Fantastic Detectives

by Dean Wesley Smith

  A drunken Furry fan was coming on to a full-furred werewolf busboy, who didn’t know how to react to all the unwarranted and unwanted attention.

  “See, told you this would be fun, Shamble,” McGoo said. “Look over there, it’s the Doctor. How many can you name?”

  I looked around, but only saw a random assortment of eccentric-looking men. “Who?”

  McGoo rolled his eyes. “Let’s not get into the Abbott and Costello routine. Dr. Who. The first one there with short dark hair—he’s the David Tennant Doctor. And the one with the scarf—you gotta recognize him—it’s a Tom Baker lookalike, probably the most classic Dr. Who. And the one with the bow tie—Matt Smith.”

  Even after all this time, I was surprised to learn something new about my friend. “I didn’t know you were a fanboy, McGoo.”

  “Not to this extent,” he said, gesturing around. “But I’ve got a TV, and I am culturally aware.”

  One tall beanpole fan peered over the crowd, trying to reach the information table. Finally he gave up and just yelled, “What time is Van Helsing going to be on stage?” Some of the vampire attendees booed.

  “Five o’clock in the main ballroom,” yelled an unseen person from behind the desk.

  Four skinny guys in clinging red shirts from classic Star Trek walked by, and someone yelled in mock panic, “Look out, it’s redshirts!” I couldn’t see why they posed any kind of threat; in fact, the tight shirts emphasized how scrawny their arms and chests were. If that was the kind of security available to Captain Kirk and crew, no wonder the old show got canceled after only three seasons.

  For my own part, I wore my usual sports jacket with crudely stitched-up bullet holes and my fedora—it’s my trademark, and what PI would be without one? McGoo wore his blue beat-cop uniform, and everyone seemed to think he was playing a part from an old police show. Several fans came up with very clever guesses from obscure programs that I hadn’t heard of in years. One fan marched up with a sneer, poked a finger at McGoo’s chest, and said, “T.J. Hooker—not Shatner’s best,” then walked away without waiting for a response.

  Suddenly, we heard yelling from the mezzanine open area and the sounds of a growing altercation. McGoo glanced at me. “This is what we’re here for, Shamble. Come on.”

  We ran up the stairs (and I use the term “ran” loosely, since my joints are stiff enough that it takes me awhile to get up to speed). A group of rowdy Klingons yelled, “Star Trek is better!” One heavyset Klingon woman had the loudest voice of all.

  Across the room, the 501st stormtroopers, who had made an uneasy alliance with costumed Jedi Knights and Mandalorian bounty hunters, took offense. “Star Wars is better!”

  “Star Trek!” insisted the Klingons.

  “No, Star Wars!” The intellectual debate continued in that fashion for a few more exchanges before the groups ran forward and clashed in an all-out brawl. The Klingons struggled to draw their bat’leths against the peacebonding ties. The stormtroopers punched and pummeled with a clatter of white plastic armor. The Jedi Knights lit their fluorescent-tube light sabers, but were careful not to damage them.

  Before McGoo and I could break up the fight, the group of redshirts rushed into the fray, trying to drive the combatants apart. Eventually, the Klingons brushed themselves off and the 501sters adjusted their body armor. Somehow, the only ones genuinely battered, bruised, and injured in the fight were the redshirts.

  “You’re right, McGoo. This is fun.” I smiled.

  Wandering about to get the lay of the con, we walked past large and small panel rooms, costuming workshops, and autograph tables featuring bit actors from long-canceled programs. One large room hosted a “robot smash” where model-builders pitted a remote-controlled R2D2 against a more ominous-looking Dalek. The two machines clashed, with the Dalek crying in a synthesized voice, “Exterminate, Exterminate!” while R2D2 responded with a series of incomprehensible but clearly rude beeps and squeals.

  Primarily, though, people wanted to show off their outfits (or lack thereof, in the case of some of the very scantily clad barbarian princesses).

  A hard-faced Asian woman wearing a COSTUME JUDGE badge blocked my way. As she ran her critical gaze up and down my appearance, she looked as if she’d had her sense of humor surgically removed. In an officious voice, she said, “I’ve seen one or two of you already at the con, but your costume isn’t up to snuff.” She clucked her tongue, then tugged on the front of my sport jacket. “Wrong number of bullet holes on the left. That exit wound in your forehead is at least a centimeter off. And that makeup is terrible. It should be blended more.”

