Set to Kill: A Sean AP Ryan Novel (Convention Killings Book 2)

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Set to Kill: A Sean AP Ryan Novel (Convention Killings Book 2) Page 18

by Declan Finn


  “Conspiracy?” Goldberg and Cryomancer said as one.

  Sean grinned. “Of course. You didn't think that Crabs managed all that by himself, did you? I half-expected him to be unable to tie his shoes.”

  Athena grimaced. “How so?”

  Sean rolled his eyes. “Read Kovach's Tearful Puppies Bite Back parody. He made one that was purely fictional, as opposed to based on real life. I have to make a call.”

  Sean stepped outside with his phone, already dialing the overworked Detective Bellmore.

  Chapter 19

  Tearful Puppies Bite Back: Passion of the Puppy Punter

  Sometime in the future, Marshfield, Massachusetts

  The house started to shake. The windows rattled. Lamps toppled over. The loud rolling thunder sounded like the end of the world. SWAT smashed through the door. Crabs was dressed in standard Unibomber chic—unkempt hair and beard that make him look like an escapee from an insane asylum. He was already face down on the floor, hands held at the small of his back.

  “Agnes O'Day did this to me!” Crabs screamed. “Agnes O'Day SWATted me! She's out to destroy my life! She keeps calling the cops on me because her novels suck! She's stalked my friends! She posted embarrassing videos of my friends to YouTube!”

  The first SWAT officer zip-tied Crabs without a word. The other team members swept the house. He was hauled to his feet. “You are under arrest on multiple counts of fraudulent 911 calls. You have the right to remain silent—”

  “No! NO!” Crabs wailed. You can't do this to me! Agnes O'Day is doing this! Agnes O'Day also planted the mutilated small animals in my backyard!”

  A second SWAT operator came downstairs, holding a cellphone. “Found it, Sarge. Under his pillow. I need a shower. He's a bed-wetter.”

  The Sergeant tightened his grip. “Just because it's a burner doesn't mean you can keep using it over and over again.”

  The one holding the phone smiled. “Especially when they have fans at the NSA.”

  Crabs stared a moment, dumbfounded. “Agnes O'Day sent you, didn't she? You're all under O'Day's mind control! You're out to get me. You're allll out to get me! I need my tinfoil helmet! Save me! Save me someone!”

  “Who are you yelling for? Not like you have any friends here. Unless you mean the stuffed animals upstairs.”

  Crabs screamed. “Don't you touch Bill the buffalo! He's my bestest friend ever!”

  The Sergeant sighed. “Seriously, you have the right to shut the f*** up. Anything you say can and will be used to prove you are an idiot.”

  Crabs struggled. “They're going to feed me to Cthulhu! I don't want my mind eaten by an elder god! HHHEEEELLLLPPPPPPP!!!!”

  “That presumes you have a brain,” the Sergeant holding him muttered.

  “I've been framed!” Crabs continued. “Framed! I'll kill you all with my mind!”

  “Blanks never hurt anyone,” came the dry reply.

  The second SWAT guy smiled. “Did you mention the terrorism charges?”

  Sarge laughed. “No, I forgot. Australia wants first dibs on you. Something about stalking, threatening, and directing terrorism against one of their citizens, and I don't know about Cthulhu, but they did talk about maybe feeding you to crocodiles …”

  Crabs thrashed in terror. “No! Not the Cryomancer! Not her! WWWAAAAHHHHH!!!! MOMMY!!!!

  Sarge grimaced. “Aw, damn. Johnny, this guy pissed himself!”

  SWAT manhandled him outside. There was a TARDIS blue Abrams tank parked in front. His Tankness, Tom Knighton waited at the hatch, smiling. “Hey, Yama. I heard they were busting your sorry ass. I volunteered to come down and escort your behind to jail. If you behave, I may not bring out the fire poker. No promises.”

  Crabs passed out. Sarge frowned. “Your Tankness, you said you wouldn't mess with him. You were just joking, right?”

  Knighton smiled beatifically. “Of course. What sort of person do you think I am?”

  Meanwhile, over at ROT Books

  Smith-Smythe-Smits #1 and #2 look at the arrest of Yama “Crabs” Marshman on the television. They looked at Fred Moshevsky.

