Dead Egotistical Morons

by Mark Richard Zubro

  “As you left, did you see anybody going toward Roger or hanging around the entrance?”

  “No, we just went to the party. I was hungry. I always am after concerts.”

  “Did you notice anybody walking out during the party?”

  “Everybody was in and out. I don’t remember who was where.”

  Turner explained about the sabotage they found.

  “Somebody was trying to kill all of us?”

  Turner said, “Or trying to make it look like they were.”

  “I coulda been dead.”

  The detectives nodded.

  “Are you saying that whichever one of us was last in that shower, we’d be dead?”

  “We aren’t sure,” Turner said.

  The boy shook his head. “This is gonna be the end of the band, isn’t it?”

  Turner wondered how much of the angst about the murder was really a cover for this question, which all of them had to be asking themselves. Great tragedies can affect us, he knew, but how much they affected us personally was usually the unspoken main agenda.

  “You guys have a lot of casual sex?” Fenwick asked.

  Devane shook his head. “That sounds like a question from one of the tabloid reporters.”

  Turner said, “We have no desire to involve the press. It could be important if one of the casual relationships had gone sour.”

  “We’re straight guys with the world at our fingertips. It would be abnormal if we didn’t have sex. It was offered to us. Thrown at us. I never thought I’d have sex with so many girls. I only dated one girl in high school. This is like being in a candy store that automatically refills itself. We could keep a condom company in business all by ourselves.”

  “Was there heavy drug use?” Fenwick asked.

  “No, man. We had to keep a clean image. If any of the guys was doing drugs, he kept it quiet. Really quiet. I wasn’t. This isn’t a heavy metal band where the more outrageous you are the more the fans like it. We understood the image we had to portray.”

  He knew nothing else helpful.

  They had a conference with the beat cops who’d been interviewing the other people at the party and the members of the crew. No one at the party had heard anything suspicious or unusual. The cops had no suggestions for people the detectives might interview.

  Outside it was cold. The temperature on this February night was supposed to get to five below zero. It felt like it. Despite the frigid air, about a hundred people had gathered across the street from the arena’s main entrance. A sea of candles surrounded heaps of flowers and mounds of teddy bears which leaned against a crowd-retention fence. It would take several thousand of the tiny votive candles to add the slightest bit of warmth in the shivering mass of humanity. Most of the crowd were young girls, with a scattering of parents. Turner figured most of the rest of the oldsters were in their cars in the nearby parking lot with the heaters on full blast. A few television crews made occasional forays among the teenagers for tear-filled interviews designed to escalate any possible frenzy. Things wouldn’t pick up with that until the morning news shows. It was nearly three in the morning. The two detectives hurried to their car. Standing next to it was a huge, well-muffled figure. When they got close, Turner realized it was Randall Blundlefitz, the critic.

  “I’ve got to talk to you guys. Now.”

  “Somebody dead nearby?” Fenwick asked.

  Blundlefitz look confused. “No.”

  “Are you the murderer?” Fenwick asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you have the killer in your car?” Fenwick asked.

  “I don’t know who did it,” Blundlefitz said.

  “Then it can wait until we get back to the station,” Fenwick said. “Meet us there.” He bulled past him.

  6

  Fenwick’s first question after he started the car was, “What the fuck does that moron want?”

  “The pleasure of your glorious presence?”

  “Are we wasting time with this asshole? We’ve got a million things to do before we can go home.”

  “He’s taking too much interest,” Turner said. “Does his interest mean he’s a meddling creep, or a killer trying to stay close to an investigation and find out what we’ve got? I’m not sure. His claim that he wasn’t at the party is probably true, but anybody could have gotten in from the pool or the weight room or the sauna. I think we should give him a lot of rope. If we’re lucky, he’ll hang himself with it.”

  The short trip to Area Ten headquarters took only a few minutes. The station was little more than a brick-encased landfill. It was the ugliest, most hideous, most rundown police station in the city. You could wash and wax the floors every day and repaint it inside and out weekly, but it would do no good. Fenwick was convinced if they held a national competition for worst police station, this one would win. Turner agreed. No one bothered to complain anymore about things that didn’t work. Nothing changed. When the building collapsed, with or without the cops in it at the time, they might get a new one. Even then they weren’t sure.

