Dead Egotistical Morons Read online

  “Are you usually at their concerts?”

  “I’m rarely on the road with the group, but this was the last stop in a six-month tour. Everyone was here to celebrate. We sold an awful lot of albums on the tour. An awful lot of souvenirs, too. It is hardly an exaggeration to say that a mere mortal could probably retire on the proceeds from the T-shirt sales from this week in this venue alone.”

  “How did they get picked for the band?” Fenwick asked.

  “Several of them knew each other before we put them all together. There’s been a big demand to see who would be the next smash-hit boy band. There’s a lot of cash to be made from teen and preteen girls.”

  Turner said, “I don’t understand the dynamics of being in a band, going on tour. Could you fill me in from the beginning?”

  “Is that important to solving the murder?”

  “I need to understand this world,” Turner said. “It is totally foreign to me.”

  “Of course. Well, we have scouts out looking for talent. One of them saw two of these boys singing at a small wedding. They were very good. Very unpolished, of course, but very good. Then we found two others at an open audition. The fifth was in a barbershop quartet at a church fund-raiser. It was serendipitous chance that he got picked. One of my secretaries happened to be there. The chemistry with the five of them clicked. A band works very hard for a very long time. Then, if they are lucky, they open in a few small venues, and they begin their rise. In this case they toured South America and Japan for six months and hit it big there. They came back to the States, and the rest as they say, made millions.”

  “What about personal relationships between all of them?”

  “They were friends. Roger worked hardest of all. Jason Devane was kind of a computer geek. Danny Galyak was a cutup. Dexter Clendenen was sweet and vulnerable. Ivan Pappas was the most mature. For such disparate personalities, they all got along. Remarkably well, for living and working so closely together.”

  “They lived together?” Fenwick asked.

  “On the road and when practicing for a tour. They were wealthy enough in their own rights to afford luxury homes, and they lived in them when they were away from practice and touring obligations.”

  “Who had access? Who knew them best?”

  “Jordan Pastern had the daily access. He was more than a security guard. He was in charge of the detail that took care of the boys’ lives on the road and when they were recording. He’ll know who was closest to them. I don’t really know.”

  “How about family and friends?” Turner asked.

  “We encouraged them to have friends and family as important parts of their lives. Getting a mention of them being out to dinner with their mom in the local gossip columns is like pure gold. It is excellent for their image for them to be seen as normal as possible. At the same time it is very difficult for major celebrities—and these boys were among the biggest—to have normal relationships. The traveling is killer. The hours of work are intense. You don’t get to sing and dance in just a day or two. Putting together a two-hour stage show is not easy.”

  “You’d think they’d have it down pat after doing it for six months,” Fenwick said.

  “I’m talking about preparation, and even on tour they still practiced often. Plus these boys wrote a great deal of their own music. That was a little unusual. They took great pains with their work. They were very professional young men.”

  Turner asked, “How often did you see them? How did you get along with them?”

  “We got along very well. I saw them before the start of each tour. I was always positive and encouraging.”

  “Any disgruntled employees?” Turner asked.

  “Any boss has to let people go. I don’t think anyone was angry enough to kill.”

  “Drugs,” Fenwick said. “These were rock and roll guys. They were young. They were rich. They could have anyone they wanted for sex. They could get any drugs they wanted. Did they?”

  “The image of wholesomeness was paramount. Their fan base is girls from six to sixteen. The image we want for this band is for them to appear a little virginal mixed with a lot of sweetness. Knowing them would be equivalent to dating the sexy but nonthreatening, sensitive, big brother of the girl next door. It is a very cultivated image. We allow nothing to get in the way of that.”

  Fenwick said, “Were they doing drugs or not? Sex, drugs, and rock and roll. You can deny it, but they must have been at least tempted.”

  “I know nothing about their sex lives. Around the concerts, everything was very controlled. Outside the concerts, they were told to be discreet. We were not called upon to bail them out of jail. Drugs and drug dealers are not permitted near them by us. This isn’t some heavy metal band filled with heroin addicts and self-indulgent, crude, low-class, no-talent hacks. These are good kids. If they indulged any negative habits, I don’t know about them.”

  Fenwick said, “The image is pretty well shot to hell with one of them being murdered.”

  “I am sorry this young man is dead, but the image is magnificent. He will be a martyr. He and the band are victims. In spite of or because of that, their CDs will leap out of the stores.”

  Fenwick said, “Unless one or some or all of them are the killers.”

  “They’re good kids.”

  Turner said, “We’ll need to talk to them one by one. They each took showers back there. They would be most likely to have seen something.”

  “Of course.”

  Turner said, “Do you keep a record of threats against the band? Maybe a list of the crazies who might be stalking them?”

  “I’ll make sure you get whatever we have on that.”

  Fenwick said, “If they start to give our people trouble, we’d like your help in making sure they cooperate. They may be young and rich, but they need to understand that they are not free at the moment.”

  “I will make sure it happens as you say.” After that, he left.

  “No tears,” Fenwick said. “I don’t trust him.”

  “You need tears for innocence?”

  “I need grief and emotions to feel confident I’m not being snowed. I didn’t say he was lying. I just don’t trust him.”

