Sex and Murder.com: A Paul Turner Mystery (3 page)

Fenwick closed his blue notebook. “I don’t see evidence of a struggle,” he said.

“Me neither. Our guy is nearly naked. It’s early. Did he have a guest for the night, and he never got dressed? Or maybe he always walked around his house and answered the door in his underwear?”

“The techs took the bedsheets. We’ll get DNA results on everything they find.”

They’d examined the entire downstairs of the sprawling mansion. There was no evidence of any crime throughout the rest of the antique-encrusted ground floor.

“Struggle,” Turner said. “There has to have been some kind of struggle.” He looked in the hall. He pointed. “We’ve got what looks like a handprint on the wall. So he propped himself up at least once as he was going this way? Was he running? Why was he heading for the bedroom? Why not the front door? Was the killer taunting him? Waiting for him to bleed some more before striking again? Or maybe it’s the killer’s handprint?”

Fenwick said, “Or the killer cleaned up all the disarranged furniture because he thought it would be a dead give away.” Fenwick groaned at his own humor.

“An anal-retentive killer is your friend,” Turner commented.

Fenwick said, “He or she figured if he cleaned well, everybody would ignore a dead body and gobs of blood all over. Have to be a very dumb killer.”

“We’ve run into our share of those. This strikes me as a guest bedroom. There aren’t many clothes in the closet, and just a lot of sweaters in the dresser drawers. In fact, no personal items down here at all. I bet he didn’t sleep down here.”

Fenwick said, “We’ll get the techs to take the sheets from upstairs as well.”

In the entryway, Turner summed up. “We know he was rich. We are fairly sure he was straight. He probably let the killer in, which means he probably knew him or her.”

“There could have been more than one,” Fenwick said.

“I like it,” Turner said. “It would account for the lack of struggle. One or more of them holds the guy and the other stabs him. Maybe they enjoyed his suffering. Stab him a few times, let him run, and stab him a few more. We’ve got to get the tech reports. We’ve got no proof of more than one person, from what I can tell. I didn’t see any signs of restraint on the body.”

Fenwick said, “I’m fascinated with the concept of the killer tootling on out of here covered in blood. We’ve got nobody outside shouting he or she saw anything.”

“Had to have had a car handy. Or they changed into clothes here, which the killer either brought with him, or borrowed from Lenzati.”

“Where’s the murder weapon?” Fenwick asked. “Why the hell can’t the criminals of the world learn to leave the murder weapon where we can find it easily?”

“It’ll put out a memo reminding them of your needs,” Turner said. “So, he comes home with the killer or lets the killer in. That doesn’t tell us much.”

“I don’t see any evidence of forced entry,” Fenwick added. “I agree. He knew his killer and let him or her in. Why does the confrontation start in the bathroom? He didn’t like the way he shaved? The killer got pissed when he pissed?”

Turner said, “We’re not going to go there.”

“Did the killer bring the knife with him or her?” Fenwick asked.

Turner said, “We found nothing broken or disturbed. Did he just stand there and let himself be stabbed? I find that hard to believe. Did the killer get stabbed? Is any of this blood the killer’s?”

“I think we ask the very best questions,” Fenwick said.

“Self-referential analysis is all the rage,” Turner said.

“And I’m good at it,” Fenwick said.

“Is there anything you’re not good at?” Turner asked.

Fenwick thought a moment, then said, “I shall pass over the inherently hostile nature of that question and proceed to the simple answer. No.”

“I was afraid of that,” Turner said. “Stupid question.”

“I’m not the only one who’s a little surly today.”

Turner was irritated because he’d agreed to go to a cop poetry reading that evening. He’d tried to put the obligation out of his mind. After being out all day dealing with criminals, he’d rather stay home in the evenings with his family. He was not about to tell Fenwick where he was going or why. If Fenwick knew Turner was going to a cop poetry reading, Fenwick would tease him mercilessly.

Turner said, “Surly to bed, surly to rise.”

“This is getting out of hand,” Fenwick said.

Turner said, “We’ve got a lot of questions, and I doubt that the ME is going to be able to answer as many as we need.”