  Terry sighed. “Really, Igor?” she drawled. “That guy was the best you could come up with? He's crazier than a bag of cats.”

  Patty nodded. “Quite, dear.”

  Moshevsky shrugged. “He'th perfect. No one will ever believe we put him up to it.”

  Terry frowned. “Do you have anyone else?”

  Moshevsky grinned like a loon. “I have a backup in a file folder.”

  Chapter 20: Back in the Real World

  Sunday (Day 3)

  Athena Marcowitz looked at Cryomancer. The young Australian had declined a reading of Passion of the Puppy Punter, because she had already read it. Twice.

  Goldberg saw the look on Athena's face and chuckled. “Hard to believe anyone could put that down in print, huh?” She looked to Cryomancer. “Matt Kovach wrote this?”

  Cryomancer nodded. “Yes, he did. All of them. I think it was hilarious. And awesome. He should do more.”

  “Maybe he will,” Athena commented. “If he doesn't get sued first.”

  Cryomancer shook her head. “No. Hasn't been. Those came out months ago, along with the original SWATting incidents. No one has been sued. But he at least said that last one was fiction.”

  Athena raised her phone, where she had been reading the blog entry. “Are you kidding me? If the SWATting were fictional, maybe I can see that. But have you thought about that last piece? Accusing someone of a felony like that, even in a parody, has to be some legal issue. Or at least someone would try to sue.”

  Cryomancer shook her head. “It would never happen. They'd be laughed out of court in the end, assuming they weren't in the first place. Not even the SWATtings happened exactly as he wrote them. Except maybe Omar's. Gary was called down to the station to answer questions, people didn't go to his house. The daughters of Jesse James didn't pounce on a SWAT team. There were no close calls, but calling a SWAT team in the first place is problem to start with. Nothing happened like it did in the parodies.”

  “Really, nothing?” Sean asked he walked back into the room.

  Cryomancer shook her head. “No. Nothing.”

  Sean nodded. “Interesting. I talked with Detective Bellmore, he's going to want to talk to you. He'll be right down. Athena, can I borrow you a moment?”

  They stepped outside of the armory, and were nearly dog-piled by the crowd waiting for them. Gary Castelo, Colonel Bradley, Omar Gunderson, and Matthew Kovach had to skid to a stop before Athena and Sean were trampled.

  “Hi,” Kovach said. “Cryomancer in there?”

  Sean nodded. “Just be careful, you don't want to end up like Crabs.”

  Kovach looked around, smiled, and said, “Don't worry. I'm going to make sure to stay away from heights.” His eyes narrowed. “Also, Crabs had it coming.”

  Sean nodded, then touched Kovach on the shoulder. “Hold up a second. Everybody else, feel free to head on in.”

  Everyone piled in, and a few stragglers came along as well.

  Kovach looked at Sean. “So, what's up?”

  “When did the banquet break up?”

  Kovach quirked his lip. “Really? You're asking me how many people had alibis? Come now.” He shook his head and sighed. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his camera, and called up footage from the banquet, and fast forwarded a little. The party was still ongoing. “Take a look at the time stamp. Isn't that when the attack happened?”

  Sean nodded, then backed up some more. All of the Puppy-Punters had left early. Jesse James and his family had left. Sean grimaced. “Argh.”

  “Something wrong?” Athena asked.

  Sean handed the phone back to Kovach, then motioned Athena down the hall.

  * * * *

  After looking over this last scene, Sean had only one conclusion.

  The three murders seemed insane.

  Unfortunately, they also seemed like the work of three completely dif
ferent killers.

  “Sean, don't tell me that,” Athena said, as they walked through the basement of the Hyatt. "Not really.”

  Sean nodded, then sighed. “Yeah, I know, I hate it as well, but think about it a moment.”

  Athena grimaced, as they walked past the giant statue of Jabba the Hutt in the hallway. She then groaned. “Ugh. Damn it. There are three MOs ... yes, I can sort of see it. The long-range shot with the dumbass handgun is one thing. But you could guess that death by blunt force object was the same one as the strangulation. Crabs was killed by one person, but Friedman and Adler could be the work of the same killer. Both of them were up close and personal. Heat of passion? Kill one person in an insane rage, the next one isn't that hard.”