  “But I’m the real one,” I said. “I am Dan Chambeaux.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Right, keep telling yourself that. Getting into character is important, but you have to take the costume seriously, too. After a decade as a cosplayer, trust me I know what I’m talking about. If you’re going to be a zombie detective, at least do it right.” She walked off muttering.

  Loud enough to slice through the background noise came a bloodcurdling scream—and not the good kind of bloodcurdling scream. We hurried toward the source, as did all the other attendees, as if the shriek somehow signaled free beer for everyone.

  McGoo and I shoved our way toward a small second-floor panel room, but a crowd had already clogged the door. We tried to jostle people aside, but they reacted as if we were just fellow costumers. So, we got more aggressive and finally made it through the door.

  A stormtrooper lay sprawled on his back on the floor—with a wooden stake protruding from his chest. It had been pounded right through the white armor plate.

  A burly Klingon stood over him, raising both hands. His bronze skin was flushed and his mouth drawn back in panic. “I just found him like that!”

  A young woman in the back of the room—a motel employee holding a pitcher of water for the next panel—screamed again for good measure, although her first scream had already accomplished whatever a scream could do.

  By now, all the formerly brawling Star Wars and Star Trek fans had made their way to the crime scene. The man in the Vader suit came huffing up behind them all, gasping with real exertion that was louder than the sound of his respirator voice box. The stormtroopers reeled when they saw their murdered comrade. One of the troopers looked through the open door and cried out, “Oh, no! It’s TK-9399!”

  I asked, “You can tell that just at a glance?”

  The helmet turned toward me. “Of course, look at the red shoulder pauldron. It’s very distinctive. That’s TK-9399 all right.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is.” I turned and called out, “Is there a doctor in the house?” The David Tennant, Matt Smith, and Tom Baker Whos arrived, drawing sonic screwdrivers and looking eager to help. I revised my shout. “Somebody call an ambulance.”

  McGoo drove the spectators away. “Out of the way, all of you. This is a crime scene.”

  “I didn’t do it!” yelled the Klingon, unable to tear his gaze from the body on the floor. “I didn’t touch him!”

  McGoo turned to him. “I’m Officer Toby McGoohan from the UQPD. I need to ask you some questions. What’s your name?”

  The Klingon composed himself and said proudly, “I am Ach-gLokh Heqht!”

  McGoo had drawn a pad from his pocket, poised to take down the information, but didn’t know how to spell it. “Is that a name, or are you coughing up phlegm?”

  “That is how I got my name!”

  “Ach-gLokh Heqht didn’t do it!” claimed a loud and busty Klingon woman. “I was with him at the time.”

  “No you weren’t,” I said. “I saw you in the altercation up on the mezzanine just a few minutes ago.”

  “You would call me a liar?” The Klingon female strode forward as if she meant to tear my limbs off.

  I’ve already been through having a limb torn off, though, and found it unpleasant. I backed away, trying to be calm. “Just stating a fact, ma’am. It won’t do for an alibi.”

  The Klingons regrou
ped and tried to come up with something else. McGoo and I bent over the staked stormtrooper.

  “Take his bucket off,” called one of the troopers in a sad voice. It took me a minute to realize that he meant the helmet.

  McGoo shook his head. “Nothing gets removed until the Coroner examines him.”

  “What if he’s not entirely dead?” I asked. “Never can tell these days.”

  Though it went against normal police procedure, McGoo couldn’t argue with that. “Right, Shamble. Better make sure.” He and I carefully lifted off the victim’s helmet without disturbing any other part of the armor.

  Then we discovered an even greater surprise. The dead stormtrooper TK-9399 was a vampire.

  2

  The ambulance and the Coroner’s wagon arrived together with a dueling set of screeching their tires in the motel’s designated “Coroner” and “Ambulance” parking spots. (The two spots saw frequent use.)

