Cole Perriman's Terminal Games by Wim Coleman, Pat Perrin

stalked away from his desk.
    *
    Marianne drummed her fingers against the obnoxious end table with the curlicue edges. She leaned back against the headboard of her hotel room bed and cradled the phone receiver against her shoulder. She was waiting to be taken off hold. It had been at least three minutes now.
    Guess they’re not terribly anxious to receive phone tips. After all, it was only the murder of one of the country’s most famous tycoons.
    “Sergeant Wertsch here,” a voice said.
    Marianne felt her heart jump. “Sergeant, I … I believe I might have some information pertinent to the G. K. Judson killing,” she said.
    “Yes?”
    Marianne was silent. How can I explain it? She suddenly wished she’d written down all the details.
    “I belong to computer network called Insomnimania,” she explained uneasily. “It’s a recreational network with a number of different rooms.”
    “Rooms?”
    “Yes. Virtual spaces where you can engage in different kinds of activities. Do you understand?”
    “Go on.”
    “One of the rooms is called the Snuff Room. People act out murders there.”
    “Act them out?”
    Marianne took another deep breath. “Insomnimania users create animated cartoon characters. They’re called ‘alters.’ And in the Snuff Room, they make up cartoon skits that portray murders of one kind or another. Fictional murders, supposedly. It’s all a game, you see?”
    “Go on.”
    “At about midnight last night, I saw Mr. Judson’s murder acted out in the Snuff Room. At least I think it was his murder. I’m staying at the Quenton Parks Hotel and I’ve seen the crime scene. The stain on the wall was exactly like the one in the snuff.”
    “Are you saying that you witnessed Judson’s murder?”
    “No, I witnessed a reenactment of the murder.”
    “Who reenacted it?”
    Marianne felt overwhelmed by the weirdness ofwhat she was about to say next.
    “A clown,” she said.
    “A clown?”
    “Look, it was a cartoon character. Named Auggie.”
    “Not a real person?”
    Marianne groaned. “Sergeant, I tried to make it clear that I saw this on my computer screen. Didn’t you understand that part?”
    “Yes, you made it very clear,” Sergeant Wertsch said. “Would you give me your name, ma’am, along with some information as to how we can reach you?”
    Marianne did so.
    “Thank you, ma’am,” Sergeant Wertsch said. “We’ll give you a call ifwe need any more information.”
    “Wait a minute!” Marianne exclaimed. “I don’t think you understand. Somebody in Insomnimania seems to have known a great deal about Mr. Judson’s murder. Doesn’t that interest you at all?”
    “Any information pertaining to Mr. Judson’s murder interests us a great deal. Thank you very much for your help, Ms. Hedison.”
    The line went dead. Marianne miserably hung up the phone and leaned back on her pillow.
    A bust. A complete, unequivocal disaster.
    She felt her face flush. It wasn’t that she was embarrassed at having made a blithering idiot of herself. After all, she was next to anonymous. But she had failed to convey her shock at the similarities between the crime scene and the Snuff Room skit, and this failure truly disturbed her.
    What’s the matter with me? Why did I panic with that other cop—What’s-His-Name—right there at the scene?
    She felt lousy about this failed phone call. Couldn’t she have been more forceful, more persuasive, more clear? Why did she have to sound like a complete nut case? And what was she going to do now? Call up Sergeant Wertsch again and demand his undivided attention? Or go confront the detectives on the case?
    She couldn’t prove what she had seen on the computer monitor, and she still only half-believed it herself. Wasn’t it possible that she had dreamed or hallucinated at least part of it? She was chronically tired these days. She was usually in a truly exhausted state by the time she logged onto Insomnimania. Maybe the idea that a real-life murder and a