  Turner said, “Is either one of us in the business of trusting suspects or witnesses?”

  “Not this week.”

  Dexter Clendenen was about five foot six and thin enough to be considered by an anorexia clinic. He wore dark blue jeans, a gray sweatshirt, and white running shoes. He dumped a ratty brown backpack next to his chair. Like Pastern, the front of Clendenen’s clothes were wet. He had very pale, almost translucent skin. Turner saw the edge of several tattoos on both wrists. Clendenen had soft brown hair cut short and soulful brown eyes. He spoke in a mellow tenor voice.

  Turner realized he was sitting with a young man who half the twelve-year-old girls in the country would trample their own mothers to be in the same stadium with, much less in a private room having a conversation.

  “Do you know who killed Roger?” Clendenen asked. He barely looked up at them as he spoke. He wiped away occasional tears with the back of his hand.

  “We don’t know yet,” Turner said. “We’re trying to get some information. Tell us about what happened after the concert.”

  “It was crazy. We did a couple extra encores. Roger always loved doing encores. I just wanted to get the thing over with. I wanted to go home. All of the guys did. Roger insisted on extra encores. He ate them up. He loved getting the crowd riled up.”

  “Angry?” Turner asked.

  “No, nothing like that. Just wildly enthusiastic. Usually, it was great. But tonight, I wanted it to be over with. It’s been six months. You don’t have a life. I figured I could stay at the after party for maybe thirty minutes and then go home.”

  “Home to your hotel or home to where you live?” Turner asked.

  “Where I live. Eureka, California. I guess I couldn’t have really left tonight, but I wanted to. Being on the road is tough.
New cities, new interviews, same old questions. New people, same dopey comments. Hiding out, trying to have a few quiet moments. Don’t get me wrong, I love this. This is my dream, singing and dancing and being rich. I’ve wanted to have this since I was little. It really is a dream come true. It’s just—after a while anything can get to be too much.”

  “So Roger kept you guys out there?” Turner asked.

  “It seemed like forever. We were sweating like mad. We got back here and then we hurried to take showers. This place is pretty nice. Some of the older venues are a little rundown. We each had an individual stall. That marble was pretty cool. I guess I got done first. That drying room they’ve got is real nice; soft, warm air. They had thick carpets and warm fluffy towels. Nobody’s allowed back there. They don’t let anybody see us naked, except maybe Jordan. He’s not gay. He doesn’t stare. He just makes sure there are towels and stuff and leaves us alone. I finished before the other guys. Roger is always last. I came out here to the party. I didn’t hear anything. I was mostly getting something to eat and some champagne. I was really hungry. We always have the best food. The caterers were great. We got anything we wanted. Course the company pays for it.”

  The guy looked like he could eat hot fudge sundaes for years and not gain an ounce. Turner knew this did not endear the teenager to Fenwick, whose massive bulk had continued to expand over the years.

  “How did you guys get along?” Turner asked.

  “Little squabbles now and then, but mostly great. We were on top of the pop world. We were the best. Everybody wanted to be us. Everybody wanted to date us.”

  “What were the little squabbles about?” Turner asked.

  “Nothing really. When we’re practicing for a tour, we all live together in this big mansion in Cathedral City, California. Nobody bothers us. It’s great, but five guys living together, no matter how big the place is, you can get on each other’s nerves. Roger could be a little messy, but we had maids to clean things up.”

  “So everybody pretty much got along?” Turner asked.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “We heard you wrote your own material.”

  “Roger did a lot of that.”

  “That cause any problems?” Turner asked.

  “No. There wasn’t like a competition to get one guy’s music played more than somebody else’s. We worked together.”

  “Did Roger have any enemies?” Turner asked.

  “No. He was always patient and friendly.”

  “No crazed fans?”

  “Well, that’s what we had security for. Nobody would have been admitted back here who was a crazed fan. They’re pretty good about security.”

  “So someone you know must have killed him,” Turner said.

  If it was possible, the kid turned even paler. “Who would do that? We’re just regular guys.”

  Not for a long while now, Turner thought, and probably never again in your lives.

  “Anybody get fired who was close to the group?” Turner asked.

  “No, we didn’t have anything to do with all that stuff. We just got the best help in the world for everything. The best choreographer, the best video maker, the best makeup people.”

  Turner asked, “Any of the guys in the band involved with drugs? Any of the hangers-on?”

  “No, none of that. Some of us weren’t even old enough to buy liquor when we started out.”

  Turner doubted if that would be an obstacle for a young man who had more money than half the planet and an awful lot of people who would want to please and pamper him.

  “A lot of people think we’re gay. We’re not. I’ve got a girlfriend.”

  “Is she here on tour?” Turner asked.

  “No. I’m going home to Eureka after this to see her. I miss her.”

  Someone knocked on the door. McWilliams put his head into the room. “You guys are probably going to want to come see this, now.”

  3

  Out in the hallway McWilliams said, “Some of the guys found a gun, and we’ve got other stuff.”

