Dead Egotistical Morons

by Mark Richard Zubro

  “I have a press pass. I have a right to be here.”

  “Everybody in that mob outside has a press pass,” Pastern said. “Only you got in. Whoever let you in is going to get their ass fired.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t one of your people who let me in. Shout as much as you like. You do not have control over the press.”

  Pastern swore. “You moronic fuck.”

  Turner and Fenwick arrived.

  The new person held out his hand to Turner. “I’m Randall Blundlefitz, the music critic of Hot Trends magazine.” Turner vaguely recalled the glossy periodical as being a rival to Chicago magazine and the Reader, two very trendy and popular media outlets in the metropolitan area. Blundlefitz wore an elegant tux, cut well to fit his ample frame. He spoke with practiced suavity. Each gesture seemed timed and planned. Oscar Wilde before he went to seed.

  “You must leave,” Pastern said.

  “I’m here. This is news. Big news. They might not have any talent, but one of them is dead. Of course, none of these bands has much talent, that’s not news.”

  Turner thought if Blundlefitz was this condescending when someone was dead, how insufferable would he be if they were alive?

  “No interviews,” Pastern snapped.

  “Of course not,” Blundlefitz said. “I wouldn’t dream of attempting to talk to members of the band tonight. What have the police found out so far?”

  Turner liked to watch Fenwick at moments like this. His buddy had no patience with the press. He never knew which bit of rudeness or inappropriateness his partner would respond with. Turner kind of liked both the anticipation and the show that followed.

  Hinkmeyer stepped in. “Mr. Blundlefitz, I can give you as much information as possible. If you would come with me, I can give you what you need.” She took his elbow firmly but gently.

  “If you could wait a moment,” Fenwick said.

  Blundlefitz turned and raised one eyebrow about a fifth of an inch.

  Fenwick asked, “Where were you tonight and who can vouch for your movements?”

  “I was not permitted into the locker room for the party afterwards. You’ll have to leave me off the suspect list. Trust me, no matter how chaotic it was in there—and I assume it was very chaotic—I would have been noticed. When I am in a room, I am always noticed. I suspect much like yourself, Detective.” He turned and marched away. All the others left.

  “I think I’ve just been insulted,” Fenwick said.

  “And about your weight, which the rest of us are too delicate to mention.”

  “I don’t like him,” Fenwick said.

  “You don’t like anybody in the press.”

  “Your friend Ian isn’t odious.” Fenwick was referring to Ian Hume, a reporter for the Gay Tribune who had been Turner’s first lover.

  Turner and Fenwick examined the stage area again before they resumed their interrogations. The arena was much quieter and darker now. A few cops and custodians were in the upper tiers hunting for any possible evidence. Turner didn’t hold out much hope for that yielding anything helpful.

  “Hell of a place,” Fenwick said.

  Turner scanned the interior. “I wonder which angle those shots came from. With any luck forensics will come up with something. We can also try and narrow the time down from the schedule of when different effects were being used.”

  Fenwick said, “Maybe someone in the audience was making a tape. They might have a different angle from the one the company made.”

  “I don’t think they allow that, but we can check.”

  They returned to the lounge.

  The next member of the band to be interviewed was Danny Galyak, who Zawicki said was the group’s jokester. Turner guessed he was over six feet tall and in his early twenties. His baggy jeans and bulky sweatshirt could not conceal his huge shoulders or his flat stomach. He shook their hands vigorously. He slumped into the chair opposite them. His deep blue eyes met their gazes evenly.

  “This is taking forever,” Galyak said. “I want to get to the hotel. My clothes are still wet.” Turner could see damp spots from the guy’s knees to his shoulders.

  Turner didn’t notice a trace of mist in the boy’s eyes or a hint of sorrow in his tone. He did notice a suggestion of a light Southern accent.

  “Somebody died here tonight,” Fenwick said. “Maybe you’ve got blood on your clothes as well as water.”

