Dead Egotistical Morons

by Mark Richard Zubro

  Before Blundlefitz left they sent him to get his fingerprints recorded. They’d have to eliminate them from the others in the suite. Fenwick told the beat cop in charge to take his time with the process.

  Joe Roosevelt and Judy Wilson, two other detectives on the squad, sauntered over with one of the new Area Ten detectives, Arnie Krempe. Joe was red-nosed and short, with brush-cut gray hair and bad teeth. Judy was a fiercely competitive African-American woman. They were as good at clearing cases as Turner and Fenwick, but they argued a lot more. About everything. Constantly. Arnie looked like a kid compared to the old veterans.

  Roosevelt clapped his hands. “That was your greatest performance ever,” he said.

  “Nope,” Wilson said. “Remember the killer who used gallon containers of ice cream to bash his victims? He figured he could eat the evidence? He didn’t realize he needed to eat the containers as well. Remember when he attacked Fenwick with a gallon of rocky road that had been thawing on the counter for an hour and a half? That was classic. And a mess. If the eating fiasco didn’t prove he was stupider than most, attacking Fenwick would.”

  “Wasn’t a performance,” Fenwick stated. This stopped the incipient debate. The four of them looked at Fenwick. “A lot of these music people are moronic creeps,” Fenwick said. “They think they are the most important people on the planet. They’re rich and famous. Or they deal with the rich and famous, the presumption of status based upon proximity. Big fucking deal.”

  “Upon proximity?” Wilson said. “You swallow a thesaurus?”

  “You ever been rich or famous?” Roosevelt asked.

  “Not likely,” Fenwick said.

  “Then how would you know how big a deal it is?” Roosevelt asked.

  Fenwick said, “My shrewd detective sense. My brilliant powers of observation. My—”

  “Stop,” Wilson said. “I can only take so much of this at four in the morning.”

  Krempe said, “As far as I’ve seen these past couple weeks, Fenwick does bombastic at half the witnesses and most of the suspects. With us he attempts humor and tells the dumbest jokes. What difference does it make what time of the day or night he dishes it out?”

  “Night shifts amplify our faults,” Wilson said. She held up a hand to Fenwick. “For those of us who have faults,” she corrected.

  “Thank you,” Fenwick said.

  “How do you do that?” Krempe asked. “You get so angry but don’t have a stroke or a heart attack.”

  “Practice,” Fenwick said.

  Krempe said, “I don’t mean to get personal, but why is there a stack of underwear on your desk?”

  Turner said, “Blundlefitz, the guy who Fenwick was unhappy with, stole them from the Boys4u suite.”

  “You could make yourself rich auctioning them off on the Internet,” Krempe said.

  “Ugh, others people’s underwear,” Wilson said. “That is disgusting.”

  “I do believe they were very likely used underwear,” Fenwick said.

  Wilson said, “Double ugh. That is the most disgusting thing.”

  Roosevelt said, “I can think of something more disgusting. There was this Dumpster…”

  Ignoring this new debate, Turner and Fenwick left to continue their interviews. On the way out they logged in the underwear and the pills, sending all of it to be analyzed by the crime lab. They didn’t expect much from the underwear and even the pills had only an off-chance of being anything useful in catching the killer. Confirming salacious bits of gossip about the band members’ private lives wasn’t likely to give them much evidence. An addiction could raise numerous questions, but they had no proof yet that any of them were involved in drugs.

  7

  In the car they shivered while waiting for the heater to reach full strength. The new heater that had been installed the year before was only slightly less temperamental than the last. This one kept the car consistently almost warm enough.

  Fenwick and Turner drifted over to the Plaza Mart Inn. In some cities cops drive places, in Chicago they drift. The Plaza Mart was a twenty-story mass of lesser priced rooms. It had all the charm of concrete blocks. The 4 A.M. darkness hid much of what Turner thought of as its greatest flaw, its deep-puce-colored exterior. While the rooms cost less than they would have in the Loop itself or on the near north side, still they weren’t cheap.

