Nerds Who Kill

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Nerds Who Kill Page 23

by Zubro, Mark Richard


  “How’d you hook up with Slate?”

  “He was a bonus. It didn’t hurt that at the last one of these in Chicago I caught him in a room he didn’t belong in. He knew how to break into the rooms. He had one of those deals you see in television and the movies. You know, one of those plastic cards connected by wires to a box about as big as a calculator. It had a read out. I have no idea where he got it from. He’s been breaking into rooms at conventions for years.”

  “Why didn’t you turn him in?” Fenwick asked. “You couldn’t have had any connection to him.”

  “I felt sorry for him when I’d seen him at previous conventions. The poor soul was such a mess. I pitied him. I was kind to him. He was grateful. My pity got me an ally. Then I saw them giving him a hard time at the registration desk at this convention. Something about a late payment. He didn’t think what I had planned was going to go nearly as far as I thought, although he was almost as frustrated and angry at some of these people as was I. At first he was just helping me plant the damn feathers and the bloody clothes. He thought we were just going to mess with their minds.”

  “Slate had been breaking into rooms?” Fenwick asked.

  “At numerous conventions. For years. He confessed quite readily to me. Once he knew I wasn’t going to turn him in to the police, he seemed quite eager to join in the original mischief. He seemed pleased to actually be treated with respect by anyone. When it escalated, at first he seemed quite eager.”

  “How did it escalate?”

  “We were in Muriam’s room. I thought she’d be down at that damn signing forever. She was, but not as long a forever as I thought. When we heard her come in, we hid in the unused bedroom in the suite. She changed into her Xena costume. What a joke that was. I think she was waiting for one of her boy toys for a late-morning assignation. Slate made a noise. She searched and caught us. We had an argument. Slate began swinging around that damn sword. She was going to expose me. She was going to embarrass and humiliate me in front of everyone.”

  “Why’d you pick her room in the first place?”

  “Up to the last minute, she’d been trying to ruin the convention. I’d worked so hard to make it perfect.”

  “How was she going to ruin it?” Turner asked.

  “She didn’t really want to show up. She tried to get out of it. She didn’t tell any of her lackeys. No one was supposed to know. She made threats to me. I stood my ground. The bitch. On the ride in the from the airport she said she was going to try and get people to not go to the banquet, to not go to the panels, to criticize everything.”

  “Why?” Turner asked.

  “She wasn’t getting the kind of attention she felt she deserved. She wasn’t enough of a star of the show. She said she had been under the impression she was to be the main attraction. That I’d lied to her. That is absolutely not true. She just wanted to wreck. She had everything and I had nothing. She wouldn’t read my manuscript. She wouldn’t help me get it published. That’s the main thing I’ve wanted my whole life. She wouldn’t do a thing for me after all that I’d done for her for years. She wouldn’t help. She wouldn’t be faithful.”

  Fenwick asked, “What was it that you had done that you thought had earned reciprocation on her part?”

  “I always tried to help her. I was loyal. Even though her last fifteen books were error-laden drivel, I was supportive. I always gave a hundred ten percent. Do you know how hard it is to be relentlessly cheerful in the face of someone who is so awful to you?”

  Turner asked, “Which of you actually killed Ms. Devers?”

  “Slate. He was swinging the damn thing to threaten her. He slipped. It was quite sharp. I’d made sure of that. If he hadn’t done it, I would have. My, how she screamed. I’ll enjoy that scream for a long time.”

  Turner thought she sounded tougher than a lot of hardened gang bangers he’d dealt with. Her anger and frustration must have built for years. She was also probably nuts. Turner wasn’t sure they’d ever have enough forensic evidence to prove which of them did the killing. He was more than willing to listen to Oona Murkle, but he was less than willing to buy her story without a lot of convincing data.

  “Why’d you leave the door to Devers’ room open?” Turner asked.

  “Her scream stunned Slate. I had to practically drag him out of there. He was behind me. There was no time to go back. Someone could have come around a corner or poked a head out a door at any second.”

  “Why’d you murder Dennis Foublin?” Turner asked.

  “He was a monster.”

  “How so?”

  “He ignored me. Him and Muriam together. They plotted against me.”

  “You had proof of this.”

  “People talked.”

  “Did you ever talk to either of them about what they were trying to do?”

  “I didn’t have to. I knew what they thought. I saw how they looked at me.”

  Turner wasn’t heavily into the interpretation of random looks from people.

  Murkle said, “Foublin wouldn’t read my manuscripts. He’d send them back unopened: He never gave me a chance. He could have talked to people. He could have given me a boost on his web site.”

  “Slate gave us the information that there was something sinister in Foublin’s background.”

  “I told him to tell you that. I thought it would send you off in a wrong direction when investigating.”

  “Who actually killed Foublin?”

