Dead Egotistical Morons Read online

  Turner and Fenwick examined each one. Only one of them had been cut very deeply.

  “This ever happen before?” Turner asked.

  “Never,” Davis said.

  Fenwick asked, “If someone was trying to sabotage the operation, why not just snip these wires?” He and Turner examined one. It was as big around as the top U of a combination lock. It seemed to be numerous strands of thinner wire braided together.

  Davis said, “You don’t get that kind of wire at your local hardware store. It’s specially made, super-strength. You would need immense tin snips to break through that and even then you’d have to be pretty damn strong.”

  “Awful hard to conceal that kind of thing, too,” Fenwick said. “A hacksaw would take too long.”

  Hinkmeyer said, “Someone was trying to kill the whole band?”

  “Looks that way,” Fenwick replied.

  Davis said, “We inspect the props every day. All five wires and ropes checked out perfect before the performance.”

  “Someone examines every inch of every one of these?” Fenwick asked.

  “Yes,” Davis said, “every day.”

  Fenwick looked at the stagehands. “You guys checked these?” he asked.

  He got a chorus of “Absolutely,” “For sure,” “Definitely,” and “I checked it carefully.”

  “Only these five had access?” Turner asked.

  “Yes,” Davis said.

  “Someone was watching these wires every second?” Turner asked.

  “Well, no,” Davis said, “but these are the only guys with permission to touch them.”

  “How long before the concert do you check them?” Turner asked.

  Davis said, “We’ve got five hours of making sure everything works perfectly. These are among the first things we go over. These wires get done early because if something’s wrong, we have to fix or replace it right away. None of the crew had looked at the cable for at least an hour before the concert began.”

  “Has there ever been anything to fix?” Turner asked.

  “Sometimes last-minute minor adjustments, but no sabotage, ever.”

  “Lots of time when they aren’t being watched,” Fenwick said.

  “We would have noticed someone who didn’t belong,” Davis insisted. “Nobody touches the equipment except us and the guys.”

  “You would have recognized all the locals after only a few days?” Fenwick asked.

  Davis said, “We checked them in each day. They have very specific jobs. Only the professionals handle anything that might possibly be dangerous.”

  Hinkmeyer added, “We’ve worked with this Chicago company many times.”

  Turner said, “If it’s not somebody from outside who did this then it’s one of the members of the touring company. Members of the band were down here?”

  “They all were,” Hinkmeyer said, “but really, you can’t go around saying these boys could be suspects. This is awful enough. You can’t mean to accuse a member of the band.”

  Fenwick said, “We aren’t going to accuse anybody until we have evidence. When we get evidence we’re going to accuse whomever we have proof against. Fame isn’t going to be some kind of goddamn shield if they’re a murderer.”

  Hinkmeyer wrung her hands. “I didn’t mean that. You know the problem the press is going to cause. Every cable network is already covering this live. It’s going to get crazier.”

  Turner said, “We’re going to follow the clues. We have no desire to smear anyone or hurt anyone. First, I want to know which band member would have used the most cut-through rope?”

  “Dexter,” Davis said. He held up one of the ropes. “See? They’re color-coded. That’s so they always go in the same place when we set up. The boys always started and stopped their stunts in the same spot. For something to look spontaneous onstage, it’s got to be rigidly organized.”

  “Would this much cutting have caused one of them to fall?” Fenwick asked.

  “Probably not,” Davis said. “These things are built stronger than the ones mountain climbers use. Unless you sawed almost all the way through, you couldn’t be guaranteed they’d break.”

  Turner said, “Show us where each of these is supposed to be before the concert.”

  Davis said, “The wires are always in the same place they’re used from, about ten feet apart. Whoever cut them would have to rush from one to the other.”

  After examining the locations, Turner said, “Maybe the person didn’t have time to do a thorough job. Or had to move fast to keep from getting caught. Or wasn’t very strong. Or planned poorly.”