  The detectives asked for Sherri Haupmin at the front desk. The woman on duty pointed to a crowd on the far side of the lobby. The detectives found a group from the touring company huddled together. Turner thought he vaguely recognized a few of them from the arena. The color scheme in the lobby was pale cream and puce. The furniture was a step-above-plastic ultramodern. When they asked for Haupmin, a woman about five foot two held up her hand. She had blond hair and wore jeans and a winter coat. Turner guessed she was in her early twenties. Neither she nor anyone else in the group looked like they’d been to bed.

  “Ms. Haupmin, we need to talk to you,” Turner said. They held out their identifications.

  “I can’t talk to anyone else,” she said. “I’ve talked enough. This has got to stop.”

  Fenwick repeated the cop mantra that they’d used a zillion times. “The early hours of an investigation are the most important. We know you’re grieving, but it would help us a great deal.”

  “I’m too overwhelmed. I loved him.”

  “Who did you talk to already?” Turner asked.

  “All the major news outlets and that odious fat, local man. I probably told him too much.”

  “Like what?” Turner asked.

  “I don’t know. Everything. Nothing really.”

  Turner said, “If you could talk to us, it could make a difference in finding Roger’s killer.”

  She shrugged.

  They sat in three chairs grouped far from the others. Turner found that the chrome and vinyl seats were as uncomfortable as they looked.

  Haupmin shivered. “I can’t wait to get out of this cold. This city is awful. I’m going to hate it forever.”

  “We understand you were Roger’s girlfriend,” Turner said.

  “Yes, oh my, yes.” She wiped at tears with a crumpled tissue she took from her coat pocket.

  “Did Roger have any enemies that you know of?” Turner asked.

  “Every single member of that band. Every single employee of that company. The other members of the band hated him. They were jealous of his talent.”

  Turner heard Fenwick’s sigh of satisfaction. The best thing to do was find the local gossip and/or someone who had an ax to grind. Haupmin might have a negative view of all these people, but what she said might give the detectives better information than the others.

  Haupmin said, “Half an hour ago, Zawicki was here. He told us all not to tell anybody anything. He didn’t talk to us until after I spoke with the national press and that local reporter. I can’t imagine giving an interview to some nobody from a nothing rag would make much of a difference. I can talk to the police, can’t I? I think I have to.”

  “Why did they dislike Roger?” Turner asked.

  “They didn’t dislike him. I said hate. He had more talent than the rest of them combined. That Ralph Eudace, their agent and manager, he was a pig. Pastern was a vicious prude. I protected Roger more than he did. I saved him from grasping women. I kept him on an even keel. And that Murial Arane, their choreographer! She was trying to hold them back. Her position was precarious. She should have been fired long ago. Roger could plan their choreography better than anyone. He deserved to be out front all the time. I practically had to tear her hair out to get her to listen.”

  “Did she and Roger fight?”

  “She was so far behind him in talent. She should have stood aside and let him create.”

  Turner asked, “Can you remember their last public fight?”

  “They didn’t have to use words,” she said. “I could see her jealousy and her spite in her eyes.”

  Turner always doubted those whose insight came from i
nterpretations of eye movements. He wondered how much of what she said was an exaggeration or a product of her imagination rather than her having witnessed actual events. He asked, “How was his relationship with Riveting Records?”

  “Roger should have had a better contract. He should have been paid more money. Eudace wasn’t protecting his interests. All the boys had the same agent. That was stupid. Roger should have gotten his own years ago. Those weren’t rumors about him trying to have a solo career. He wanted to. Boy, he wanted to. He wanted to be free to sing with whoever he chose to.”

  Turner assumed she was referring to herself. He asked, “Riveting Records was keeping the two of you from having a career together?”

  “And trying to stop our relationship. That Zawicki was such an asshole. He would never listen. Roger had to put his foot down for them to let me be one of the opening acts on this tour.”