  Galyak blanched slightly. “Hey, I’m sad Roger’s dead. How come we can’t talk to anybody else? Zawicki said you guys wanted us apart.”

  Fenwick said, “It’s customary in an investigation. We try to keep anyone who was near the scene separate.”

  “Oh.”

  “How long have you known Roger?” Fenwick asked.

  “Like, since forever.”

  Fenwick said, “I’ll need a little more definitiveness than forever.”

  “We went to the same grade school in Charleston, South Carolina. My family moved there when I was in third grade.”

  “Someone tried to kill all of you out onstage,” Fenwick said.

  The boy sat up straighter. “Say what?”

  “We found evidence of sabotage,” Turner said.

  “Is that why they asked us about water bottles? I feel fine. Somebody put something in our water?”

  Turner said, “We’re having them checked out. Did you guys only drink one brand?”

  “Yeah. We had to. We had an endorsement deal with their company. We got all the water we wanted free. We got almost everything we wanted free. People loved to give us stuff, but endorsement deals were the best. We made almost as much money from them as we did from the records. Well, not almost as much, but a lot.”

  “Did you all drink the water?”

  “Sure. You ever sing and dance like we do?” He glanced at Fenwick’s bulk. “If you don’t drink, you get dehydrated pretty fast. We’re pretty careful.”

  “So whoever planted the stuff knew you’d be drinking the water?” Fenwick asked.

  “We always drink it.”

  Turner asked, “Would each of you notice which bottle you were using? You might have a contract, but it doesn’t say which of you drinks from which bottle. Would you really pay attention in the rush of a show?”

  “Nobody gets real hyper if you use somebody else’s. We kind of keep ours in one place most of the time, but it’s pretty frantic during a performance. Things get moved. Clothes get tossed here and there. Wardrobe keeps up pretty well, but we’re on the run for nearly two hours. It’s hard to tell. You might notice or not.”

  “When did you leave the shower room?” Turner asked.

  “I left a few seconds after Dexter. He’s usually done first, me second. The others were still showering when I left. While we were in there, we would have heard a shot. I didn’t hear anything. Roger always took those long showers.”

  “Maybe he died only because he was the last one,” Turner said. He told the boy about the gunshots, the cut ropes, and the possible arson.

  “No shit,” the kid said. “You mean it could have been any of us?”

  “Nobody passed you while you were leaving the shower room?”

  “Far as I know it was just us back there.”

  “Did you notice anybody leave the party?”

  “No. Who was paying attention? It was a party.”

  Turner asked, “Do you check your own props, especially those ropes and wires?”

  “I go over everything. I didn’t notice anything wrong.”

  “How long before the concert was this?” Turner asked.

  “An hour or two.”

  “Plenty of time for someone to do some damage,” Fenwick said.

  “There were really gunshots while we were onstage?” Galyak asked.

  “We think so.”

  “I didn’t hear anything. I guess we wouldn’t. We do a lot of pyrotechnic stuff. Lots of bangs, bells, whistles, and explosions. A couple times fire shoots out all over and then we swing around.”

&nbs
p; “How did the five of you get along?” Turner asked.

  “Great.”

  “Who was the leader of the group?” Turner asked.

  “Me or Roger. They put us up front the most in the videos and things. We’re the best looking and in the best shape.”

  Turner thought, no self-esteem problems here.

  “That didn’t bother the other guys?” Fenwick asked.

  “No. We weren’t a bunch of jealous fags.”

  “The proper term is gay,” Turner said. He didn’t often insist on less-insulting terminology, especially if he was getting helpful information. Just lately, he’d been digging in his heels.

  “Okay, sorry.” He didn’t sound terribly sorry to Turner. Galyak continued, “Anyway, we had everything worked out. Everybody was happy. We all sang about the same amount of time. The other guys weren’t just backup singers. Some of us sang more on some songs than others. Like we each got to be center stage on a ballad. The girls love that.”

  Fenwick said, “A death has occurred here. Do you understand that? You don’t look sad about it.”