  “When we ran out of Muriam’s room, we rushed down the stairs. Foublin was entering his room. He saw us. We couldn’t be seen together. Slate had blood on his clothes. We got him in his room. Slate held him. Foublin had been mean to Slate at a convention. For a while the first murder seemed to bring something out in him, something cruel. I was a little worried. Foublin was struggling and thrashing. It was lucky that I stuck him instead of Slate.”

  Fenwick asked, “How come you had an extra feather to leave with Foublin’s corpse?”

  “We were carrying stuff around in Slate’s backpack. If you’d have looked in it, you’d have seen broken feathers and bloody clothes. When I brought him to the attention of one of the cops, he didn’t have it with him. Some friend came up and brought it to him. Said he’d left it at a table he was sitting at. An unattended backpack? I shuddered. I thought it was hopeless, but it was too late by then. He did well enough. It wasn’t your questioning that got to him. I think it was the blood.”

  “You’re the one who brought Slate to our attention,” Fenwick said. “Why?”

  “It was part of the plan. It would be an obvious red herring. The convention nut.”

  Turner said, “He was just kind of sad.”

  “That was the point,” she said.

  “You left the door to Foublin’s room open as well,” Turner said.

  “That was more by design. The killing had to happen more quickly, but he died without a sound. It was all so quick. We had time to plant the feather and get some bloody clothes. I wanted the corpses found. I wanted there to be uproar. I wanted to watch chaos. I’ve always lived by the rules and it got me nothing. I wanted the world to revolve around something I did.”

  “How’d you get so many broadswords?” Turner asked.

  “Collected them over the years. I planted some of them on Wednesday. I’d been given a very thorough tour of the hotel. I knew the outdoor café section of the restaurant at the top of the hotel was closed until May. That storage area was unused.” Turner remembered the dust.

  “Why’d Slate have to die?” Fenwick asked.

  “He was losing his nerve. He was the hardest of all because I had to kill him by myself.”

  Fenwick said, “We have evidence that he might have fought back.”

  “I got in a good blow from behind. He did a lot of staggering around. I barely got out of there, down to his room with bloody remnants, and back to somewhere safe.”

  “Why did you put those swords and clothes on the roof?”

  “Confusi
on.”

  “But how’d you get them up there?”

  “Planning. Hard work. No one was expecting something lethal at this convention. I had lots of access from being the liaison with the hotel. Who suspects a matronly woman in her sixties? The stuff on the roof we could get done at three or four in the morning.”

  “When did you start planting the clothes and feathers in rooms?”

  “This morning. I checked people’s schedules. We barely got out of the hall after Muriam’s death. If we hadn’t planted everything before she showed up, I’m not sure we would have made it. Fortunately, I’d planned thoroughly. Slate had helped with all the bloody stuff earlier. It took awhile to get the look and smell right. We did use some real blood from Foublin. Some of the blood was fake. We used some of each to make it more difficult for the police to figure out what was going on. We were lucky to have more time with Foublin. Slate didn’t really have the nerve for killing. Once I’d decided to finish off Muriam and use him as a partner, I knew I’d have to eliminate him. It was a risk bringing him to you although you’d have found the loon eventually”

  Turner asked, “Weren’t you worried he’d break the first time we talked to him?”

  “Only a little. At that time he was pretty strong. He began to unravel as more and more cops showed up. When he stabbed the police officer, I think it tipped the scales.”

  “What happened to his thumb ring?” Turner asked.

  “He was always twisting and fiddling with the things. When he got nervous, it got worse. On the roof, before I had to kill him, he was frighteningly nervous. He kept taking them off and putting them back on. He was pacing back and forth, whining and complaining in that high reedy voice. He turned his back on me, and I hit him in the middle of a fidget. After he died, I accidentally kicked the ring. I was lucky to find it. I threw it over the wall. I thought it would help confuse the police.”

  “We never found it,” Fenwick said.

  “Why hurt the cop?” Turner asked.

  “Slate did that by himself. It was an accident. Slate was going in the door while the cop was coming out. He had a pile of bloody clothes with him at the time. I was behind him.”

  Turner asked, “Why put his backpack on top of the water tower on the roof?”

  “I didn’t want to be seen with it. I knew you’d examined it. If I was seen, you might figure out the connection between us. I didn’t want to just dump it over the side. I didn’t want to hurt an innocent person.” She gulped and looked from one to the other of them. “About halfway up the tower, I got a little nervous. I tossed it. Why would anyone think to look up there?”

  “Why plant all the stupid feathers?” Fenwick asked.

  “It was her symbol. Fine. It could symbolize her death. Stupid fucking Ramble bird.”

  Turner wasn’t agape at the epithet. He’d seen ghastly murder done. A little old lady with a foul mouth wasn’t going to even register on his alarm scale.

