some sainted savior in attempt to attain perfect symmetry whacked him one.”

“Great,” Turner said. “And why hasn’t our sainted savior come forth?”

“That’s the thing with sainted saviors,” Fenwick said. “They’re shy.”

“Bullshit,” Turner said.

“It’s the sainted saviors’ code,” Fenwick said. “Like the code of the west. The bad guy always gets it in the end. The good guy rides into the sunset. And he only kisses his horse.”

“You sure you got the code right?”

“I could be off slightly.”

Turner said, “If Slate’s the killer, why is he dead? If he’s not the killer, why is he dead? His death means we’ve got somebody still loose in the hotel who could have even more stacks of swords.”

“Maybe they’re multiplying,” Fenwick said. “Breeding.”

Turner said, “Phallic symbols of the world unite.”

“Somehow I think that should be my line.”

On their charts they saw that Slate’s room was on the sixth floor, the lowest that had rooms for the public. It was at the major junction of the two corridors. Next to his room were the swinging doors behind which were the pop machines and the service elevator.

They called down to Sanchez. No one had stopped people from going up to the restaurant. It was a public place and had separate elevators from the rest of the building.

They found car keys and the stub for the parking garage. They trudged down to the attendants on duty. Two uniformed cops watched the people in line. There was a huge line to retrieve their cars. Turner and Fenwick stepped to one of the attendants who was standing idly waiting. Turner figured hotels must hire at least one guy to stand idly around the parking garage so people in line could get irritated that someone was just standing around idly waiting.

Fenwick presented him the card and said, “We need to go see this car.”

“You gotta get in line.” Delivered with an irritated snarl from a flunky who didn’t bother to look up. Fenwick took out his badge and got into the personal space of the rude attendant. The man backed away. Fenwick pushed the personal space with the man backpedaling until they were out of sight of the people in line. Then he took the guy by the lapels and said, “You are going to lead us to this car, and now is going to be a good time to do it. Then you’re going to come back down here and look like you’re working very, very hard to please all those people in line.”

The attendant quickly led them to a rickety elevator. They ascended three floors. The parking garage looked like all parking garages. Cement, cold, oil spots in empty spaces, tire-blackened center strips, water dripping in odd places, and the butt ends of lots of cars. Slate’s vehicle was a dented and rustencrusted dark blue van at least twenty years old. It must have barely fit under the height restrictions for the garage. The back seat was folded down. Inside was a car-top luggage carrier. Turner said, “He’d have to go to the trouble of unhooking this thing before he could get it into the parking garage.”

“A dedicated and determined killer,” Fenwick said. “The very best kind.”

Under an army blanket they found three more broadswords.

Fenwick said, “I know a clue when I see one.”

Turner said, “Yeah, but it doesn’t prove anything. Maybe we could open a used broadsword shop, but it’s not helpful. The questions still are is the loon the killer or is the loon in cahoots with the killer?”

“Nobody says ‘cahoots’ anymore,” Fenwick said.

“I do. Did.”

“Well, don’t.”

They put on their plastic gloves and began to remove merchandise from the rear of the van. They found broken red ostrich feathers under the front seat.

“Killer could have planted this stuff,” Turner said. “It could be part of the pattern of feathers and death, although we’ve got seven here. Looks more like a killer’s connection rather than a killer’s signature.”

“Unless he was practicing,” Fenwick said.

“How hard can it be to break a feather?” Turner asked.

“Something went wrong?” Fenwick suggested, “or it could be one big set up. This could have all been done hours before.”

“The problem is setting the clothes in the rooms or the halls or in these cars, assumes somebody is not going to find them until after bodies start to fall.”

“I dunno,” Fenwick said. “You’d think somebody would report bloody clothes. I’m not so sure about the feather problem. Dead bodies, sure somebody’s gonna blab, or scream, definitely get upset. This feather crap would be out of context, but not in the same league. So far we’ve got nobody who found stuff before our first corpse.”

