Nerds Who Kill
Page 15
“Who was that?”
“The loon. There’s always at least one at these things. He was terribly thin with tufts of blond hair. He wore these raggedy, ill-fitting clothes. I don’t know his name.”
Sounded like Melvin Slate to Turner. “What happened?” Turner asked.
“I had to get in between them. He came up to her just before the signing this morning. I’m always on the alert when I’m with her. All too often, fans don’t have a sense of proportion, although Muriam was always sweet with them. She was actually talking with him. He kept getting into her personal space, and she kept backing away. It happened twice, and I stepped in. It wasn’t a major deal. It was the only negative thing I can think of.”
Turner said, “We found her in a Xena, Warrior Princess outfit.”
“A what? I find that hard to believe. Muriam was not a costume person. I can’t believe that.”
“It’s true,” Fenwick said.
“Well, perhaps I didn’t know her as well as I thought.”
She and her lack of knowledge left.
16
A beat cop, Ann Hesketh, walked up to them in the corridor. “You better see this,” she said.
“Now what?” Fenwick said.
They took the service elevator to a deserted corridor on the sixth floor. Hesketh said, “This floor is mostly for private meetings for hotel staff or sometimes VIPs. According to security, no one was scheduled to be meeting on this floor at this time. There are no private rooms on this floor. The room next to this was used by somebody named Louis Eitel. It was a meeting of some Hollywood types.”
Eitel was the name they’d gotten from Cavali as the director who’d been fired from Muriam’s first movie.
The head of security, Brandon Macer, met them outside a service room. Bins of dirty sheets crammed most of the room from wall to wall. Next to a window someone had written on the wall in three-inch-high letters using blood or red paint, “I’m not done yet.”
Fenwick said to Macer, “Would you find all the hotel personnel who had access to this area?”
Macer said, “I’m on it already.”
He and Hesketh left. Turner and Fenwick examined each bit of writing. Turner said, “I don’t see a fingerprint anywhere on this. It doesn’t look like brush strokes. It might have been done with gloves or any rag or piece of cloth.”
“We’ve seen lots of evidence of excellent planning.” Fenwick peered closely at the writing. “Can we now say that the handwriting is …”
“Stop,” Turner said. “You may not know this but there is a quota of ghastly humor and stupid puns. You have reached your limit. If you exceed your limit, the sky will fall and aliens will invade the Earth.”
“I have that kind of power?” Fenwick asked.
“You could try it and see what happens.”
“Let me get back to you on that.” Fenwick asked, “Do aliens commit more or less crimes than earthlings? More important, if both those things happen will I still be able to get chocolate?”
“One more pun and I will cut off your supply of chocolate permanently.”
“That’s cruel. That’s real horror. That’s torture. I will do my best to give it a rest.”
“No dopey rhymes, either.” Turner sighed. “Your humor is crap, but that’s not the major thing. I’m really tensed up about Brian’s connection with this. I know it’s a peripheral connection, but I’m worried.”
“Any father would be,” Fenwick said. “He’s not a killer.”
“I know,” Turner said. “He’d be bawling his eyes out if he did anything remotely like this. It’s just a familial complication I am not happy to have. If I have to, I’ll stay all night to get this settled.”
“I shall suspend attempts at humor for the duration.”
Turner smiled. “I appreciate the effort.”
They examined the rest of the service area. If there were telltale fingerprints, they were not readily visible. Nor were there any other smears of blood.
“No feather,” Fenwick said.
Turner moved the last bin of clothes away from the service elevator door. “Yeah,” he said softly. “It’s here.” The broken feather was on the floor directly in front of the elevator doors.
Fenwick joined him. He looked from the writing to the feather. He said, “How come it’s this far away?”
Turner shrugged. “It’s a feather. Maybe it moved in the wind. Or maybe it’s some kind of message in a symbolic language that exists only in the killer’s mind.” Turner spoke into his communicator, “Would you find out if Commander Molton is in the building? If he is, ask him to come to the sixth floor. If he’s not here, ask him to come back to the hotel.” He also requested the Crime Lab people to work on this room as soon as they were done with the last.
They retreated to the hall.
“What’s up?” Macer asked.
“He could be disguised as anything,” Turner said. “He could be a dangerous alien or a Chicago cop. If that last is true, he’s got more nerve than most killers I’ve ever seen.”
Fenwick said, “However he looks, he’s dicking us around. We’re running awfully fast, but not getting anywhere. Alice would be proud.”
Macer said, “Maybe he wrote this before he began the killing.”
“The time sequence is going to be tricky,” Turner said. “Some of these he could have prepared beforehand, others later. He certainly wants us confused.”
Macer said, “Maybe he’s trying to scare someone. Maybe he’s trying to get even with someone. Maybe he hasn’t hit his real target yet.”
“Who’s the target?” Fenwick asked. “Why expend your energy on the two who are dead if they weren’t the ones you wanted dead? The two deaths have to be connected. There can’t be two random murders with broadswords going on at the same time, and then two killers spending the time toting blood from place to place. Nothing has odds that long against it happening and not being connected. A copycat would have to be copying awful fast.”
