Nerds Who Kill: A Paul Turner Mystery by Mark Richard Zubro

There was another gaping wound on his right shoulder. Blood had gushed from both spots. He had a convention badge hanging around his neck. His throat was bruised, red, and raw in various spots. Foublin wore a purple spandex muscle T-shirt, poufy black pants tucked into black engineer boots, and a gauzy purple shirt. The gauzy shirt, now more remnant than shirt, was ripped and torn and hung nearly off his torso. There were cuts on Foublin’s arms from wrist to shoulder. He lay half on the bed and half on the floor.
    “These large enough to be made by a broadsword?” Fenwick asked.
    “I’m not sure,” Turner said, “this is only my second broadsword murder. We don’t get a lot of those this century.”
    Fenwick said, “This broadsword shit could become all the rage. Issuing broadswords to gang bangers. Now there’s a concept. Better yet, Marlon Brando in The Godfather wielding one to chop off various parts of recalcitrant people’s bodies. I’m there.”
    “Pleasant as that concept might be, let’s focus,” Turner said. “The killer skewered this guy and then took the weapon. In Devers’ murder, he leaves it there. Why not do the same thing at both?”
    Fenwick said, “The killer had more time?”
    “Presumably. Unless the same sword was used here first then there. One sword, two dead bodies. But I think we’ve got even more problems. So the killer’s running around using a sword, which is kind of okay, because there’s a lot of them at the convention. But if he used it at the first murder, he’d have to rinse off before he goes on his merry way. And he runs or walks around in bloody clothes? A change of clothes?”
    Fenwick said, “We better check to see if anyone’s broadsword is missing. It’s possible the killer brought his own supply. Do we want to confiscate all of them?”
    “We need to round up everyone who for sure brought one.” They sent Sanchez to accomplish this task.
    Turner know this group would include his son. He was uneasy about that.
    Turner pointed to a corner of the room. “We’ve got another broken feather.”
    “Our killer is leaving signatures,” Fenwick said. “I like that in a killer. Adds zest to the operation.”
    Turner said, “I’d be happy if it turned out to be a moronic affectation on the killer’s part that gave him or her away.”
    Fenwick said, “Well, aren’t you the technical one.”
    “Red feathers strike me as silly. I wonder what it had to do with in the book.” Turner shrugged. “The bigger problem is time. Did the killer bring broken feathers with? Was there an interview with symbolic feather breaking so the victims knew why they were going to die? Or did the killer risk taking more time after the murder to arrange a message? And if they’re a message, for whom is he leaving them?”
    Fenwick said, “Takes only a second or two to break and drop a feather.”
    “If you’ve got one handy. If not, you’ve got to find one. Or you’ve got to remember to bring a supply. You’ve got to be thinking clearly. Even if it’s well planned, you do something this violent, it’s got to shake you up.”
    It was Fenwick’s turn to shrug. He said, “We’ve seen some very cold killers. I can’t believe our dead guy here wouldn’t have bellowed when he was stuck. I sure as hell would have. Would someone have heard the noise with the door closed? The killer couldn’t be sure no one would hear the noise of a fight.”
    “But the door was open,” Turner pointed out.
    “Which would be most likely to happen as the killer made his escape.”
    “You’ve got time to break a feather but not close the door?”
    “Don’t forget, we don’t know when the feather was broken.”
    They experimented with the acoustics and various noise levels. Turner stood out in the hall. Fenwick bellowed at various levels from behind the closed door. Turner had heard Fenwick reach remarkable volume levels of bellowing. Fenwick also turned up the television and the radio to