Nerds Who Kill: A Paul Turner Mystery (13 page)

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 tons 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.”

Turner asked, “Could the feathers have had some symbolic meaning to someone who was angry?”

“I have no idea. For that seminar thirty years ago she could submit ten pages and an outline. She had the damn feather popping up every five sentences. I told her to get rid of it. I only read that small portion. I never read the whole of any of her works.”

“Maybe your analysis was wrong,” Fenwick said.

“Everybody’s a critic,” Hickenberg said.

“Do you know who might have wanted either of these people dead?” Turner asked.

“No. I really didn’t concern myself with them. I didn’t care.”

Turner got no sense of heightened emotion or anxiety at any level. Hickenberg could be a very deadly killer or just some author who, because he’d had books published, had assumed a mantle of ego big enough to cover several continents.

“You didn’t know Mr. Foublin at all?” Turner asked.

“Really! An Internet reviewer? How pathetic. These conventions always have some fan guest of honor. It’s to make a poor pathetic schlub who doesn’t have a life feel better about himself. I’m not interested.”

Fenwick said, “Let me get this straight. You’re famous and all these people are inferior to you. Their lives are shit, and you can’t sneer fast enough.”

“Your analysis is very accurate.”

“And you’re a shit,” Fenwick said, “class A, number one shit.”

“So what?” Hickenberg said. “I’m rich and famous and you’re not.”

Fenwick said, “Maybe I should just arrest you on general principles.”

“I can see the headlines,” Hickenberg said. “Poor, put-upon writer arrested. I’d be the hero of that little short story. You’d be the villain. I know you’d like to exercise your power as a minor public official to make yourself feel better, but really, is there much point?”

Fenwick said, “Why didn’t the killer start with you?”

“He didn’t have taste or sense enough.”

Turner ended the interview. They weren’t getting anywhere and while Fenwick’s temper had flared up in a few places, Turner didn’t think there was much point in waiting for a total explosion.

As a parting shot as the detectives neared the door, Hickenberg said, “You are a not-famous writer.”

Fenwick said, “Parting shots are for cowards.”

Out in the hall, Turner asked, “You ever read any of his books?”

“No. He mixes that horror crap with gothic romance on alien planets. I know that because I’ve read reviews of his stuff.”

“He our killer?” Turner asked.

“He fits the profile.”

“I thought we didn’t profile people,” Turner said.

“I do. He’s an asshole. That meets my criteria for a criminal profile.”

“Kind of a broad category,” Turner said.

“You could narrow it down to stupid sons-a-bitches. Or you could hope the nerds and dweebs he trashed rose up and murdered him.”

“Problem is, he’s still alive.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“Who’s our killer?” Turner asked.

“Devers was above it all and could afford to twist the world into shapes that pleased her. That she was a back-biting, conniving bitch was concealed from all but a few. Those who had been a victim of her mad desire to have her own way or had been bulldozed by her mad neuroses could have reason to kill her. It’s in that small circle of those who had been victims of her viciousness where we need to look for the killer. He or she might not be there, but we gotta start somewhere.”

Turner said, “Obvious victims of her machinations make great suspects. Not so obvious victims would make even better suspects. People who have managed to hide their anger would make great suspects. Hiding their anger most likely means we don’t know who they are. By hiding they are a step ahead of the others and way ahead of us. We need to find those who have so far hidden their reactions. They’ve managed to conceal and kill.”

Fenwick said, “Unless it’s one of the wounded and slashed egos in those we have managed to uncover.”

Sanchez dashed down the hall toward them. “It’s getting worse. Come on.”

10

Turner and Fenwick rushed after him.

“What?” Turner asked as they ran.

Sanchez pointed to the stairwell on their left. “It’s another one. One of us.”

“You called it in?” Turner asked.

“Yep. We’ll have a mob of us here in a few seconds.”

Turner could hear Fenwick puffing behind them. Turner banged open the stairwell door. He heard shouts and cries of agony. All three of them pelted down the stairs.

After three flights Turner saw great spots of red spattering the walls. A few more steps and he saw rivulets of blood on the floor. In another second he saw the victim, a beat cop he didn’t know who had a broadsword sticking out of his thigh. As Turner bent over, he read the cop’s name tag, RIVACHEC. He looked like he might be a day or two out of the academy. Two uniforms stood around him trying to comfort him. Their buddy was conscious and moaning.