  Davis said, “We’ve got another thing.” He led them back below the stage and under the first tier of seats to a row of Dumpsters overflowing with garbage. He pointed to a mayonnaise jar filled with amber fluid. “That’s not supposed to be here.”

  With his plastic gloves on, Turner unscrewed the lid. “Gasoline,” he said. “Somebody could have lit all this crap on fire.”

  Strikal, the stadium rep, said, “The sprinklers in this building are state of the art. We have a fire crew on site when there’s a performance. Nobody’s stupid enough to make the claim that this place could never burn down like they did for the first McCormick Place, but every possible modern precaution was taken. This arena is above code in all areas. No corners were cut.”

  “They don’t have to burn the place down,” Turner said. “All you have to do is start a fire and get a panic going. Fear will do the rest.”

  Hinkmeyer gasped and turned very pale. “Thousands could have been trampled.”

  Turner felt a shiver at the thought. A lot of innocent people might have died.

  Turner and Fenwick stood at center stage. Taped to the floor at all four points of the compass were eight-and-a-half-by-eleven pieces of paper with large dark letters: CHICAGO.

  Fenwick prodded one of these with his left foot. “This is in case they forget where they are?”

  “Got to be,” Turner said.

  Fenwick said, “Somebody had to be awful goddamn busy to do all this.”

  “Maybe it was more than one person.”

  Fenwick said, “One or all of them would constantly risk being seen where they weren’t supposed to be.”

  “That almost makes it for sure that it has to be an inside job. Which limits us to only a few hundred suspects, including the band members.”

  “Why not concentrate on just one rope?” Fenwick asked. “Why attempt each one and none of them successfully?”

  “We’re dealing with an amateur or someone who was planning elaborately but poorly. A young person maybe. Or a nut who couldn’t organize themselves out of a paper bag or someone who judges success by how much fear they can spread, death and destruction being an added bonus.”

  The two detectives walked around the perimeter of the stage. At one end Fenwick pointed. “Those are real drums and guitars, and a violin. These guys had a real band?”

  “Did you think they lip-synched all this stuff?”

  “Yeah.”

  One of the uniformed cops hustled over. “You guys need to look at this.”

  Back under the stage they were led to a dressing room. It was about ten-feet square, set off from the rest of the area by heavy black curtains. Stadium and band personnel clustered around. Davis said, “The guys have a lot of costume changes during the show so they’ve got a few places around where we keep things. This is the main area.”

  Turner saw Bulls, Bears, Cubs, and Sox uniform shirts. He pointed, “Why all those?”

  Hinkmeyer said, “In each city we have them wear shirts for at least a few minutes with the logos from the different local teams. Fans go crazy for it.”

  Davis pointed to a box of twenty-four water bottles. He said, “The guys sweat a lot and need to drink during the concert to keep from becoming dehydrated.” They looked like ordinary convenience-store containers to Turner. Davis touched the tip of one bottle with the edge of a fingernail on his right index finger. “This is our
s.” He pointed to the one next to it. “That isn’t.”

  “They look the same to me,” Fenwick said.

  “The company makes a special brand just for the guys. It’s a little perk. They went from a nothing company in Manitoba, Canada, to the second biggest bottled water distributor in the world because of an ad campaign featuring Boys4u.”

  Donning his plastic gloves, Fenwick turned the bottle around slowly. Moments later he said, “I still don’t see the difference.”

  “The labels on ours are a slightly darker shade of green.” Davis pointed to the bottom. In small print it said, SPECIAL MADE FOR OUR BOYS. “This is missing on the wrong one, and there’s no plastic seal on it.”

  “Where are the bottles they drank from?” Turner asked.

  “The used ones are over there.” He pointed to a small trash can half filled with empties. “They all have the correct labels.”

  “Who’s in charge of these?” Fenwick asked.