  “Hey, I’m sad. I don’t know what to say. You don’t expect this stuff. I’m a little hyper is all. I’m supposed to be the funny one in the group. All our fame and money and then this happens. You’d think being rich would mean this kind of stuff didn’t happen.”

  “Money don’t mean shit when it comes to murder,” Fenwick said.

  Galyak said, “Rich guys get away with all kinds of stuff. We do.”

  “Like what?” Turner asked.

  “Well, like, oh…”

  Turner said, “We’re not interested in harassing you for pranks or parking tickets that got fixed.”

  Galyak considered for a moment, then said, “Roger liked fast cars. He was going to sponsor a car or a team on a racing circuit. He drove fast all the time. He got up to a hundred sixty once on an interstate outside Houston. That time he got a couple tickets, but they just kind of disappeared. He never had to go to court. The tabloids never got the news. They don’t find out anywhere near as much as they think they do. They get all kinds of stuff wrong, too.”

  “Like what?” Turner asked.

  “We don’t date most of the people they connect us to. There isn’t time in our lives. I never knew famous people were so busy. We get our pick of women, but there’s barely time to enjoy the perks. At the same time all the dreams of what it’s like to be in the most popular boy band are true. You can have anybody you want.”

  “And do you?” Fenwick asked.

  “I have a normal sex drive.”

  “Any problems with screwing underage kids?” Fenwick asked.

  “Hey, no. Never.”

  “They must offer.”

  “Even if you had all the pro football players from every team, they wouldn’t be able to keep up with the offers we get. Getting offers isn’t a crime. Making it with hundreds of girls isn’t a crime.”

  Turner asked, “Did Stendar ever hurt anybody with his driving? Kill anybody?”

  “No. Hell no. Nobody could cover up a murder. How could that happen? Besides, he was careful. He always wore his seat belt. He made us wear ours.”

  “Pedestrians he hit wouldn’t be wearing seat belts,” Fenwick pointed out.

  “Hey, he never hit anybody, okay? He didn’t. Maybe it was luck, but he was careful.”

  “You were with him when he did this?” Turner asked.

  “Sometimes. A few times. Once in a while. Not much.”

  Distance yourself from suspicion when you don’t know if you’re going to get caught up in the vortex of responsibility. The kid had a normal reaction about that, Turner thought.

  Galyak continued, “People do strange stuff. We could start an underwear company from everything that gets thrown at us onstage or stock a toy store from all the teddy bears. We have people cleaning up one part of the stage while we’re on the other. Roger collected all the stuffed bears after the shows. He’d give them to children’s hospitals. We’d all go together to give them to the kids. The publicity department loved it.” He paused. “I kinda did, too. It’s nice to do stuff for little kids.”

  For a moment he sounded like a sincere, almost likable young man.

  “Did he have any enemies?” Turner asked. “Angry ex-girlfriends? Any of the hundreds of girls he made it with unhappy with him?”

  “No. Gosh. It really is great being in the band. Everybody always wanted to do stuff for us. Nobody hated us. Everybody thinks all the guys in boy bands are gay, but I don’t care if they think that. I’m making a lot of money doing what I like, and I can have any girl I want.”

  “No friction in the band?” Fenwick asked. “No problems outside the band? All you guys must have been saints. No ego clashes among the guys?”

  “No. We really got along.”

  “The road crew never got testy?” Fenwick asked.

  “How many times do I have to tell you, everybody liked everybody else?”

  “Everybody but one,” Fenwick said.

  5

  The next member of the band was Ivan Pappas. He wore his dyed red hair in complex swirls above a freckled face. He looked like Howdy Doody on steroids. Kind of puffy, but muscular, slightly heftier than the two living and one dead band members they’d met so far. Zawicki had called him the most mature. Pappas wore black jeans and a pale yellow sweatshirt without a logo. Turner thought his worried frown looked genuine. His clothes too were damp. Obviously there’d been a lot of clutching of the dying or lifeless band member.

  “What’s happening about Roger?” Pappas asked.