“As many as they always do,” Fenwick said. “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting a craving for suspects and witnesses.”

“Is that craving as in vampire-/cannibal-lets-have-them-for-dinner, or craving as in you’re addicted to police work and you need a fix, or craving as in need for more cheap humor?”

Fenwick said, “You’ll notice that in that article about dead detectives east of us, not a one of the murdered cops had the funniest-cop-comedian in their city as part of their profile. I’m sure I’m safe.”

“Not if the killer hears any of your jokes. Although, maybe if all the criminals knew part of their sentence was listening to continuous tapes of your collected jokes, they’d stop committing crimes. Maybe even sue for mercy or beg for the death penalty.”

“Cruel but all possibly true. All I know is, it’s getting tougher and tougher to do grim-cop-humor in this town. I think I’m going to join a twelve-step program.”

“You’ve made that threat before and you never do. For now let’s go over the rest of the house.”

In an electronics room they found three computers, one printer, and rows of disks and shelves filled with technical manuals. Papers covered three large tables against one wall. In this room there wasn’t an antique in sight. The decor ran to stainless steel stem lamps, stark white walls, and an absence of that which would make it warm or personal.

There was a bank of smaller monitors tucked in one corner. “This must be the security system,” Fenwick said.

All the monitors were dark. A small shelf contained tapes. “These must be the monitor’s records,” Turner said. “We’ll have to check them out.”

“Want to bet the ones from last night are missing?” Fenwick asked.

“No,” Turner said. “Although, if he knew the killer, and let him in voluntarily, all the security in the world wouldn’t have helped much.”

After they’d hunted through a drawer jammed with bills, checkbooks, and personal correspondence, Turner said, “I don’t see an address book.” Nothing they found revealed anything significant. Turner discovered a pile of postcards without messages or stamps. They were from cities throughout the world.

“He didn’t bank electronically?” Turner asked.

“You’d think a computer guy would,” Fenwick said.

“A guy this wealthy must employ a team of accountants. We need to talk to them. We’ll have to get some of the department computer people in here and go over everything carefully.” Turner gazed at all the papers. “Not something I’m looking forward to quite yet.”

“You and me both,” Fenwick said. They decided to leave the papers for that afternoon when the computer expert could be present. He would be able to tell them what was safe to touch, or what could be secret diagrams to technological marvels that could rule the world, or what could possibly be a clue in a murder investigation.

In a walk-in closet off the electronics room they found an entire wall that held a library of DVD recordings, thousands of alphabetized movie tapes, and thousands of CDs. Numerous shelves were filled with pornographic videos.

As he examined the outer coverings of these last, Turner said, “My guess is, he was straight.” Fenwick checked several of the box covers. Many featured naked women wearing spike heels and enough makeup to fill yards of counter space in the cosmetics section of a major department store. Most were sprawled in fantastic contortions displaying as much flesh as possible.

“Are these poses supposed to be enticing?” Turner asked, holding up one with a woman leaning backward while straddling the largest watermelon Turner had ever seen. She wore only a pair of red spike heels and the requisite gobs of makeup.

Fenwick examined the proffered box for a moment and then said, “To the fourteen-year-old boy inside of every adult, straight male, they are.”

“No real woman has breasts that big,” Turner asked, “do they?”

“I haven’t made a study, although I’d be willing to volunteer to do the research if my wife were on a trip to Mars and wouldn’t be back for ten years, and that radar she has for knowing what I’m up to was turned off.”

“Is there any significance to the fact that he had all these tapes?” Turner asked.

“He whacked off a lot?”

“Maybe he was into making them. I haven’t seen any apparatus for that yet. These sure look like regular commercial tapes. You don’t make highly glossy boxes for your own self-filmed collection, do you?”

“I never have,” Fenwick said.

Turner said, “I like the newspaper articles where, when a criminal is arrested, they include the porn tapes in a list of things found. As if by their very presence, they revealed something sinister about the owner.”

Fenwick waved his hand at the assembled tapes. “Having this many is a little unusual. Maybe he was just rich and could afford to indulge his tastes. We’ll have to ask around to see if there is any significance. Adding a highly sexual element to a gritty murder always perks me right up.”