  The detectives arrived ahead of Blundlefitz. At the station the lieutenant on duty, Fred Falcoli, shuffled over. Falcoli walked and talked slower than almost anyone Turner knew. He was also excellent at making sure the police work done on his shift met every bureaucratic requirement. His superiors appreciated his efficiency. His underlings, depending on their willingness to get paperwork done right the first time, either hated him or tolerated him. Turner and Fenwick were closer to the tolerating end than the hating end of the spectrum, although on a bad day, Fenwick could be convinced to strangle all the bureaucrats in the system. Turner wanted to be present when he did. Falcoli got his update then said, “Lots of press on this.”

  “Got to be,” Turner said.

  “Get started on the paperwork,” Falcoli said and left. He spoke mostly in platitudes, rarely gave out praise or criticism unless your paperwork was wrong.

  The detectives began to organize the forms they knew they’d have to fill out after they were done with the rest of the interviews and visits for the night. Moments later Blundlefitz strutted into the third-floor squad room. He marched over to where they sat. He flung his coat, hat, and gloves on an empty desk. He grabbed a swivel chair from ten feet away and pulled it over. After seating himself, Blundlefitz announced, “I have been investigating.”

  Turner watched Fenwick’s expression. His partner’s face resembled the gapes of the audience members in the movie The Producers at the beginning of opening night of Springtime for Hitler.

  After a more than comfortable pause, Fenwick asked, “You what?” His voice was far softer than usual. Turner knew this was a bad sign for whoever Fenwick was addressing. Loud, Fenwick was intimidating. Soft, he could be dangerous. Even more so because the object of his ire was usually unaware that the quietness did not denote benignity.

  “I’ve been Jessica Fletcher and Miss Marple combined. I’ve been busy, as you should have been.”

  This opening gambit pissed Turner off. Anyone with any sense never mentioned an amateur sleuth to a working detective. The grumbly but benevolent, patient and kindly detectives of television lore were a joke. The bumbling, wise, and kindly interferers—a pleasant fiction. The concept underlying them being that anyone with a modicum of sense and determination could solve a crime. An unpleasantly untrue concept. Turner had never considered the possibility that he’d actually run into someone who claimed to be an amateur sleuth.

  Turner and Fenwick watched Blundlefitz in silence.

  “I went to their hotel. Why haven’t you been to their hotel? I was there. I’m used to getting in where I want when I want. Bluffs or bribes or both.”

  “Oh my,” Fenwick said.

  Blundlefitz glared.

  Turner said, “Please, continue.” He didn’t want the guy to stop talking. A killer or a clown or something in between, he might talk himself into an admission of guilt. Although Turner doubted if he actually knew anything that might lead to an arrest
in the case.

  Blundlefitz said, “I think Jonathan Zawicki is a perfect suspect. I found out stuff that is going to make the tabloids ring. It’s going to make headlines around the world. I already have calls in to all the trade papers. I’m going to have an exclusive. This is going to rip the lid off the music industry.”

  More silence from the two detectives. If Blundlefitz cared about their lack of reaction, he didn’t show it.

  “I found notes from a meeting. I found out the band was going to break up. I found everything. They didn’t get back from the concert for hours. They had to wait so long for you. In Stendar’s clothes I found all kinds of things. I found condoms. You know what that means?”

  Fenwick answered, “He practiced safe sex?”

  “It means he was screwing somebody. You’d think a girlfriend would be using birth control, so he was either making it with guys or picking up women. I know you’re thinking it can’t be unusual that these guys could have anybody they wanted. You need to find out who he picked up during this past week. That’s more suspects. I found out who Stendar was screwing on a regular basis. He got a call while I was there. I’ve been to visit her. I’ve got her name. Sherri Haupmin. She left the party early. She didn’t know about the murder. She had the private number to his room. She’s another possible suspect. Where did she go and why? She’s the lead singer for one of the opening acts. She knew things. Why haven’t you interviewed her? She said the guys in the band barely ever talked to each other. She said Roger wanted to get away from the band. She claimed they all had to have sex with Zawicki and Pastern.”