  Roger Stendar’s personal assistant was summoned. Christopher Abrar was tall and lean. “Yeah, I order all the little personal stuff.” He inspected the bottles. “No. We only get the kind with the special label. We keep them frozen then put them out a couple hours before the concert.”

  There were nearly a dozen empties. “They drink that much?” Fenwick asked.

  “It’s actually a lot more sometimes, but we lose a lot of bottles. People take them for souvenirs.”

  “You mean paying customers can get back here?” Fenwick asked.

  “No, like custodians and stuff take bottles to give away or make a profit on. The littlest thing these guys touch can become valuable. And they don’t just drink this stuff. They do a water-bottle squeeze over the crowd just before intermission.”

  “A what?” Fenwick asked.

  Using one of Fenwick’s gloves, Abrar picked up an unopened bottle, pulled up the pop-up top, and squeezed it. Water poured against the wall. “They aim it at the different parts of the audience. It’s supposed to be fun.”

  “I guess people have different definitions of fun,” Fenwick said.

  “Are all of them here?” Turner asked.

  “At least three are missing,” Davis said. “Which is about the same as usual.”

  “Who could put a fake one here?” Turner asked.

  Abrar said, “I guess the crew. The band. Lots of people.”

  Hinkmeyer said, “I’m not sure who would even know about these. The special ones were a minor perk.”

  “How did you notice the difference?” Fenwick asked Davis.

  “We were going through everything very carefully. The cops said to notice everything. The one with me said he needed to inventory these. I figured it was a waste of time.”

  “We’re inventorying everything,” Fenwick said. “It’ll take a lot of time. This whole arena is a crime scene. It’s not easy, but we’re looking for details exactly like this. It’s gotta be done. We’ll also need pictures of everything like this in its current location.”

  Turner said, “We’ll tag the bottles and send them to the lab.” He turned to McWilliams. “David, get back to the members of the band, now. Find out if any of them noticed anything odd about the water. Have the paramedics monitor them for signs of poisoning.”

  “Hell of a thing,” Fenwick said when the two detectives were once again at center stage.

  “Lot of failed attempts,” Turner said. “Was Stendar a victim of opportunity or was he intentionally killed? Would any one of them have done as a victim? Too many coincidences, which neither you nor I believe in.”

  Looking at the stage setting from this central vantage point, Turner could see it was constructed as a vast letter H. He was currently standing at the center crossbar.

  A uniformed cop called down from the top platform high above them. “You guys better come look at this.”

  Fenwick would have grumbled more about the steep climb if he hadn’t been out of breath by about the tenth step.

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Turner commented as he waited for his wheezing friend at a landing halfway up.

  When Fenwick reached him, he said, “Good thing I’m not a member of a pop group.”

  “Not a lot of singing and dancing in that picture.”

  “Got that right.”

  When they got to the top, a uniformed officer pointed to a side of the platform. The wood had been splintered.

  “Son of a bitch,” Fenwick said. “Gunshot.”

  Turner could see every corner of the stadium from this vantage point. He never expected to be in this position in an empty or a full auditorium.

  The platform was six-feet-by-six with wide railings at knee level. In the center of the platform a translucent fiber-glass center pole with numerous handholds was connected to a steel girder which began about eight feet above the surface. Gossamer-thin thread stretched between the four side posts made of the same material as the center pole. These side posts reached to shoulder height. Turner tugged at several of the threads. They felt as tough as the wires had been. Each was hooked onto the fiberglass corner posts by a snap lock. They had stepped onto the platform between fiberglass sentinels about two feet apart. He undid one with reasonable ease. A killer probably wouldn’t risk coming all the way up here. It would be too easy to notice someone in such a public area. Then again, if it was one of the still-living band members, it might be a place to unhook things. Then again, a dangling strand would be very noticeable.

  The audience would be unlikely to see these insubstantial barriers, but in effect they were a net to keep the band members from hurtling off if they lost their balance.

