Nerds Who Kill

by Zubro, Mark Richard

  Fenwick asked, “Wouldn’t a first-rate writer want to get all of his facts right? Who said he didn’t?”

  “Oh, it was those Internet chat somethings. I have trouble getting online. I’m not good with computers. Dennis had a huge following. His web site received thousands of hits a month. It was a bible among the SF cognoscenti. People read him faithfully for his opinions about books, movies, anything that had anything to do with fantasy or science fiction. He had myriad interests. The committee organizing the convention thought it was a great coup when they got him as the fan guest of honor.”

  “Why was it a coup?” Turner asked.

  “He hadn’t been to one of these in a long while. He was known as a fabulously knowledgeable recluse.”

  “Fan guest of honor?” Fenwick asked.

  “Yes. At these conventions you want to serve every segment of your public. There is almost always a fan guest of honor. They get their name prominently in the program. They get to wear a special badge, and they get to meet some of the stars. For our convention he attended the Thursday night pre-convention celebrity dinner. In person, Dennis was a very charming man. He had lots of friends.”

  “If he gave opinions online, couldn’t that lead to some people being angry at him?”

  “Yes, but I never heard of any. I never read what he wrote. I’m a fan myself, but I know what I like. I wouldn’t care what he wrote.”

  Turner said, “And some people didn’t think he had all his facts right.”

  “There were occasional rumors about him being slipshod or careless. Nobody bothered to challenge him. Let me give you an example of what I mean. He kept a bestseller list on his site. He claimed he got the data from bookstores. A few people claimed a disproportionate number of books he liked made it on the list.”

  “Did that make people angry?” Turner asked.

  “It was one list on a relatively obscure site. He might have been a big fish, but the pond isn’t that big. I doubt if anyone much cared. If it was the New York Times list or Publishers Weekly, people might care. Not for this. Not for murder.”

  Fenwick said, “It might have made a difference to someone who got on the list or made someone angry who didn’t make the list because of Foublin’s serendipitous way of doing it.”

  “I never heard of anyone protesting,” Murkle said. “A few people complained about how odd it was sometimes. Not a big deal. I did my own informal checking. I found no problem. When I brought up his name to have him be the fan guest of honor, no one mentioned any problems, and I certainly wasn’t going to. After all, I was the one who proposed his name. I had no proof. No one else did either, or no one brought any forward. And he does have a large following.”

  A woman dressed as an inmate of a harem out of the Arabian Nights entered. She was in her late forties. She might have been all of five feet tall and weighed about one hundred and ten.

  Sanchez said, “This is Anna Foublin.”

  This was the toughest part of Turner’s job. It never became easier. He hoped it never would. Turner said, “Mrs. Foublin, I have some bad news.”

  She gazed at him.

  “Your husband has been murdered.”

  She glanced at each of them, her eyes finally resting on Murkle. “Is this true?” Mrs. Foublin asked.

  Murkle nodded.

  Mrs. Foublin dissolved in tears. Murkle rushed to her. Mrs. Foublin fell into her arms. After comforting her for some moments, Murkle led her to a seat. The older woman patted her arm and said soothing words. Turner produced tissues. When Mrs. Foublin was more composed, Turner got her some water to drink. He watched her swallow several gulps. “Can I see him?” she asked. “I have to see him. I don’t believe this.”

  Turner said, “We’ll go with you to identify him. Ms. Murkle may come with if you wish.” The body, covered by a white sheet, was on a gurney on the twenty-sixth floor.

  After they completed the unpleasant task of identification, they returned to the interrogation suite. Turner said, “It’s important that we interview Mrs. Foublin.” He didn’t want to order Murkle out, but he didn’t want her here for the interview either.

  Murkle caught on. She stood up. “If you need anything, Anna, I’ll be right outside.”

  Mrs. Foublin, Turner, and Fenwick sat together. Mrs. Foublin kept a stack of tissues at her side.

  Mrs. Foublin pulled in several deep breaths and asked, “What happened?”

  Turner gave a brief description, leaving out the grisly details. When done, he said, “Mrs. Foublin, we know this is an awful time, but we need to discuss this. The first hours of a case are the most important.”

  She nodded.

  “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to harm your husband?”

  “No. He was a dear, sweet, innocent man. You know he ran a review site on the Internet?” The detectives nodded. “He always tried to say something good about the books he read. Even the ones he hated the most, he tried to find something to praise. He was always trying to be positive.” She dabbed at her eyes with tissue.

  “Did he know Muriam Devers?”

  For an instant Turner thought he saw a look of intense distaste rush across her features.

  “They met many years ago when he still went to conventions all the time. They did correspond frequently, the past few years; they exchanged tons of e-mails. He always got along with her, but they were more acquaintances than friends. He did go out of his way to praise her books. He may have genuinely liked them. I was never sure. Why do you ask? Does she have something to do with my husband being …?”

  She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “No, ma’am,” Turner said, “she’s dead.”

  She gaped at them. She blew her nose again then burst out, “She was a hateful sow.”

  Turner and Fenwick had been detectives long enough to be able to conceal their intense interest.