  “Pardon?” Turner asked.

  “To get into the band they had to agree to have sex with their bosses. They had to be at the beck and call of all the executives. She said they didn’t get any respect as musicians, which is true. They were just raw meat to be ground up in this big money-making machine.” He drew a deep breath. “But I don’t trust her. I went through some of the other boys’ things.”

  “You interfered in an investigation?” Fenwick’s voice was barely audible in the large squad room.

  “No one said not to. There was no crime-scene tape. I’ve checked with the magazine’s lawyers already. I’m going to be bigger than any amateur sleuth has ever been. I don’t have much time to keep talking to you guys. I’ve got to get to the morning news shows. I found evidence of drugs. Bottles of pills.”

  “Give them to me,” Fenwick said.

  “I sent them out to be analyzed.”

  “You’re not going to be on the morning news shows,” Fenwick said. “You are going to go get those pills, and you’re going to do it now. We are going with you.”

  Blundlefitz said, “Are you trying to save their pristine little reputations? Are the police covering up? I won’t let you bully me.”

  Fenwick said, “We either arrest you this minute, or we go get those pills. They are part of a murder investigation. They are part of a dead person’s belongings. They are certainly not yours.”

  “I get a phone call.”

  Turner suspected the ego of the man had blinded him to the simple expedient of bringing one of the lawyers with him or waiting until one was available. He’d made a mistake. Turner didn’t believe in trampling people’s rights. Unfortunately for Blundlefitz, it was no longer a question of his rights. The reporter had acted precipitately and committed several crimes.

  “Here’s how it works,” Fenwick said. “We find a nice cell for you, and we forget you’re there for as long as we can. No phone calls. No communication with anybody.”

  “That’s illegal. You can’t deny me my rights. I’ll yell brutality.”

  Fenwick stood up. “You mother-fucking moron!” His bellow was at full roar. “You stupid fucking shit!” Bang, went his fist down on his desk. Blundlefitz jumped. “Do you take stupid pills?” Fenwick demanded. “Who the fuck do you think you are? Fucking amateur sleuths don’t exist in the real world, and you aren’t some great untouchable journalist looking for truth and light. You work for some third-rate rag that specializes in gossip, speculation, and innuendo. You think you’re going to tell the police how to do their job? And you’re going to fuck with my investigation? And you’re going to tell me that I can’t fuck with you? That you have fucking rights? You do not have a right to fuck with an investigation. What kind of asshole are you? Certainly the moronically stupid kind. Do you take asshole pills and stupid pills? You can’t have been born this way.” Fenwick’s fist banged again. Turner noticed several of the uniformed cops from downstairs appear at the top of the stairs. They saw Fenwick in full roar and immediately retreated. Someday Turner half expected to see steam coming out of Fenwick’s ears just like Yosemite Sam at the height of his anger and frustration.

  Fenwick continued at full volume. “All three of us are going down to our unmarked car, and we are going to drive to wherever the fuck you took those pills. We’re going now or you are going nowhere for twenty-four to thirty-six hours and with the slightest bit of luck, over forty-eight hours. And believe me, my superiors will back me up on this. A famous kid is dead and you broke into his room. Don’t tell me I don’t know a story that will hurt somebody when I hear one. Your name will be synonymous with shit when I finish with you. You think we haven’t dealt with reporters before? You think we don’t know how to plant things that will help us? Let’s go.”

  Blundlefitz didn’t move. Whether in awe at this spectacular display of genuine anger or in fear for his own safety, or for some other reason, Turner wasn’t sure.

  Fenwick banged his fist down harder than before. The desk shook. Fenwick pointed a finger at Blundlefitz. “Defy me, you dumb motherfucker. I dare you to defy me.”