“Which doesn’t mean it wasn’t there,” Turner said. “I just don’t think there’s enough time for our killer to get around to all these places.”

“Unless somebody knew the schedules of all these people,” Fenwick said. “Not hard to look in the convention program. At least some of these people would be out of their rooms at particular times.”

“We’ve got too many people stationed throughout the hotel for it to have happened recently.”

“Between our arrival and Rivachec’s wounding he had at least an hour. Probably more.”

“It wasn’t that long ago when we interviewed Melvin Slate,” Turner pointed out.

“Slate know something about the killer or was in it with the killer.”

Turner said, “Gotta be. He saw something or knew something. Slate didn’t strike me as the kind of guy to go rushing to the police.”

Fenwick said, “Maybe he knew something earlier when we were questioning him. Maybe if I hadn’t been so snarky we’d have gotten what he knew.”

“Would you be you if you weren’t snarky?” Turner asked.

“I’d be me, but maybe we’d be more effective.”

“I couldn’t get it out of him either,” Turner said. “When we find the killer we’ll get the time line. It’s not your fault if he’s dead.”

“Yeah,” Fenwick said. “It may not be, but I’m not feeling real good about it right now.”

Turner called the ME’s office. His question of could there have been more than one killer was met with uncertainty. The ME said, “In each of the rooms we have evidence of all kinds of people, any one or two or more of whom could have been the killer. We have no notion of anyone else’s identity. So far we only have blood from the dead people. We don’t have the stuff from up on the roof processed. I’m not even sure it’s here yet.”

“Could you get that taken care of as quickly as possible?” Turner asked. “We might have a killer on the loose.”

“Do what I can.”

They summoned Oona Murkle, Melissa Bentworth, and the other convention organizers. They told them about Melvin Slate’s death. There were some tears. Turner didn’t think it was because they knew him—perhaps it was a mixture of sadness for any loss, but also watching what they had worked to produce turn to ashes.

Oona said, “This is too awful. I know he wasn’t famous, but most of the people here aren’t. Every life is valuable. How awful? Did the same thing happen to him that happened to … ?”

“Yes,” Turner said.

“This is terrible. Terrible. This is only getting worse. What’s happening? What’s gone wrong? Yesterday at this time this was a perfect convention. Oh my, oh my.” Her hand trembled as she dabbed a tissue at her eyes. “I’ve worked so hard to make this a perfect experience for everyone. We’ve done everything. All those volunteers. The committee in charge. It’s been so wonderful.” She gulped, then gasped, then whimpered, then cried softly for a few moments. She and Bentworth comforted each other for several minutes. The other organizers looked shocked and stunned.

After the tears had stopped, Turner asked, “Ms. Murkle, can you and the others give us a little more help?”

“I don’t know. I’m so upset.”

“If you could try,” Turner said.

She, Melissa, and the others all nodded.

“Do you know anybody who might have known Melvin Slate?” Fenwick asked.

No one did. “I’ll check with all the volunteers,” Oona said.

“We’ll send a uniformed officer with you,” Fenwick said.

“Certainly. If you think that will help. Someone must have known him. He couldn’t be here all by himself.”

Yeah, he could, Turner thought. They’d sent beat cops to all the people in the ballroom who were waiting to go up to their rooms to see if any of them knew Melvin Slate.

Murkle and the others left.

When they’d gone, Fenwick went to use the washroom. He came back a moment later. Carrying a broken red ostrich feather. Fenwick brandished the thing above his head and exclaimed, “What the fuck?”

Turner rose, “The killer has been in here since we left to check on Melvin Slate?”

“I never checked the bathroom when we first came in here. Nobody’s used it that I know of. It could have been there for hours. Since yesterday. For the past ten years.”

“No bloody clothes?” Turner asked.

“No.”

“Which means what?” Turner asked.

“I feel left out,” Fenwick said. “Everybody else gets clothes and feathers. We only get a fucking feather.”

“Some of them got dead and feathers but no clothes.”

Fenwick said, “I think I’m going to file a killer harassment complaint.”