  “You just said your husband got along with her,” Turner said.

  “He did. I didn’t. In the past few years, I’ve attended far more conventions than my husband. Devers was so sweet in public, but if you couldn’t do her any good, she had no use for you. She always had that smile, that simpering, never-ending smile. She was always mind-numbingly cheerful. And my husband believed that crap from her. I remember years ago, he’d listen to her for hours. Always encouraging her with that ‘how interesting, tell me more.’ That after-dinner-dessert get-together last night in her room was awful. I had to sit there and trade hypocritical smiles with that back-stabbing bitch. I shouldn’t be saying these things. I’m just so upset. I could believe that woman had something to do with Dennis’s death.”

  Turner was very aware that they did not know which person died first. Or if either one had had anything to do with the death of the other. Turner presumed there had to be some connection between the killings. He thought it most likely that there was one murderer, but he was not going to close his mind to any possibility at this point. He doubted that Muriam Devers could best someone in a fight and heft a sword at the same time. Although she could get behind someone, strangle them just past the point of unconsciousness, and then stab them. They’d have to check.

  “Did you see them together at this convention? Did they talk at the dinner Thursday or at last night’s get-together in her suite?”

  “I imagine they must have, but I didn’t actually see them together.”

  Turner asked, “If she never did anything bad to your husband, how was she a back-stabbing bitch?”

  “Dennis would not listen to me. He was such a sweet, dear man. He believed the best about everybody. He was friends with everyone. People begged him to review their books. We have stacks and stacks of them all over the house. We could barely donate them to libraries fast enough.” She used a tissue for a moment.

  Turner prompted, “And you felt differently.”

  “I’d heard things about her. I’m a writer, too. I knew Melissa Bentworth. She was Muriam’s first editor at Galactic Books. Melissa and I knew
each other in college. We’ve stayed friends. She’s a good editor, smart, hard working. Always has solid comments to make about a writer’s books. Muriam Devers got her fired.”

  “How’d she do that?”

  “She lied. She made things up. She went to Melissa’s bosses behind her back.”

  “Why?” Turner asked.

  “I’ve never gotten the whole story. Melissa was never able to find out. Everything worked out for the best because Melissa founded her own small press. She’s had some remarkable successes, but it took her years of hard work. I’m one of her authors.”

  “You’ve had books published?” Fenwick asked.

  “My sixth came out last month. Melissa has been most kind to me over the years.”

  “Did Ms. Devers have any other enemies?” Turner asked.

  “You hunt around the fringes of the science fiction community, you are going to find people who hated her. They might be hard to find, but they’re there. She had a lot of power and clout. Nobody talked against that sweetness-and-light image, not publicly. You risked getting black-balled in this community.”

  “And she got away with this?” Turner asked.

  “You could never accuse her of anything specific. People rushed to her defense if you made the slightest negative comment. It was amazing how she got on all the talk shows when one of her books came out. Dare to mention just that one fact and people began clamoring and protesting, accusing you of jealousy and not being a good sport. As if Muriam ever was some kind of good sport. Maybe she was on those shows because she’s famous. Maybe the shows made her famous. Who else are they going to put on those shows? Some schlub who’s spent twenty years slaving away at some three-volume unpublishable fantasy drivel? No. Still, it was all Muriam, all the time.”

  “What about the non-public part?” Turner asked.

  “She had kind of an assumed clout in the community. Kind of a Wizard-of-Oz effect. She had all this power because people assumed she had all this power. People deferred to her. It didn’t hurt that she was rich. Money counts. A lot of people think of writers as these saintly dweebs pouring out their hearts for their art. Hah! Trust me, they’re camped out at their mailboxes desperate for those royalty checks.”

  “That sounds more gossipy and backbiting,” Fenwick said. “That doesn’t sound like a motive for murder. Sounds kind of average for almost any profession.”

  Mrs. Foublin said, “You let anything fester over time and watch the explosion you get. One reviewer dared to write a negative review of one of her books. He never got invited on another talk show. His editor dropped his reviews. It took the reviewer awhile to put cause and effect together.”

  “Who was this?” Turner asked.

  “Matthew Kagan, a very nice young man.”

  “Is he at the convention?”

  “I saw his name on the list of attendees, but I haven’t seen him.”

  “Were there other conflicts?” Turner asked.

  “Those people in that writing group of hers. They were slime incarnate. She used them like gang hitmen. It was disgraceful.”

  “How were they like gang hitmen?” Turner asked.

  “If she wasn’t able to do her dirty work, she’d get them to do it for her. She was vile and unprincipled with loyal followers who would cut their hearts out for her.”

  “How did they do that?”

  “If she wasn’t at a convention, they would be. They’d be great at innuendo. Nothing you could ever track down or prove.”

  “Did any of them try to do something to your husband?”

  “He never thought so.”

  “But you did.”

  “Yes.”

  “Like what?”

  “My husband’s web site would be sabotaged. He always said it was probably teenagers. Ha! Why would they care? Or there’d be whispering campaigns. At some of the smaller conventions they vote to give out their own awards. Nobody is supposed to campaign for the awards. It’s just not done, but somehow my husband never got an award for criticism or for his short stories. Authors Muriam was angry at never won. Either she’d win, again and again, or buddies of hers would.”

