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Authors: Erica Spindler
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Berkeley. D&D was at the height of its popularity. Dick and I were both gamers, but we grew bored with D&D.”
“So you decided to create your own scenario.”
“Exactly. It caught on and quickly spread by word of mouth from Berkeley to other universities.”
“It became clear to them,” Kay offered quietly, “that they had done something special. That they had a viable commercial success at their fingertips.”
“His name?” Stacy asked.
Leonardo took over once more. “Dick Danson.”
She made a note of the name as the man continued. “We formed a business partnership, intending to publish White Rabbit and other projects we had in the works. We had a falling out before we could.”
“A falling out?” Stacy repeated. “Over what?”
The man looked uncomfortable; he and his ex-wife exchanged a glance. “Let’s just say, I discovered Dick wasn’t the person I thought he was.”
“They dissolved the partnership,” Kay said. “Agreed not to publish anything they worked on together.”
“That must have been difficult,” Stacy said.
“Not as difficult as you might think. I had lots of opportunities. Lots of ideas. So did he. And White Rabbit was already out there, so we figured we weren’t losing that much.”
“Two White Rabbits,” she murmured.
“Pardon?”
“You and your former partner. As co-creators, you could both go by the title of Supreme White Rabbit.”
“That would be true. Except that he’s dead.”
“Dead?” she repeated. “When?”
He thought a moment. “About three years ago. Because it was before we moved here. He drove off a cliff along the Monterey coast.”
She was silent a moment. “Do you play the game, Mr. Noble?”
“No. I gave up role-playing games years ago.”
“May I ask why?”
“Lost interest. Grew out of them. Like anything done to excess, after a while the endeavor loses its thrill.”
“So you went looking for a different thrill.”
He sent her a big, goofy smile. “Something like that.”
“Are you in contact with any local players?”
“None.”
“Have any contacted you?”
He hesitated slightly. “No.”
“You don’t seem certain of that.”
“He is.” Kay glanced pointedly at her watch; Stacy saw the sparkle of diamonds. “I’m sorry to cut this short,” she said, standing, “but Leo’s going to be late for a meeting.”
“Of course.” Stacy got to her feet, tucking her notebook into her pocket as she did.
They walked her to the front door. She stopped and turned back after she had stepped through it. “One last question, Mr. Noble. Some of the articles I read suggested a link between role-playing games and violent behavior. Do you believe that?”
Something passed across both their faces. The man’s smile didn’t waver, yet it suddenly looked forced.
“Guns don’t kill people, Detective Killian. People kill people. That’s what I believe.”
His answer seemed practiced; no doubt he had been asked that question many times before.
She wondered when he had begun to doubt his answer.
Stacy thanked the pair and made her way to her vehicle. When she reached it, she glanced back. The couple had disappeared into the house. Odd, she decided. She found something about them very odd.
She gazed at the closed door a moment, reviewing their conversation, assessing her thoughts about it.
She didn’t think they had been lying. But she was certain they hadn’t been telling the whole truth. Stacy unlocked her car, opened the door and slid behind the wheel. But why?
That’s what she meant to find out.
CHAPTER
11
Thursday, March 3, 2005
11:00 a.m.
S pencer stood at the back of the Newman Religious Center’s chapel and watched Cassie Finch and Beth Wagner’s friends file out. Located on the UNO campus, the multidenominational chapel, like every other building on site, looked grimly utilitarian.
The chapel had proved too small to accommodate the many who had come to pay
“So you decided to create your own scenario.”
“Exactly. It caught on and quickly spread by word of mouth from Berkeley to other universities.”
“It became clear to them,” Kay offered quietly, “that they had done something special. That they had a viable commercial success at their fingertips.”
“His name?” Stacy asked.
Leonardo took over once more. “Dick Danson.”
She made a note of the name as the man continued. “We formed a business partnership, intending to publish White Rabbit and other projects we had in the works. We had a falling out before we could.”
“A falling out?” Stacy repeated. “Over what?”
The man looked uncomfortable; he and his ex-wife exchanged a glance. “Let’s just say, I discovered Dick wasn’t the person I thought he was.”
“They dissolved the partnership,” Kay said. “Agreed not to publish anything they worked on together.”
“That must have been difficult,” Stacy said.
“Not as difficult as you might think. I had lots of opportunities. Lots of ideas. So did he. And White Rabbit was already out there, so we figured we weren’t losing that much.”
“Two White Rabbits,” she murmured.
“Pardon?”
“You and your former partner. As co-creators, you could both go by the title of Supreme White Rabbit.”
“That would be true. Except that he’s dead.”
“Dead?” she repeated. “When?”
He thought a moment. “About three years ago. Because it was before we moved here. He drove off a cliff along the Monterey coast.”
She was silent a moment. “Do you play the game, Mr. Noble?”
“No. I gave up role-playing games years ago.”
“May I ask why?”
“Lost interest. Grew out of them. Like anything done to excess, after a while the endeavor loses its thrill.”
“So you went looking for a different thrill.”
He sent her a big, goofy smile. “Something like that.”
“Are you in contact with any local players?”
“None.”
“Have any contacted you?”
He hesitated slightly. “No.”
“You don’t seem certain of that.”
“He is.” Kay glanced pointedly at her watch; Stacy saw the sparkle of diamonds. “I’m sorry to cut this short,” she said, standing, “but Leo’s going to be late for a meeting.”
“Of course.” Stacy got to her feet, tucking her notebook into her pocket as she did.
They walked her to the front door. She stopped and turned back after she had stepped through it. “One last question, Mr. Noble. Some of the articles I read suggested a link between role-playing games and violent behavior. Do you believe that?”
Something passed across both their faces. The man’s smile didn’t waver, yet it suddenly looked forced.
“Guns don’t kill people, Detective Killian. People kill people. That’s what I believe.”
His answer seemed practiced; no doubt he had been asked that question many times before.
She wondered when he had begun to doubt his answer.
Stacy thanked the pair and made her way to her vehicle. When she reached it, she glanced back. The couple had disappeared into the house. Odd, she decided. She found something about them very odd.
She gazed at the closed door a moment, reviewing their conversation, assessing her thoughts about it.
She didn’t think they had been lying. But she was certain they hadn’t been telling the whole truth. Stacy unlocked her car, opened the door and slid behind the wheel. But why?
That’s what she meant to find out.
CHAPTER
11
Thursday, March 3, 2005
11:00 a.m.
S pencer stood at the back of the Newman Religious Center’s chapel and watched Cassie Finch and Beth Wagner’s friends file out. Located on the UNO campus, the multidenominational chapel, like every other building on site, looked grimly utilitarian.
The chapel had proved too small to accommodate the many who had come to pay
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