  He shook his head. They took a left, headed down another hallway, and then hung a right at the escalator, moving up for the concourse level. He leaned against the railing as they slid up. “Except the Adler murder came second.”

  Athena scoffed, hung her head, then rubbed her temple. “Right. Because the death of Jerry Friedman included a blunt force object purchased at the convention, and the other was by manual strangulation. If one used a weapon, why not the other time? This would be a reversion.” She thought about it some more as they stepped off the escalator. “Unless the murderer didn't plan to kill either of them? For one, the killer happens to have a weapon on hand, and the next, didn't have anything in the room?"

  Sean shook his head. He stopped, looked around the level, and saw no one there. The floor was deserted. Even the little tables set up for fan gatherings were empty. There were a few bottles of booze lying around, but aside from that, nothing. Everyone had gone to a party, apparently.

  “Doesn't fit,” he told her. “Blunt force trauma knocks Friedman down, then continues on the ground. The strangler grabbed Adler, slammed her against the wall, got up close and personal immediately, and latched on. If anything, I'd think the second murderer, Adler's killer, is the angrier one.” He paused as a collection of Boba Fetts came down the stairs and wandered past them. “Also, you're thinking that there was nothing to hand. Have you seen some of the lamps in these hotel rooms? They'd make for great blunt objects. Probably could crush my skull in.”

  “Yes, but three dead Punters?” Athena asked. “Sean, the bodies are piling up really freaking high. The convention empties out—” She glanced at her watch. It was already Sunday morning by now. “—tomorrow. There is no way to get all of the suspects to stay put. Some of them are leaving Monday morning, maybe even Sunday night. This has to be solved over the next twelve to eighteen hours, otherwise—”

  “We're going to have to close up shop,” he concluded, “because everyone will leave here and spread the word that we suck as security. Which we really might. We're losing a lot of bodies here.”

  Athena rolled her eyes. “We have at least one person who clearly knew the killer, and let him into the room so there could be a nice private murder. We can't protect people from their own stupidity.”

  “So? It's the truth, but that's never stopped anyone.”

  “Eh. We're going to have to find these pricks and expose them. Hell, in time for the flier updates. Heck, on WCTV if we can, then post it on YouTube after.”

  Sean laughed. “Yeah, that would be hilarious.” He shook his head. “I'm surprised they didn't use Tearful Puppies Bite Back as a script for one of their skits.”

  “Probably didn't want to get sued,” Athena suggested.

  Sean shook his head. “Nah. It would never happen. If it hasn't happened by now, it never will.”

  “I still don't understand that,” Athena sighed. “Look at all the crimes Kovach outright accused them of: conspiracy to commit a felony, namely SWATting, bribery, collusion, attempted murder, if you want to stretch SWATting to include that. Parody or not, I'd usually think these crybabies would be screaming for their lawyers.”

  Sean laughed. “Yes, but Kovach has a defense against that. He could have two, I guess.”

  Athena frowned. “Okay. I'll bite. What two?”

  “Well, parody is covered under free speech, the only other excuse for statements like that is …” Sean drifted off as all of the puzzle pieces started to click together, one by one. Motive for each individual murder came to him as he reviewed the past few days in his head. Everything he had been told, or heard, seen or read, all of it came to him in one crashing conclusion. He knew who had killed Jerry Friedman. He knew who had killed Kendall Adler. And he had a really good idea who had killed Yama “Crabs” Marshman—but most importantly, he knew the why of it. All of it.

  The only question is how he could have been so stupid as to not have seen it all before. Hell, he had so much downtime after he'd been shot, he should have been able to have arrested one murderer, and maybe even prevent another, if he had had his head on straight.

  Sean then shook his head. No, that was even dumber. Could he have prevented any other deaths? No. The best he could have done would have been to dump his suspicions on other people and hope that they could follow through before hell froze over.

  But it was so obvious. How had no one considered this before? How had no one thought about it? Couldn't imagine being so stupid to have missed the signs.