  “What exactly did he have to do to get you to be the opening act?” Turner asked.

  “The band has its own production company. They can’t take that from them. I’m one of their discoveries. Roger discovered me himself. They like to bring some of the talent from their own company along as opening acts. Gives them lots of exposure.”

  Turner said, “We understand you told Mr. Blundlefitz that Mr. Zawicki required sex from the boys before they could be in the band. Maybe one or some of them were required to perform sex acts for Mr. Zawicki as a trade for letting you sing.”

  “Roger would never do that.”

  “Was performing sexually required of you?” Turner asked.

  “Hell, no. Zawicki was sick. I would never let anybody do that to me.”

  “But Roger was required to have sex with Zawicki to get into the band.”

  “Roger wasn’t gay. I told Roger to file suit. I told him he could make millions from what that shit did.”

  “Why didn’t he?” Turner asked.

  “He said it wasn’t a big deal. How can it not be a big deal? He was raped.”

  “Did Roger use the word rape?” Turner asked.

  “Well, that’s what it was.”

  “Who told you Roger had to have sex with Zawicki?”

  “Roger did. He told me Zawicki made him do it every month or so. Roger hated it.”

  “But not bad enough to put a stop to it.”

  “He had his own reputation. All those no-talent males who hate boy bands think the guys are gay. Believe me, I know. Roger Stendar was not gay. No way.”

  “Was Roger planning to go public with what he was forced to do for Zawicki?”

  “No. Definitely not. Zawicki is really powerful in the industry. Roger might be rich, but Zawicki has a lot of friends and a lot of power. Being a talent in this industry is really tenuous. If you’re very lucky, you’re in the right place at the right time, and if you get all the breaks, you wind up on top. Roger couldn’t risk jeopardizing that. The fall from the top is pretty steep.”

  “Why not just leak the information to some reporter?” Fenwick asked.

  “There were only a few people who knew. Zawicki would be able to figure out who told. And Roger had to protect his own reputation.”

  “Did Roger tell you the other guys had to have sex with Mr. Zawicki?”

  “I’m not stupid. I could tell.”

  Fenwick asked, “Did you start having sex with Roger Stendar before or after you were part of their production company?”

  “We were lovers way before I got hired.”

  Fenwick asked, “Was going to bed with him part of your plan for getting signed by the production company?”

  “No, hey, no.”

  “Did the two of you use condoms?” Fenwick asked.

  “These questions are awfully personal. Do I have to answer them?”

  Fenwick said, “Condoms were found in his luggage. If he didn’t use them with you, presumably they were there to be used with someone else. Unless he has a condom collection or used them when he was entertaining himself.”

  “Roger wasn’t a pervert.” She glared at Fenwick. “Are you making this up to trick me?”

  “No,” Fenwick said.

  “One of the other guys must have put them there or they were left from before he and I got together. He didn’t use them with me. We didn’t need them because I’m on the pill. I’m sure there’s a simple explanation. We loved each other. I know he wasn’t cheating. I bet Zawicki killed him.”

  “Why do you say that?” Turner asked.

  “He was so creepy to be around.”

  “What happened tonight?”

  “I sang for about half an hour. There were two opening acts. I watched their show and Roger’s.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual?”

  “No. It was a great show. The guys were perfect. They could perform together, but they didn’t get along. I know they all have this image, but I would tell Roger over and over, he had to move on for his own good. He could be among the greats.”

  “Were the two of you planning to get married?”

  “Not yet. We had our careers.”

  “Did you stay with him on the road?”

  “That was impossible. Pastern was a son of a bitch. He was worse than a constipated nanny. Pastern should have protected him from Zawicki. Instead he concentrated on protecting Roger from me. Asshole. It was always their goddamn image that they had to be careful of. They even brainwashed Roger into believing that. We were discreet. We’d find time to be together at odd moments before concerts. A lot of times when he claimed he was checking props, he and I would get together. We did a lot of sneaking around. The tour bus was the best. It was like home.”