  McGoo had called for UQPD backup, and now half a dozen uniformed officers swarmed through the Motel Six Feet Under and Conference Center . . . which was even more confusing because some of the cosplayers wore similar—some might say better executed—uniforms, including one dressed up as the T-1000 from Terminator 2.

  The Klingons had commandeered the coffee shop again, where they demanded goblets of warm bloodwine to celebrate the life of TK-9399, whose soul had now gone off to some place called Sto-vo-kor . . . which sparked a lively discussion as to whether Star Wars fans could even go to Sto-vo-kor, or if that was exclusively limited to the Star Trek franchise.

  McGoo and I went to the Con-Ops room, just off the registration area. We met the pot-bellied and balding con chairman named Phil Somerstein. He looked bleary-eyed, harried, and overworked with management details. The murder of one of the CosplayCon attendees seemed just one more hassle he had to deal with.

  McGoo said, “This is an active investigation, Mr. Somerstein. I’m going to have to impose a lockdown. The murderer is likely still in the motel, and until we’ve had a chance to talk to everybody, we’ll need your help in insuring that all of your attendees stay put.”

  Somerstein wiped a sweaty palm across a sweaty forehead. “Officer McGoohan, you don’t understand—this is con weekend. Nobody’s leaving the motel, with or without a lockdown.”

  The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open to reveal two uniformed trolls from the Coroner’s office. They wheeled a gurney on which rested the zipped-up body bag. They had placed TK-9399’s white bucket on his chest like a memorial, and as they rolled the gurney past, the other 501sters stood in a solemn honor guard, their heads bowed. Darth Vader also hung his helmet, flicking off the respirator in a sign of respect.

  One of the stormtroopers shook his white helmet. “He never stopped trooping.”

  The crime-scene techs had swarmed in with their kits, taking the necessary photos, although many of them spent too much time taking additional photos of sexy Xenas and Wonder Womans (Wonder Women?) who posed for the shots. The police detectives conducted interviews. Off in a quiet area they were taking statements from a Batman and an Indiana Jones.

  McGoo looked overwhelmed already. “I may need your help with this, Shamble.”

  “The cases don’t solve themselves,” I said. “And you did promise me this would be fun.” I was already starting to formulate a plan.

  Ach-gLokh Heqht was the obvious suspect, and I’ve been a detective long enough to know that the obvious suspect usually isn’t the guilty one in the end. Besides, if all these cosplayers were really into their characters, why would a Klingon kill someone by pounding a wooden stake through the chest? TK-9399 was a vampire, however, so the murderer’s options had been limited. Still, I would have expected a Klingon to, say, decapitate him with a bat’leth and stuff his mouth full of garlic. Then I realized the white bucket would have posed a challenge to the garlic follow-up. . . .

  “I can help,” said a cheery voice. “It’s what I do.”

  I turned, and faced myself—or at least a reasonable facsimile of me. He extended his hand. “Dan Shamble, Zombie PI.”

  I was taken aback—he had the fedora, the bullet hole in his forehead (though shifted a centimeter closer to center than mine was), and his skin was pallid. His sport jacket had prominent stitched-up holes. His facial features even bore a strong resemblance to mine. “You dressed up as me?”

  “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Shamble. I’ve read all your books.”

  “They’re not actually my books,” I said. “Someone else writes them, and they’re just loosely based on my actual cases.” In fact, I found it embarrassing that Howard Phillips Publishing kept releasing comedic horror mysteries that featured the cases of a fictitious zombie detective, based on me. “Just as long as you remember that I’m the real one.” I paused to consider. “I’ll call you Fanble.”

  He seemed disappointed. “But I have to believe I’m the real Dan Shamble. It’s cosplay. I’m in character. Cosplay means you are that character, not just dressed like him. It’s all about finding the real me inside.”

  “Right. I saw the program book.”

  McGoo looked from Fanble to me and back to Fanble again. “Usually one Shamble’s enough, but we have a lot of potential witnesses and a lot of potential suspects.” He raised an eyebrow, as if about to give a test. “Hey, Fanble, have you heard this one? A skeleton walks into a bar, says to the bartender, ‘Give me a beer . . . and a mop!’”

  Fanble managed to stay in character by not laughing any more than I did. McGoo has an unfortunate repertoire of bad jokes.