  He introduced Ethel Hinkmeyer, the band’s publicist. She wore a navy blue outfit with a white, ruffled blouse, and a matching pillbox hat and veil. She carried a thick leather briefcase in her right hand. Frances Strikal, the stadium rep, was with her. Both women promised full cooperation from the groups they represented.

  Hinkmeyer took a sheaf of papers out of the briefcase. “This is a list of all the people from the company who were here, all those who had access to the stage area, and the names of all the people who were working here from the Chicago area. We always tape the concerts. I have that for you as well.”

  Turner took the proffered materials and thanked her.

  The four of them followed McWilliams to the floor of the arena, then down lengthy corridors of cinder block painted in rainbow colors. Turner had been to the United Center for professional basketball and hockey games. This place dwarfed that one. The arena was closer to being an indoor stadium than it was to a normal sports palace. Seating rose in vast tiers all around the central core of a playing surface. The sections of seats nearest the ground could be rearranged depending on the needs of the different events.

  McWilliams led them under the canopy over the concert stage and the equipment needed for the performance. Even though the lights were all on, beneath the vast stage set everything was dim and shadowed. First McWilliams brought them to a corner near the main entrance. A knot of uniformed cops stood around a pile of black garbage bags jammed with heaps of paper cartons, beer cups, plasticware, and food wrappers. One bag was slightly separated from the rest.

  McWilliams used a gloved hand to lift up a corner of the bag. The detectives squatted down and peered inside.

  “Small caliber revolver,” Fenwick said. Putting on their surgical gloves, they handled it gently. Six empty cartridges in six empty chambers.

  “Did they have metal detectors at the entrances?” Turner asked.

  “Even if they did, there wasn’t one at the entrance for the crew and hangers-on,” McWilliams said.

  “You found this here?” Fenwick asked.

  One of the beat cops said, “We saw the black bag. We were all wearing our gloves like we’re supposed to. This looked a little out of place. One of the guys looked inside. As soon as I saw what it was, I stood watch so nobody could touch it, and we sent for you.” Turner tagged and labeled the weapon. They would need to do ballistic tests to make certain it was the murder weapon.

  “Why is this here?” Fenwick asked. “What is it about this spot that lent itself to concealment? Did the killer toss it here then just walk out of the arena? Or did he or she simply dash out here, desperately fling the gun, and then go back to the party hoping no one would discover the body and notice they were missing?”

  Turner said, “My guess is nobody’s going to have detailed memories. With over two hundred folks in that space, finding out who was where and when is going to be problematic.”

  They walked over to the non-cop people. Turner asked, “Who had access to this area?”

  Strikal said, “No one was supposed to get back here except authorized personnel.”

  “Are there metal detectors at the entrances?” Fenwick asked.

  “No. Not for this kind of concert,” Strikal said. “How many twelve-year-old girls carry weapons?”

  “One is all it takes,” Fenwick said.

  McWilliams said, “There’s more.”

  They ascended a ramp onto the staging area. The vast interior had been turned into an Escheresque warren of ramps and stages. Voices echoed in the empty hall. The fifty-foot-high screens at all four points of the compass stood blank. Turner could see that the ramps and bridges made it possible for the band to move as close to as many segments of the audience as possible. One series of bridges and landings soared nearly fifty feet in the air to a high platform, a precarious perch for singing and dancing. Above the vast stage area was an enormous banner with a swirl of golden circles on a bright red background
. The bunting draped along the outside of the balconies had BOYS4U stitched in foot-high letters all around it.

  Turner pointed to the banner dangling from the ceiling. “What’s that?”

  Fenwick said, “You can tell you don’t have daughters. I’ve seen that thing scrawled on notebooks and drawn on the backs of hands. I’m not supposed to notice. I never knew which band it applied to. I just know it’s pervasive, on lunch boxes, three-ring binders, book covers, and probably on their underwear, which I do not want to know about.”

  McWilliams brought them to center stage. He introduced a short, hefty man as Aaron Davis, the equipment manager for the band.

  Davis said, “As soon as we got the word, we stopped taking the set down. We had just gotten started.”

  “You guys brought all this stuff with you?” Fenwick asked.

  “One hundred and eleven trucks’ worth of junk. A crew of about fifty permanent members. Union-contracted workers here at the arena help with the load-in.”

  “How well does anybody know the locals?” Turner asked.

  Hinkmeyer said, “We deal with the International Association of Theatrical and Stage Engineers. The union people clear out before a concert. They mostly help with toting things, not with the technical work. That takes expertise. After the locals are done, the members of the band come in for a sound check. They didn’t have to do that except for the first night we were here. Our crew does all the final inspections. Only our people.”

  Davis led them from the center of the stage to a series of coils and ropes that looked like bungee-jumping cords on steroids. Five stagehands in jeans and sweatshirts stood around them. At one end of each cord was a complex harness. The other ends were attached to thick metal wires. Davis said, “The cops said to check everything that didn’t look right. One of the guys found this. They reported it to me.”

  “What am I looking at?” Turner asked.

  “Several times during the concert the boys fly over the crowd. Sometimes we lower them close enough to touch a few fans. We even rigged it here so that they could almost touch the highest tier of seats.” He held up the ends of several of the ropes. “Someone tried to slice through all of these.”