“I thought we disposed of the problem of you being perky and up earlier today.”

“Not hardly.”

“Ouch.”

Just off a second floor bedroom they found another large walk-in closet. They checked each dresser drawer. All the boxer shorts were silk. All the shirts were hand-tailored. A receipt was attached to several of them, each with the address of a dry cleaner two blocks away. Lenzati had a line of suits unlike any Turner had ever seen on racks in a store. They found another large closet tending to jeans and T-shirts. Turner counted the pairs of athletic shoes and then asked, “Who needs thirty pairs of gym shoes?”

“One for each day of the month?” Fenwick offered.

Lenzati also had warm-up outfits and athletic clothes, titanium tennis rackets and titanium golf clubs. When he saw the clubs, Turner said, “If we didn’t have those tapes, I could still tell he was straight.”

“How’s that?”

“He played golf. No gay men play golf.”

“There must be some who do.”

“Nope. In the gay gene there is no golf strand.”

“I thought there wasn’t a gay gene.”

“No one knows for sure, but if there is, trust me, it does not include playing golf. It’s just one of those little oddities of the universe. Gay men play in all sports except golf.”

“Even hockey?” Fenwick asked.

“I hope they play hockey, and I want to meet them.”

“Good for you,” Fenwick said. “Next question. Did he live with someone? I see lots of expensive clothes, but I don’t see evidence of two sets of clothes, or any feminine apparel. I don’t see personal items that would indicate cohabitation. There was only one toothbrush in the john, one stick of deodorant, a razor, and shaving cream. My guess is he was single. Unless he kept wives and mistresses in mansions throughout the world.”

“Speaking of mistresses,” Turner said, “where’s the hired help? He must have had servants of some kind, but we haven’t seen any. I wonder why not?”

“How many guesses do I get?” Fenwick asked.

“Not enough.”

Fenwick said, “Girote claimed Lenzati dated, but it doesn’t look like anyone was sharing this place at the moment.”

“A safe enough conclusion.”

The king size bed in the master bedroom was covered with a quilt made of alternating red and black squares. The abstract paintings on the walls continued the red and black color scheme. On the top of glass cube endtables, they found several arrangements of toy rubber ducks and pink flamingoes in sexual congress with each other.

Fenwick said, “If we were looking for sexual perversity, I think we found it.”

“My definition of sexual perversity is a little raunchier than this. More colorful too.”

“Care to tell me about it?” Fenwick asked.

“Not in this life time,” Turner said. They checked all the dresser drawers. “I don’t see evidence of someone else. No underwear of a different size.”

“Either two males of exactly the same size lived here, or he was living alone. Or, he was dating a woman who wore the exact same clothes as he did.”

“I’m voting for alone,” Turner said.

They went back downstairs. Fenwick grumbled, “Where the fuck is the murder weapon?”

“It’s Carruthers’ fault,” Turner said. “He’s talked to all the potential murderers in town and warned them not to help you in the slightest way.” Randy Carruthers was the most maligned officer on the Area Ten detective squad.

“Why is the world all of a sudden paying so much attention to Carruthers?” Fenwick asked.

“If you can’t trust someone who is dangerously stupid, who can you trust?” Turner asked.

The front door swung open. Tommy Quiroz said, “I’ve got a guy out here who says he has to talk to whoever is in charge. Says his name is Brooks Werberg. Claims he was the corpse’s business partner.”

4

I like it when famous people show up. I love publicity and outrage and upset. I like it when they have news conferences over. something I’ve done. It’s best when some reporter asks why a killer would be doing such a thing. Everybody always wants to know why Well, sometimes there isn’t a why. Sometimes people are just mean sons of bitches.

Turner remembered Werberg’s name from what the mayor’s press secretary had told them. They let him in. Brooks Werberg was in his mid-thirties. He wore a Prada suit that Turner knew to cost several thousand dollars. Turner recognized its sleek, lean lines, three buttons, and notched collar. He knew what it was because his older son Brian had been campaigning to buy one for the prom in the spring. Turner had told his son he could buy it with money from his job at the neighborhood deli. Any money, that is, that was not earmarked for college.