  Blundlefitz looked at Turner, who was glad to see the reporter was very pale. Blundlefitz mumbled, “I didn’t have time to take the pills anywhere.”

  “Where are they?”

  “In my car.”

  The three of them marched into the cold. Blundlefitz opened the glove compartment and extracted two bottles of pills. Turner placed the containers in evidence bags. Fenwick reached past Blundlefitz and pulled out a handful of crumpled-up men’s underwear.

  “Why are these here?” Fenwick asked. Turner checked the sizes, either twenty-eight or thirty.

  Blundlefitz said, “I took those, too.”

  Back at their desks Turner held up the evidence bag with the pill bottles in them. “Your fingerprints have probably obliterated any possible clue.” Turner examined the labels. “These look like ordinary prescription drug containers. It says ‘Take for pain as needed.’” One container looked nearly full, the other half full.

  “What better way to hide drugs?” Blundlefitz said. “And being addicted to prescription drugs is just as much an addiction as any other.”

  Turner examined the underwear. There were three pairs of white briefs, Calvin Klein, Hanes, and 2Xist as well as two pairs of boxers, one pink, one black. Blundlefitz looked frustrated. “You can’t humiliate me,” he said.

  Turner realized they didn’t have to. He’d done a good enough job on his own. He also suspected that Blundlefitz would hope they wouldn’t report his theft to the press or to his superiors. The break-in was bad, but you could rationalize it under an umbrella of twisted journalistic logic. The underwear was a killer.

  “You stole a dead guy’s underwear?” Fenwick asked. His tone had changed from attack mode to stunned disbelief.

  “He wasn’t going to need them anymore.” A touch of Blundlefitz’s old bravado crept into his voice. “The others wouldn’t miss them.”

  “I bet you took them from the dirty clothes piles,” Fenwick said. “Did you take them for kicks or are you planning to sell them as souvenirs?”

  Blundlefitz raised his head and glared at Fenwick. “I did wrong. It’s sleazy, and you could try and smear me. There are people in this town who would like to see me taken down. Fine, be a party to that. Arrest me if you can, but I’m not sure I have to listen to you berating me.”


  Turner asked, “Did you steal anything else?”

  “No. Just that stuff. And I wrote notes. That’s not a crime. And I took pictures. That’s not illegal, either. The tabloids would pay huge amounts of money for them.”

  “We need to look at the pictures,” Turner said. He could demand the camera, but he wanted Blundlefitz to give it up voluntarily. The reporter took a one-use camera out of the inner pocket of his overcoat and placed it on Turner’s desk. Turner noted that while completing the movement, Blundlefitz caused his chair to move farther away from Fenwick. If Blundlefitz had enough stuff hidden, he might be sitting in Turner’s lap before long. Turner grimaced at the thought.

  “Did you talk to anyone else?” Turner asked.

  “Other than Ms. Haupmin, no.”

  “Where is Ms. Haupmin now?” Turner asked.

  “She’s staying in the same hotel as the rest of the road crew. Only the members of the band and some security people were staying at the Hotel Chicago.” Turner knew it was the newest, most exclusive, and most expensive hotel in Chicago. “She and the rest of them are at the Plaza Mart Inn just past Halsted on Madison.”

  “We’ll go see her,” Turner said.

  Fenwick said, “Mr. Blundlefitz, you will go home and you will do nothing to interfere with this investigation. You will not talk to anyone. I will not see you again. No one will report to me that you bothered them.”

  “Okay.” The agreement was just a little too quick to suit Turner. He couldn’t read Blundlefitz’s expression. Turner wasn’t one of those who thought you could read volumes from the look on someone’s face. Still, he thought there might be defiance or the beginning of a smirk just below the surface. Blundlefitz certainly didn’t come across as sufficiently chagrined. Turner couldn’t prove the man was going to keep interfering, and Blundlefitz had said okay. Nothing to be done about it now. Turner didn’t trust him but if they had to, they could arrest him later. At the moment it wasn’t worth the hassle to lock him up. So far as he could tell, Blundlefitz had given them all the information he had and told them all he’d done. They would let him dangle for a while.