Turner said, “I agree on there not being a copycat. But our guy doesn’t have to be rushing around. He could have planted a number of these things any time during the day.”
Fenwick asked, “Say he knows somebody’s convention schedule. What happens if somebody gets a headache and decides to take a nap? Or what if some hotel worker drops by here unexpectedly?”
“Maybe it was random,” Turner said. “Maybe Devers and Foublin were simply at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Macer said, “Nobody’s scheduled to be working on this area of this floor again until the morning.”
“The killer knows all this?” Fenwick asked.
Macer said, “It’s possible, not probable. Then again I never thought it would be possible that we’d have corpses with swords stuck through them.”
“Unless it’s a hotel worker,” Turner said, “who would have a plausible reason for being in various places. Or someone disguised as a hotel worker who could get into a lot of places. We’ll have to get all the times of the movements of all the people during the day down on a chart.”
Fenwick said, “We’re not going to be able to do that for everyone at the convention.”
“For now it’ll have to be the people we’ve talked to,” Turner said. They used paper from their regulation blue folders to begin making the charts. After fifteen minutes they looked at their handiwork. Fenwick said, “Doesn’t tell us much yet.”
“If ever,” Turner said. “We’ll have to add each person or event as we go along.”
The elevator opened. Molton walked off, spotted them, and hurried over.
Turner explained the latest.
Molton said, “It would make sense if he was disguised as a cop or a hotel worker. He could get around easily. Although at the moment, nobody can get up here except us.”
Turner said, “He’d have to be hiding bloody clothes.”
Fenwick asked, “Why bother to hide bloody clothes? He’s gotten away with everything so far.”
“We better make sure that no one in the hotel is alone,” Macer said.
“How?” Fenwick asked. “Somebody told us there’s a hundred thousand people at this convention. They might not all be staying at this hotel, but they’d have access. And that doesn’t count all the people staying at the hotel not connected with the convention or people simply walking in off the street to eat in one of the restaurants or to meet a friend.”
Molton said, “We’ll put guards on all the entrances and exits. This is a nightmare. We’ve got to find this guy.”
“We’ve got to start letting people into their rooms,” Macer said.
Turner agreed. “We’re getting nowhere keeping them out. As long as we’ve got enough personnel, why don’t we assemble the hotel guests and make an announcement. We don’t have to have all the conventioneers. Just the ones staying at the hotel. We can check their keys and identification. Who’s going to want to leave a corpse or bloody clothes unreported?”
Fenwick said, “Unless it’s the killer. This gives him a chance to get his stuff and get away.”
Molton said, “We can monitor anybody that tries to check out.”
“What if they just leave?” Fenwick asked.
Turner said, “The killer could have done that any time earlier. This killer isn’t stupid. He knows we’re watching.”
“Maybe it would make him less cautious, not more,” Fenwick said.
Oona Murkle, Melissa Bentworth, and the convention organizers worked with the hotel people and the police to assemble as many of the guests as possible. Uniformed cops talked to any hotel employee who had any access to this floor. The officers reported back that all the employees had identification. All of them said they’d seen nothing out of the ordinary.
The police assembled the guests in one of the ballrooms. Molton used a microphone to address the crowd of about two thousand. He finished, “We’ll have an officer at the entrance to each stairwell on every floor as well as one stationed next to the elevators. Report even the slightest thing to them.”
Molton headed off to organize cops and hotel security, to ensure the safety of the public. Turner and Fenwick returned to the suite to continue their questioning.
In the hall, Fenwick said, “Are these randomly scattered clues connected to the victims or is the murderer just dicking us around?”
“Or trying to confuse us,” Turner said, “or scare us. Or scare someone. It doesn’t have to be directed at us. I’ve got a better question. Presumably there is a pattern or at least some connection between Devers and Foublin. The question is, is the killer leaving these as a message to people? If so, what message is it, and is it going to be connected to all the people Devers screwed? That doesn’t make a lot of sense. You’d think the people who were screwed would have the most reason to kill Devers. Why leave bloody clothes?”
“Divert suspicion?”
“But it doesn’t divert suspicion,” Turner said. “So far these people don’t seem to be the killers. And some actually liked her or claimed to at any rate. Not all the ones she did mean stuff to are getting stacks of bloody clothes in their rooms.”
“There’s gotta be some connection,” Fenwick said. “Nobody does this kind of planning without a definite purpose.”
“The people whose rooms have had this stuff in them must be connected, but not in a lethal way, yet. I always presume the criminals of Chicago are logical beyond imagining.”
Fenwick said, “That sounds like the start of a sarcastic comment. Now, just stop that. You’re starting to get out of control or worse, trying to sound like me.”
“Just because I’m getting in a few good lines.”
17
Louis Eitel looked like a taller, thinner Einstein, except Eitel was having an even worse hair day than Einstein in a high gale.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
Fenwick said, “We’re trying to figure out if you’re a murderer.”