  Turner bounced up and down several times on the balls of his feet. He didn’t feel the platform shake or sway. It felt very well constructed. A successful shot up here would have made a spectacular murder. If the handgun they found was the murder weapon, then a fatal shot would have had to have been a pretty random success. Or if it was a sniper with a rifle, maybe he didn’t have enough time to take perfect aim. Turner suspected the members of the band didn’t spend a lot of time standing still. Or if they did, would a sniper be lucky enough to have an unobserved moment of his own? A rifle would make more sense for this kind of shot, but they hadn’t found one of those. And a rifle would have blown a huge hole in the kid’s head.

  Fenwick said, “Spectacular revenge to have one of them die in the middle of a performance.”

  Turner said, “Why wasn’t the gun loaded? Are we going to find bullet holes in the ceiling, or did the killer shoot off several rounds in some cornfield in the middle of the state? Was the killer blasting away at every loud moment in the concert? The shot or shots must have been fired at the height of the concert. Who did the killer try and hit? With so many thousands in the auditorium, how did the killer miss someone? Why didn’t somebody see the shooter?”

  Fenwick said, “At least the gun makes some sense. The fire doesn’t. A fire hurts more than just the band. In fact, they’re in the best position to get off the stage and out.”

  Turner said, “But the sabotage and the killing have got to be connected. So the killer wasn’t aiming just at the kids in the band? Although the bottle and wire things seem pretty specific.”

  Fenwick said, “I can’t imagine that the sabotage and the killing are unconnected.”

  Davis joined them on the platform. Turner pointed at the railing. “Was it splintered like that before the show?”

  “No way. These things are always in pristine condition. Christ, somebody tried to shoot them while they were performing? That’s nuts.”

  Turner walked the edge of the platform on all four sides. On each side he unhooked the clamps on the translucent knee-high railings. These folded back on hinges onto the platform. Then he lay flat on his stomach and squirmed under the gossamer ropes. He felt them tickle the hair on his head and the shirt on his back. While he didn’t lean out far enough to fall off, still he had Fenwick hold his legs as he stretched to the point where he could examine the under-side o
f the platform. On the third side, he beckoned to Davis. A tech held Davis’s legs as the equipment man crawled next to him and looked.

  “Is that supposed to be like that?” Turner asked. One end of a strut was no longer connected to the rest of the platform.

  “Hell, no! And I know it wasn’t like that before the concert. I check these platforms myself. We’re very careful. They each take off from this perch at least once during the performance. At one point all five of them have to be up here at the same time singing, dancing, jumping.”

  Turner and Davis scrambled back up.

  As Turner had, Davis bounced up and down several times. “See how strong it is with us up here even with one strut broken. There are multiple fail-safe devices. You’d have to work at it to get this thing to fall. You could get a baseball team up here and be safe.”

  Turner said, “I think one of the shots hit the strut. A very lucky or very good shot.”

  Fenwick said, “Or the shooter didn’t care if he hit anybody or not.”

  Turner said, “Hell of a risk just to be taking potshots. Anybody could have spotted a gun. Someone was firing rapidly and randomly?” He shook his head and turned to Davis. “Don’t take all this down until we’ve had our people go over it completely.”

  Fenwick asked, “Is this concert that loud that gunshots could be unheard?”

  Davis said, “It sounds like fifty all-fireworks orchestras in here half the time.”

  “You don’t like the music?” Fenwick asked.

  “I like the money I make doing this. I work a lot of concerts for a lot of groups. I haven’t paid attention to a note in any venue in twenty years.”

  The sound of someone shouting floated up from below. They all looked over the edge down to center stage. A man stood there. Even from this height Turner could see he was gesticulating wildly.

  “Who the hell is that?” Fenwick asked.

  Turner shrugged and they descended.

  4

  As they neared center stage, Turner could see a tall, portly gentleman standing with Pastern, Hinkmeyer, and Strikal. Even at a distance he could hear the voices clearly. Pastern said, “Who let you in?”