  “We’re talking to as many people as we can,” Turner said. “So far everybody in the band claimed you guys got along. Who was best friends with who?”

  “We didn’t have best friends like a girl group. We were guys. We could all talk to each other. Like, we didn’t have group therapy or anything. We just talked guy stuff. You know, sports and junk. We talked about music a lot. About what was happening to us, the concerts, and crowds, and stuff. About girls. Nobody got jealous. Mr. Zawicki treated us all equal. We all got those super-thin televisions as presents from Riveting Records for Christmas last year.”

  “Did you hear anything in the locker room?” Turner asked.

  “There wasn’t no gunshot when I was there. I just showered and got the hell out. I wanted to party. I was hungry. I called to Roger as I was leaving to hurry up.”

  “Did he answer?”

  “He yelled okay or something. He was always so slow.”

  “That bug you?” Turner asked.

  “No. Not in a serious way. We were just guys getting along. Sometimes the press would print stories about one of us pursuing a solo career, but that was all fake. Even if we wanted to, the contracts we signed were pretty ironclad. They were making us rich. Nobody was unhappy about them.”

  “Did you see anyone leave the party area?”

  “No. I was talking to a bunch of girls the whole time.”

  “Did Roger have any enemies?” Turner asked. “Fights with anybody? Old girlfriends who were jealous?”

  “Nah. We’ve got girlfriends and then we don’t. Besides Roger, a couple of us were dating, but nobody had anyone special. We’re not really home in one spot for much of the time. Most girls like it if you’re around. Even if they come with us on the tour, they get pretty ignored. People might want to have this life, but most of them don’t realize all the sacrifices you have to make.”

  They asked about the water bottles. He hadn’t noticed anything. “It was just a big, fast concert. The time goes quick. Who notices much of anything? Was somebody really trying to kill us all?”

  “We’re checking out everything,” Fenwick said.

  “While we’ve been waiting to talk to you, they wouldn’t let us talk to anybody,” he said. “How come? Do we get to go soon?”

  “Pretty soon. We’ve got one band member left to talk to.”

  Before the last member of the band walked in Fenwick a
sked, “Why do so many people think these guys are gay?”

  Turner said, “I never thought about it much. My boys don’t listen to their music. They’re into rap or bits of heavy metal or some crap I’d rather not listen to. Before tonight I wouldn’t have recognized the guys in this band if they walked past me on the street.”

  Fenwick said, “What about those heavy metal bands that wear all the makeup? Why don’t people think they’re gay?”

  “My gay ID card didn’t come with a list of who is and who isn’t gay, nor the secrets of how to tell who is and who isn’t.”

  Fenwick said, “I don’t know why you didn’t get the gaydar gene.”

  “Lucky I guess,” Turner said.

  The last member of the band, Jason Devane, was tall and willowy with very light blond hair. He trembled noticeably. He wore a muscle T-shirt, a leather jacket, and black leather pants slung low on his narrow hips. Whether he didn’t hold the dead or dying Roger Stendar or the leather didn’t absorb dampness, his clothes were dry. He sat very straight in the chair. He looked from one to the other of the detectives then said, “This is the most awful thing that’s ever happened to me. I’ve never known somebody who died. I liked Roger. I can’t believe this. He was so alive. The concert was so great. We sparkled and now all of a sudden he isn’t there.” Tears cascaded for several moments. He didn’t seem ashamed of them. After using and discarding a tissue, he wrung his hands. “Is there something I can do? There’s gotta be something. How can he be dead? Just gone. I don’t believe it.”

  Turner thought he had the deepest of any of the voices of the members of the band. He guessed Devane might be twenty-two. The kid rambled for over five minutes while wringing his hands, rubbing at his face, crossing and uncrossing his legs, brushing at his buzz-cut hair. When he asked, “Can I do something?” for a second time, Turner said, “We’ve got a few questions.”

  “Anything.”

  “Did you hear a gunshot in the locker room?”

  “No. Ivan and me walked out together. We were last except for Roger.”