  McGoo shook his head. “Yeah, Shamble, he’s just like you.” He started off down the hall. “Let me talk to the crime-scene techs to see what they found.”

  I nodded. “Meanwhile, I’ll go meet with the stormtroopers, learn more about the victim.”

  “We’re on it, McGoo,” said Fanble. “The cases don’t solve themselves.”

  3

  After TK-9399 had been hauled away in a body bag, CosplayCon got right back into swing as if nothing had happened. The attendees waited all year for this event, and they worked on their costumes with obsessive attention to detail. They weren’t going to let a simple thing like a murder ruin their fun.

  I didn’t know what to think about Fanble. He seemed earnest and more serious about being “me” than I was. He took great care to imitate my movements, my mannerisms. It was like having my own portable 3D mirror walking alongside me. I decided to accept the help, though. Two heads are better than one when trying to solve a case.

  The 501st troopers were nowhere to be found. I looked around, frustrated. “How do you hide a bunch of fans in identical white armor or a tall man in a Darth Vader suit?”

  Fanble responded, “It’s our job to find out. We are detectives, after all.”

  As we walked down the hall, other con attendees gave admiring glances and complimented us on our realistic costumes. When I assessed Fanble again, I realized that the bullet hole in his forehead was in the correct spot after all. I must not have noticed it before. We looked like twins.

  But the grin on his face made him appear immature and idiotic. Did I really look like that? “Don’t smile so much,” I said. “It’s out of character.” He immediately resumed a stern “I’m a PI and I’m at work” expression.

  A young man impersonating Edward from Twilight—who didn’t look like any real vampire I had ever met in the Quarter—asked us if we knew when and where Van Helsing would be giving his talk. Fanble gave him the Crown Ballroom number, then asked if “Edward” knew where we could find the 501st members. I wouldn’t have expected a character from Twilight to pay much attention to Star Wars personnel, but the imitation sparkler directed us to an unused panel room that the stormtroopers had commandeered.

  Fanble and I looked at each other. “Do you think they’re discussing the case? Maybe working out a retaliation against the Klingons?” he asked.

  “Maybe they’re holding some kind of memorial for TK-9399,” I said.
We found the door and pulled it open without knocking. In detective school I was taught that it’s best to surprise your suspects.

  The surprise wasn’t exactly what I’d intended, though, because we came upon a group of half-undressed stormtroopers. Definitely not something I’d ever intended to see.

  “Oh, excuse us,” I said.

  Fanble added in a gruff, no-nonsense voice, “We’re investigating the murder of a Mr. TK-9399.”

  The troopers had taken off their helmets and shucked out of their white resin armor. They stood around in skin-tight body gloves while they adjusted boots, butt plates, greaves, and shin plates.

  “Come on in, but close the door,” said the troop leader, who identified himself as TK-6370. “We’ve got an important troop in an hour, lots of exposure, lots of attention. We wanted to check our kits.”

  “I’m sorry about your fallen trooper,” I said. “We’re trying to determine who killed him and why.”

  The stormtroopers grew solemn. “Poor TK-9399. Even after he died and came back as a vampire, nothing changed. I’ve never seen a fan so dedicated. Star Wars is a way of life.” That trooper identified himself as TK-7246.

  Another trooper, TK-9754 , said, “I’m going to miss TK-9399. Sure, he was a fan. Sure, he was a vampire. But he didn’t let that change who he was. TK-9399 always used to say ‘Star Wars is my life, and now it’s my unlife.’” He picked up a piece of white plastic and turned to the person beside him. “Help me with my codpiece, will you?”

  The man in the Darth Vader suit flicked his respirator box on and off, fiddled with the sound effects, then unsnapped a compartment on his wide utility belt to remove a roll of menthol cough drops. “TK-9399 caused quite a stir by trooping as a vampire. He was an activist, even wanted to form an Unnatural Quarter garrison. He tried to round up Star Wars’ fans among the werewolves, mummies, and ghosts.” He tugged on his black gloves. “He thought it would be cool to have a real ghost Obi-Wan and Anakin, maybe even a troll dressing up as Yoda. TK-9399 didn’t expect to cause trouble by expanding the fan base.”