Turner knew it was seldom a good idea to begin aggressively with Fenwick.
“How dare you? Do I have to talk to you?”
Turner said, “We need as much background as we can on Muriam Devers and Dennis Foublin. We need to understand.”
“Devers! Devers was the bitch from hell. Devers was evil incarnate.”
Turner resisted the impulse to say, “Try to hold back.” He did say, “We heard she got you fired from her first movie.”
“How that bitch had that goody-two-shoes reputation, I will never understand. She could manipulate and destroy with the best of them.”
“How’d she get you fired?” Turner asked.
“I was just starting out thirty years ago. I wrote and directed all of my movies. I had several art house successes and one action adventure that had taken off. I was on my way. I was signed to do her first movie. I was working on the script. I always take great care with everything I do. I was going to make her script better. That woman can barely write.”
“She’s sold a lot of books,” Fenwick said.
“There’s a lot of crap and dreck published every year. So what? I wanted to portray realistic characters making adult decisions. She had some boob consulting an intergalactic psychic. Nobody in the book said it was moronic to base one’s adult decisions on the blather of a psychic. And then there was that whole red feather schtick. She insisted the damn feather be in every scene with her main character, Althea Morris. I asked her if the character had it with her every waking moment. She said she did. I asked if she had it with her when she took a piss. Devers got all insulted. Nobody ever goes to the bathroom in her books.”
“When you’re doing intergalactic travel, do you have time to go to the bathroom?” Fenwick asked.
Eitel glared. “The point is, her stuff was drivel. She never said a word to me. She just smiled and smiled. I walked in one day, and I was off the picture. She is a shit. I would have made something of the movie.”
“Wasn’t it a big success?” Fenwick asked.
“I’d have made it bigger.”
Good to be confident, Turner thought.
Turner repeated his question. “How’d she get you fired?”
“She talked to the producers and the studio executives. She had a million-dollar deal. I didn’t. They’d wrapped up deals on two of her series. She told them she’d sell them elsewhere if I was still on the picture.”
“Did she have a contract?”
“She had an excellent contract. One of the perks her lawyer put in had to do with directors of her movies. She was in and I was out. I was buried for years. I’ve had to work overseas. Only when I was lucky enough to have an independent film hit it big in the European market last year did I get back in and then just slightly. I’m still just getting back onto the studio movie-making wheel. Getting me fired off one film is one thing. Making sure I got no other offers was another.”
“She had that much clout?” Turner asked.
“The studio executives who wanted to keep her happy had that much clout. Maybe it’s the same thing. The effect on my career was the same.”
“Where were you this morning?” Fenwick asked.
“I had breakfast away from the convention at Ann Sathers on Broadway with several representatives from the city of Chicago. I was working on setting up production here for my next movie. I didn’t get back until two.”
“We found her in a Xena, Warrior Princess costume.”
“Huh. She do that a lot?”
“Not that we can tell.”
“She was kind of a prig when I talked to her.”
“Do you know Samuel Chadwick and Lorenzo Cavali?”
“Yes. Cavali could be good some day. Like the rest of us Chadwick’s had some hits and some misses. Chadwick was one of the inner circle. I heard he went to Devers’ Aspen parties once a
year. Cavali wasn’t as in as he’d like to be. He will be. The kid has talent.”
“Did you know her writing group?”
“I vaguely recall hearing talk about them once.”
“Did you know Dennis Foublin?”
“No.”
“Have you been to your room this afternoon or evening?”
“I stopped in about five. Everything seemed normal. Should I have found something?”
“We aren’t sure,” Turner said.
Eitel left.
“That much dislike adds tons of zest to the investigation,” Fenwick said.
“It’s late,” Turner said. “We’ve got a killer on the loose, and we’re not going to be able to go home until he’s caught or we can assure everyone that they’re safe.”
“That won’t be until we’ve got the killer.” They added Eitel’s data to their charts.
18
Ralph Marwood, a member of Muriam Devers’ writing group, was the next person on the list. He looked to be in his early thirties. He was in a pirate costume with a gauzy, billowy shirt, tight pants, a bandana tied back, an enormous earring in his right ear, and dabs of red on his face and chest, presumably to add a bloody image to his pirate persona.
Marwood said, “They took my scimitar. What’s going on? Muriam and I were very close. Is she really …” His voice trailed off.
“She was murdered,” Fenwick said. Marwood sat down. A codpiece covered his crotch—at least Turner assumed it was a codpiece. If it was the real thing, the guy was a record breaker. He had broad shoulders and big muscles. Big enough to wield the heaviest broadsword. A costume with blood on it for a logical reason would be a good cover for strolling about with the bloody residue of a maniac’s madness cleverly in full view. It would take a killer with a hell of a nerve to be doing that. Turner had seen killers with that much nerve.
“You were in her writing group,” Turner said.
“Yes, there were four of us. Peter and Gerald are here at the convention. Larry couldn’t make it.”
“Tell me about this writing group,” Turner said.