  “Did he check the props last night?” Turner asked.

  “I suppose. I didn’t ask. I wasn’t interested in that. We met in that big locker room area. It was great. Lots of privacy. We got into all kinds of places. We did it in the hot tub. I’ve never seen a bigger one. Sex before a concert relaxed him, improved his performance.” She didn’t seem to notice the double meanings. “I wasn’t the only one dating a guy in the band or having sex with one. The other guys had sex with lots of girls. That Danny Galyak screwed anything with a twat. If a girl was breathing, he was interested. They couldn’t keep the girls away from them. Either the guys or the fans or both always found a way.”

  “But Roger was faithful to you?”

  “Of course.”

  Turner couldn’t tell if she was doing heavy-duty wish fulfillment, or if she was as close to Stendar as she claimed. Maybe she was just another lay for the dead band member, although she did know about Zawicki’s sexual escapades, which implied that Roger had felt close enough to confide in her. Turner still wasn’t sure how much credibility to give her claims.

  Fenwick said, “You told this to the local reporter, but not to the beat cops when they questioned you at the arena?”

  “They were cops, strangers.”

  “Wasn’t Blundlefitz a stranger?” Turner asked.

  “He was a critic. A reviewer. I knew that much. He said I could trust him.”

  Whether she was terminally stupid, moronically naïve or rapturously self-centered, Turner couldn’t tell.

  “What time did you leave?”

  “Before Roger was killed. I don’t like to be around Zawicki. I had to get back to do some packing.”

  “Did the guys fight a lot in other people’s presence?” Turner asked.

  “Nobody ever saw them fighting. They were too clever for that. And that publicist Hinkmeyer is a snake. She covered for everybody. And Eudace is a bigger snake. And Pastern is a certifiable Nazi. Roger confided in me. I knew.”

  “How was Hinkmeyer a snake?” Turner asked.

  “She’s a shill for the company. She’d tell any lie to keep the guys in the band passive and quiet.”

  “And Eudace?”

  “He was in league with Pastern in trying to keep Roger and me apart. As if they could. Puke on them both.”

  “Did Roger get any direct threats that you know abou
t?” Turner asked.

  “You get those crazed fans, but that’s what security is for.”

  “Nothing specific?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  In the car, Fenwick said, “I don’t think she was as close as she thought she was. And it’s convenient to have somebody on the tour who happens to be your fuck buddy. I bet Stendar was using her the way Zawicki was using him.”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised,” Turner said. “Haupmin is the only one who admits to leaving the party early. She could have gotten into that warren of interconnected rooms down there. She’d been there with Roger. She knew her way around.”

  “She’s on my suspect list,” Fenwick said.

  The Hotel Chicago was luxury personified, everything that the Plaza Mart Inn was not. The carpets were plush, the chandeliers cut crystal, the woodwork imported teak.

  They were led to the boys’ suite by the head of hotel security, Herb Gibbons. Two beat cops were on duty at the door. The band had half the top floor of the hotel to themselves. Floor-to-ceiling windows opened to the spectacle of the lights of the Loop and Chicago’s near north side. Turner could see the Ferris wheel on Navy Pier and traffic heading north and south on Lake Shore Drive. Overstuffed chairs predominated. Sectional seating. A fully stocked bar.

  “Where’s the band staying at the moment?” Turner asked Gibbons.

  “I heard there was some big-deal meeting. I have no information if it is over or not. I can find out where they are if you wish.”

  “Not just yet,” Fenwick said.

  Turner and Fenwick roamed through the suite. In an unused bedroom they found an enormous Harley motorcycle. “How’d they get this up here?” Fenwick asked.

  Turner said, “I think why’d they get it up here is a better question. Did they need it for races up on the rooftop?”

  “With only one bike?” Fenwick snorted. “Self-indulgent rich kids.”

  Their inspection took half an hour. They found the mounds of dirty clothes that Blundlefitz must have taken his souvenirs from.