Nerds Who Kill: A Paul Turner Mystery (7 page)

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.

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.”

Fenwick asked, “Wouldn’t a first-rate writer want to get all of his facts right? Who said he didn’t?”

“Oh, it was those Internet chat somethings. I have trouble getting online. I’m not good with computers. Dennis had a huge following. His web site received thousands of hits a month. It was a bible among the SF cognoscenti. People read him faithfully for his opinions about books, movies, anything that had anything to do with fantasy or science fiction. He had myriad interests. The committee organizing the convention thought it was a great coup when they got him as the fan guest of honor.”

“Why was it a coup?” Turner asked.

“He hadn’t been to one of these in a long while. He was known as a fabulously knowledgeable recluse.”

“Fan guest of honor?” Fenwick asked.

“Yes. At these conventions you want to serve every segment of your public. There is almost always a fan guest of honor. They get their name prominently in the program. They get to wear a special badge, and they get to meet some of the stars. For our convention he attended the Thursday night pre-convention celebrity dinner. In person, Dennis was a very charming man. He had lots of friends.”

“If he gave opinions online, couldn’t that lead to some people being angry at him?”

“Yes, but I never heard of any. I never read what he wrote. I’m a fan myself, but I know what I like. I wouldn’t care what he wrote.”

Turner said, “And some people didn’t think he had all his facts right.”

“There were occasional rumors about him being slipshod or careless. Nobody bothered to challenge him. Let me give you an example of what I mean. He kept a bestseller list on his site. He claimed he got the data from bookstores. A few people claimed a disproportionate number of books he liked made it on the list.”

“Did that make people angry?” Turner asked.

“It was one list on a relatively obscure site. He might have been a big fish, but the pond isn’t that big. I doubt if anyone much cared. If it was the
New York Times
list or
Publishers Weekly
, people might care. Not for this. Not for murder.”

Fenwick said, “It might have made a difference to someone who got on the list or made someone angry who didn’t make the list because of Foublin’s serendipitous way of doing it.”

“I never heard of anyone protesting,” Murkle said. “A few people complained about how odd it was sometimes. Not a big deal. I did my own informal checking. I found no problem. When I brought up his name to have him be the fan guest of honor, no one mentioned any problems, and I certainly wasn’t going to. After all, I was the one who proposed his name. I had no proof. No one else did either, or no one brought any forward. And he does have a large following.”

A woman dressed as an inmate of a harem out of the
Arabian Nights
entered. She was in her late forties. She might have been all of five feet tall and weighed about one hundred and ten.

Sanchez said, “This is Anna Foublin.”

This was the toughest part of Turner’s job. It never became easier. He hoped it never would. Turner said, “Mrs. Foublin, I have some bad news.”

She gazed at him.

“Your husband has been murdered.”

She glanced at each of them, her eyes finally resting on Murkle. “Is this true?” Mrs. Foublin asked.

Murkle nodded.

Mrs. Foublin dissolved in tears. Murkle rushed to her. Mrs. Foublin fell into her arms. After comforting her for some moments, Murkle led her to a seat. The older woman patted her arm and said soothing words. Turner produced tissues. When Mrs. Foublin was more composed, Turner got her some water to drink. He watched her swallow several gulps. “Can I see him?” she asked. “I have to see him. I don’t believe this.”

Turner said, “We’ll go with you to identify him. Ms. Murkle may come with if you wish.” The body, covered by a white sheet, was on a gurney on the twenty-sixth floor.

After they completed the unpleasant task of identification, they returned to the interrogation suite. Turner said, “It’s important that we interview Mrs. Foublin.” He didn’t want to order Murkle out, but he didn’t want her here for the interview either.

Murkle caught on. She stood up. “If you need anything, Anna, I’ll be right outside.”

Mrs. Foublin, Turner, and Fenwick sat together. Mrs. Foublin kept a stack of tissues at her side.

Mrs. Foublin pulled in several deep breaths and asked, “What happened?”

Turner gave a brief description, leaving out the grisly details. When done, he said, “Mrs. Foublin, we know this is an awful time, but we need to discuss this. The first hours of a case are the most important.”

She nodded.

“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to harm your husband?”

“No. He was a dear, sweet, innocent man. You know he ran a review site on the Internet?” The detectives nodded. “He always tried to say something good about the books he read. Even the ones he hated the most, he tried to find something to praise. He was always trying to be positive.” She dabbed at her eyes with tissue.

“Did he know Muriam Devers?”

For an instant Turner thought he saw a look of intense distaste rush across her features.

“They met many years ago when he still went to conventions all the time. They did correspond frequently, the past few years; they exchanged tons of e-mails. He always got along with her, but they were more acquaintances than friends. He did go out of his way to praise her books. He may have genuinely liked them. I was never sure. Why do you ask? Does she have something to do with my husband being …?”

She couldn’t finish the sentence.

“No, ma’am,” Turner said, “she’s dead.”

She gaped at them. She blew her nose again then burst out, “She was a hateful sow.”

Turner and Fenwick had been detectives long enough to be able to conceal their intense interest.

“You just said your husband got along with her,” Turner said.

“He did. I didn’t. In the past few years, I’ve attended far more conventions than my husband. Devers was so sweet in public, but if you couldn’t do her any good, she had no use for you. She always had that smile, that simpering, never-ending smile. She was always mind-numbingly cheerful. And my husband believed that crap from her. I remember years ago, he’d listen to her for hours. Always encouraging her with that ‘how interesting, tell me more.’ That after-dinner-dessert get-together last night in her room was awful. I had to sit there and trade hypocritical smiles with that back-stabbing bitch. I shouldn’t be saying these things. I’m just so upset. I could believe that woman had something to do with Dennis’s death.”

Turner was very aware that they did not know which person died first. Or if either one had had anything to do with the death of the other. Turner presumed there had to be some connection between the killings. He thought it most likely that there was one murderer, but he was not going to close his mind to any possibility at this point. He doubted that Muriam Devers could best someone in a fight and heft a sword at the same time. Although she could get behind someone, strangle them just past the point of unconsciousness, and then stab them. They’d have to check.

“Did you see them together at this convention? Did they talk at the dinner Thursday or at last night’s get-together in her suite?”

“I imagine they must have, but I didn’t actually see them together.”

Turner asked, “If she never did anything bad to your husband, how was she a back-stabbing bitch?”

“Dennis would not listen to me. He was such a sweet, dear man. He believed the best about everybody. He was friends with everyone. People begged him to review their books. We have stacks and stacks of them all over the house. We could barely donate them to libraries fast enough.” She used a tissue for a moment.