  “Maybe your husband’s critiques or stories weren’t any good,” Fenwick suggested.

  “They were excellent. Why Devers hated my husband, I don’t know.”

  “But your husband didn’t think she hated him,” Turner said.

  “No.”

  “Did he ever say anything bad about her?”

  “Not really, but that’s the way this world works a lot of the time. Everybody used the coin of hypocrisy. Certainly Muriam did. The truth and that woman were not friends.”

  Turner said, “Your feelings about her seem to run pretty deep.”

  Anna Foublin sighed. “There was jealousy, too. I’ll admit it. It burned me up to see her on all those talk shows. Every single one of them. Every single time one of her books came out. Those producers on those shows have no imagination. Maybe I’m just a lesser-known hack grousing about the ways of the world, but I’m sure I’m not the only one who felt this way. She’d whine about her wrist needing a splint after a book signing. As if her poor wrist would just give out, poor thing, because she autographed so many books. While the rest of us sat with one fan who would drone on and on, she’d have these huge lines the rest of us could kill for … oh dear.” She put her hand over her mouth.

  “Do you know anybody else who felt jealousy?” Turner asked.

  “No. I just assumed it existed.”

  Fenwick said, “You could have not watched the shows.”

  “I couldn’t resist. It was like watching evil blossom right in front of your eyes. Like a poisonous flower all pretty and smiling and deadly and awful.”

  Turner said, “We found a broken red ostrich feather next to your husband’s body. Do you attach any significance to that?”

  “No. I know Devers paraded around with one at every public moment. She even insisted on having a bouquet of them behind her at every public appearance. A lot of birds died for that woman’s sins.”

  Turner persisted. “But your husband had no association with the feathers.”

  “Certainly not. It was an absurd affectation on that woman’s part.”

  “Did your husband have any fights with anyone?” Fenwick asked.

  “No, no one. He was a good man.”

  “With you?” Fenwick asked.

  She gave him a startled look.

  Fenwick said, “We have to cover all the bases.”

  “I suppose you have to ask the family,” she said. “What an awful thing to ask.”

  The detectives waited.

  “We loved each other. We’d have been married twenty-five years next August. He was a good man. He had quirks. We all have quirks.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “One. A son in the Peace Corps in South Africa. God, I’m going to have to call him. What am I going to say? This is too awful. This is too unbelievable.” She wiped at her nose.

  “Do you know other people who didn’t like Ms. Devers?” Turner asked.

  “I can give you a list of people I know. I don’t think any of them is a killer. I’d hate for them to think that I pointed a finger at them.”

  “Someone did this to your husband. It’s most likely it was someone at the convention. We know your husband got along with Ms. Devers. We need to know who didn’t get along with her. We assume the deaths are connected.”

  “Well, I can give you a few names.”

  When she was done, Turner asked, “Why was Mr. Foublin in the room at this time?”

  “He had to make a presentation at tonight’s banquet. He was in the room making some last-minute changes to his talk.”

  “How long was he gone for?”

  “An hour or two. He always waited until the last minute to prepare any remarks. It was just his way.”

  “Where were you?” Fenwick asked.

  “I was sitting in the hotel lounge with some friends waiting
for him.”

  “The whole time?” Fenwick asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What time did you last see him?”

  “About ten. He was going to stop in the dealers’ room and then come up here. My friends and I ate a leisurely breakfast then passed the time on the comfy chairs in the lobby. I love watching the people.”

  She had an alibi.

  “Did either of you have a broadsword as part of your costume?” Turner asked.

  “No. Dennis wasn’t into violence. He didn’t like it that people brought weapons to these conventions. He thought they were dangerous. Some people tried to lead a campaign against them, but Dennis was against an outright ban. That kind of thing gets pretty absurd.”

  “How so?” Fenwick asked.

  “Well, do you ban ray guns and laser pistols? They’re all fake. He was against both the weapons and the ban. It was all silly and a little absurd, but Dennis loved that kind of thing, taking fun things and playing with them. Testing the limits of the absurd.” She dabbed at her eyes.

  “Did you see anyone who looked suspicious hanging around?”

  “No. No one who looked like a murderer. It never even crossed my mind. Something like that doesn’t, usually, does it? This is so inexplicable.” She began to cry softly.

  “Can we have someone sit with you?” Turner asked. “We could call someone.”

  “I’ll talk to Oona.”

  Turner found Sanchez in the corridor and gave him the list of names. Turner pointed to Matthew Kagan’s. “See if you can find him first.” He brought Oona back into the room with him. He and Fenwick watched the two women leave together.

  After they left, Fenwick said, “I love someone who hated the victim. It is one of my favorite things.”

  Turner said, “Raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens, dead victims bleeding, witnesses blabbing, those are a few of your favorite things.”

  “You are not to begin singing Broadway show tunes.”

  “You write poetry.”

  “Yeah, but you can’t sing.”

  “Hey, I always say every syllable of your poetry is perfection.”