  Okay, I didn't miss the signs, I remember seeing them. How did I avoid adding them together before now? Argh. I'm such a moron.

  “We need people,” Sean said. “A lot more people. In fact, I think we're going to have to wake everyone up. If not now, then soon. All of our people need to be up right freaking now. I need research to happen, like now. I need evidence, I need Google searches, I need …”

  Sean looked down. He was still in his tux from the banquet. “A new costume.”

  Sean started off towards his room in the Marriott, when Athena grabbed his shoulder and turned him around. She shook him a little to keep his attention. “Sean, what are you talking about? What did you do? What do you know that I don't?”

  Sean smiled. “Ever read Ellery Queen?”

  “No. Who's she?”

  “They, actually. Ellery Queen was both a pen name for two writers who were cousins, and it was also the name for their fictional detective. As they neared the end of the book, they would always pull a trick, a challenge directed right at the reader. Essentially: you now have all the clues to know the who, the how, and the why of everything. You can figure out who did it, and how.

  “In fact, I need only one thing to prove it. Well, one thing per murder.”

  Athena rolled her eyes. There was no stopping Sean when he was like this. “What do you need?”

  “First, I need the vendor who sold the tetsubo to Jerry Friedman. I think the timing of him buying his own murder weapon that day is a little too convenient.”

  “But, Sean,” Athena said, “he bought it. We know he bought it. The vendor IDed him.”

  “I know, we asked him the wrong question. We need to ask him a new one.”

  Athena sighed patiently. “Okay, fine. You needed one thing for each murder, right? What about Adler?”

  “I need pictures and audio—video would be even better—of each of our suspects from before the convention. A public, business-related setting.”

  Athena frowned. She would get Goldberg on that. “And Marshman's death?”

  Sean sighed. “To be honest, that one will be sketchy. It's the only one where I'm not 100% sure about that. I know the people behind it, but I don't actually have the shooter.”

  Athena looked at her watch. “Shall we at least wait until you have all of them before you play stupid tricks like that? I don't want you to try overreaching.”

  Sean took a slow, slow breath. “Okay, fine. At the very least, I want to double check the stalker's cell phone records, and I want people to tear apart his hotel room.”

  Athena nodded slowly, trying to get ahead of him. “What do you expect to find in his room?”

  “At least one burner phone, and a lot of costumes. At least two more costumes.”

  Athena
arched her brows. “You think that's the one who went after Castelo and Kovach with the razor, and Jesse James' kids?”

  “As well as the one who went after Omar Gunderson with the knife.”

  “But he only had a motive to go after Cryomancer,” she insisted. “Why go after everyone else?”

  Sean smiled. “That's why Kovach's other defense is important.”

  * * * *

  Later in the morning, when the sun was actually up, Sean Ryan showed up at the nearest church in costume. Thankfully, no one had noticed.

  Sean's costume that morning was strangely designed. For the most part, it was tactical chic—multiple dark armor plates covering his body like a second skin, a tactical belt around his waist, and a bandolier across his chest, layered with tactical pouches, and five hand grenade canisters of various types, from flash-bang to smoke and incendiary. On his hips were dual submachineguns for quick-draw release. And on his back was a katana, the handle sticking out over his right shoulder. The most distinctive part of the ensemble was a two-color helmet with a bisecting line down the center. The right side of the face was a deep, dark blue. The other side was a dark shade of orange. The eyes were covered with a reflexive, mirrored film, like mirrored sunglasses. Sean could see out the helmet perfectly well, but no one could see his eyes.

  Upon leaving the church after mass, someone said, “Dude, nice outfit.”

  Sean smiled. “Thanks. I know the actor who played him in the TV show. It's the only reason I know about the costume.”

  “I hear ya, buddy. That guy was awesome.”

  Sean nodded. “Actually, he kind of is.”

  As he walked back to the convention hotels, Sean was grateful that it was a cool day in Atlanta. At the very least, the morning was easy. He could only wonder what sort of day it would be if it was full humidity and the sun pouring down on his armor. It would be like sticking a can of tuna in the oven to cook all day long. He didn't exactly relish that prospect, and only hoped that he wouldn't have to leave the air conditioning of the hotels before the sun went back down again.

 

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