Turner said, “We already have a department for that. It’s called the police.”

“Worse luck. I could have been rich.”

They talked to Sanchez. He said, “Nobody’s guarding this part of the corridor. It’s the room where you’re doing the interrogations. Who’d think that would need protecting? This is the floor where the first murder took place. There’s somebody around the corner in front of the door where your family and friends are and near the room we found the first victim in. I didn’t stay here. I followed you guys up to the roof.”

“This area was unguarded,” Fenwick said, “for as long as we were on the roof and in his room. Somebody has a hell of a lot of access.”

But neither Macer nor the convention people knew anyone who had used this room. It was one of the comped rooms that had been set aside for any emergency VIP who might show up.

When the detectives were alone, Turner said, “Could the killer have been trying to get rid of all the cops on this floor in order to get to my family?”

“Why?” Fenwick asked. “Someone who’s angry at you? We’ve only had the run-of-the-mill gang and spouse shootings lately. Could be an old case that someone’s angry about, but how would they know that we’d catch this case?”

“If the killer is disguised as a cop, it might give him some access to some of this knowledge.”

Fenwick said, “We’ve got guards here now who are known to us who are not going to fuck up.”

Turner nodded. He drew a deep breath. “I want this solved now, tonight.”

Fenwick said, “Do we have two killers for sure?”

“Has to be, but the timing is screwed up. It could still be the killer planting all this stuff hours before. We know when Devers was killed pretty precisely because of the scream. We know when our cop was attacked.”

Sanchez brought in a woman who looked to be in her early thirties. She might have been five feet tall and weighed about one hundred five pounds. She wore blue jeans and a dark blue cashmere sweater.

Sanchez said, “This is Nettie Timson. Brandon Mercer sent her up. Ms. Timson knew Melvin Slate.” Sanchez left. The three of them sat.

24

Turner said, “You know Melvin Slate?”

“I live in the apartment next door to him and his mother. Is he okay?”

Turner said, “I have difficult news. Melvin is dead.”

“Oh, my dear. Oh, my.” Her hand flew to her face. “His poor mother. He takes care of her. His brothers and sisters treat Melvin and their mother like dirt. She has no one else. That poor man and his poor mother. What on Earth happened?”

Turner gave her a simple outline.

“How well did you know him?” Turner asked.

“We were neighbors. We watched out for each other. We didn’t date. That would be difficult with Melvin.”

“Why so?” Turner asked.

“Well, he was kind of a loner, but a sweet guy. A nice guy. He was always willing to help anyone in the building. He was better than the landlord at helping getting things fixed. He’d pester the landlord for you. He’d write letters. He’d even try to fix things sometimes. He wasn’t very good at it.”

Turner said, “He had kind of a negative reputation at the convention.”

“You had to be very patient with Melvin. It took a long time for him to be comfortable with people. He’s very at ease in the apartment house. His parents lived there since before he was born. His dad died twenty years ago. It’s been him and his mom since.”

“How long have you known him?”

“A little over seven years.”

“Do you know anyone who would want to hurt him?”

“No. I can’t imagine it. He was sweet. Always sweet.”

“He told us he wasn’t registered at the hotel,” Turner said, “but he was.”

“He saved every penny to be able to go to these conventions. He wasn’t always able to stay at the major hotels. They were expensive.”

Turner asked, “Is there a reason why he would lie to us about where he was staying?”

“I can’t imagine him doing that. Melvin just didn’t tell lies. You’d think living with his mother, he’d develop some secret life, but he was just a gentle soul.”

“What kind of job did he have?”

“He was an assistant manager of a pet store. He was very good with the animals. Very gentle. Not so good with the customers.”

“How so?” Turner asked.

“If a customer mistreated an animal, it would upset Melvin. I don’t blame him. I know one example that came up every springtime. He thought it was criminal to allow people to buy rabbits and little chicks for Easter. He said they just bought them for their kids who neglected them and hurt them and then abandoned them. So many of the poor things died. I guess he was right.”