  Murkle was continuing. “I also wanted to plant them everywhere. I had access to all the registration records. I knew enough people. I had enough feathers. I put them in the rooms of the rude or inconsiderate. Everyone who’d ever been supercilious at a convention. Anyone who’d made my work harder with some stupid, petty request. Everybody had to have some stupid, petty request that had to be met or they wouldn’t come to the convention. I wish I could have crushed them to death with all the minutiae of their silly, silly requests. The writer Hickenberg was a mean man. I figured I might not be able to kill them all, but I could scare them. They would remember me. I might not be able to get my fiction published, but I could make a headline. Someone would notice my work besides these drones and hacks who plan these conventions.”

  Fenwick asked, “Why the feather in our bathroom?”

  “I knew I wouldn’t be physically able to assault you, but I thought I’d scare or confuse you. I slipped the feather into your son’s wheelchair. The one in the bathroom was a follow up. I just wish I’d had some bloody clothes.”

  “Why would the feathers be frightening to other people?” Fenwick asked.

  “Maybe they wouldn’t be, but I’d understand them. She stole my idea. I had ostrich feathers in several of my books.”

  “She read your unpublished works?”

  “Way back when, I met her at a convention. She agreed to read a manuscript of mine. It had red feathers. I never got published. She did. Her first book was filled with the damn things. Every time I saw her carrying one of those damn things, every single time, I wanted to strangle her.”

  “Why give Slate one of the hospitality suites?”

  “We had to have some place as a central location.”

  “It gave us a hint that you were involved in something not right.”

  “Ha,” she said. “You’re not so bright. You all kept trying to think of some connection between all the people who got feathers or bloody clothes. It was simplicity itself. They were the ones who I arranged rides for from the airport. The first one I picked up was Muriam. She was mean to me. She was rude. She had no reason to be a snot. She’d sneered at me since reading that first book of mine. I confronted her about the feathers. She denied ever having read my manuscript. Just out and out denied it. I can take a lot. I’ve put up with a lot in my life. That was too much. To deny reality? That drives me insane. That was when I snapped. I knew I had to do something. That was Wednesday when she came in early for the convention. Slate and I had already made plans for mischief. It wasn’t hard to accelerate.”

  She was taken away.

  Fenwick said, “I understand the desire to be published. I’d give a lot to see my stuff make it into a book.”

  “You’re not willing to kill for it?”

  “Not tonight. We’ve got a mountain of paperwork, and I’m bushed.”

  30

  Paul Turner arrived home very late. Brian was on the couch. Jeff had his head on his brother’s shoulder and was fast asleep. Ben was on the other end of the couch. They were watching Midnight, a black-and-white movie starring Claudette Colbert. Afraid of awakening his brother, Brian sat up only slightly. He whispered, “Is everything going to be okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  Paul ruffled his older boy’s hair. “Everything’s fine.”

  Ben stood up and moved next to him. Paul put his arm around him.

  “Was it really that old lady?” Brian asked.

  “The older woman and a partner in crime.”

  “Why?” Brian asked.

  “Because people have disappointments all the time. Because sometimes disappointment hurts too much.”

  “Why us?” Brian asked.

  “Random chance,” Turner said.

  Brian digested this bit of reality.

  Jeff awakened and said, “I lost my costume.”

  Paul said, “After all that’s happened, would you really want to go to another SF costume event?”

  “Why not? Bad things happened, sure, but they weren’t our fault. You solved the case.”

  “You could have been hurt.”

  “But I’ve got you guys to protect me.”

  And Turner wanted to protect them and keep them safe forever. Later, he let Ben wrap his arms around him, and for a little while he felt protected as well.

  By Mark Richard Zubro

  The Tom and Scott Mysteries

  A Simple Suburban Murder

  Why Isn’t Becky Twitchell Dead?

  The Only Good Priest

  The Principal Cause of Death

  An Echo of Death

  Rust on the Razor

  Are You Nuts?

  One Dead Drag Queen

  Here Comes the Corpse

  File Under Dead

  The Paul Turner Mysteries

  Sorry Now?

  Political Poison

  Another Dead Teenager

  The Truth Can Get You Killed

  Drop Dead

  Sex and Murder.com

  Dead Egotistical Morons

 
NERDS WHO KILL. Copyright © 2005 by Mark Richard Zubro. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y 10010.

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  eISBN 9781429940436

  First eBook Edition : June 2011

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Zubro, Mark Richard.

  Nerds who kill / Mark Richard Zubro.—1st St. Martin’s ed. p. cm.

  ISBN 0-312-33301-3

  EAN 978-0-312-33301-0

  1. Turner, Paul (Fictitious character—Fiction. 2. Women authors—Crimes against—Fiction. 3. Science fiction—Authorship—Fiction. 4. Police—Illinois—Chicago—Fiction. 5. Congresses and conventions—Fiction. 6. Gay police officers—Fiction. 7.Chicago (III.)—Fiction. 8. Gay fathers—Fiction. 9. Gay men—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3576.U225N47 2005

  813’.54—dc22

  2005040701

  First Edition: June 2005

 

 

 


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