Read Online Nerds Who Kill: A Paul Turner Mystery by Mark Richard Zubro - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mark Richard Zubro
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all his facts right.”
“There were occasional rumors about him being slipshod or careless. Nobody bothered to challenge him. Let me give you an example of what I mean. He kept a bestseller list on his site. He claimed he got the data from bookstores. A few people claimed a disproportionate number of books he liked made it on the list.”
“Did that make people angry?” Turner asked.
“It was one list on a relatively obscure site. He might have been a big fish, but the pond isn’t that big. I doubt if anyone much cared. If it was the New York Times list or Publishers Weekly , people might care. Not for this. Not for murder.”
Fenwick said, “It might have made a difference to someone who got on the list or made someone angry who didn’t make the list because of Foublin’s serendipitous way of doing it.”
“I never heard of anyone protesting,” Murkle said. “A few people complained about how odd it was sometimes. Not a big deal. I did my own informal checking. I found no problem. When I brought up his name to have him be the fan guest of honor, no one mentioned any problems, and I certainly wasn’t going to. After all, I was the one who proposed his name. I had no proof. No one else did either, or no one brought any forward. And he does have a large following.”
A woman dressed as an inmate of a harem out of the Arabian Nights entered. She was in her late forties. She might have been all of five feet tall and weighed about one hundred and ten.
Sanchez said, “This is Anna Foublin.”
This was the toughest part of Turner’s job. It never became easier. He hoped it never would. Turner said, “Mrs. Foublin, I have some bad news.”
She gazed at him.
“Your husband has been murdered.”
She glanced at each of them, her eyes finally resting on Murkle. “Is this true?” Mrs. Foublin asked.
Murkle nodded.
Mrs. Foublin dissolved in tears. Murkle rushed to her. Mrs. Foublin fell into her arms. After comforting her for some moments, Murkle led her to a seat. The older woman patted her arm and said soothing words. Turner produced tissues. When Mrs. Foublin was more composed, Turner got her some water to drink. He watched her swallow several gulps. “Can I see him?” she asked. “I have to see him. I don’t believe this.”
Turner said, “We’ll go with you to identify him. Ms. Murkle may come with if you wish.” The body, covered by a white sheet, was on a gurney on the twenty-sixth floor.
After they completed the unpleasant task of identification, they returned to the interrogation suite. Turner said, “It’s important that we interview Mrs. Foublin.” He didn’t want to order Murkle out, but he didn’t want her here for the interview either.
Murkle caught on. She stood up. “If you need anything, Anna, I’ll be right outside.”
Mrs. Foublin, Turner, and Fenwick sat together. Mrs. Foublin kept a stack of tissues at her side.
Mrs. Foublin pulled in several deep breaths and asked, “What happened?”
Turner gave a brief description, leaving out the grisly details. When done, he said, “Mrs. Foublin, we know this is an awful time, but we need to discuss this. The first hours of a case are the most important.”
She nodded.
“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to harm your husband?”
“No. He was a dear, sweet, innocent man. You know he ran a review site on the Internet?” The detectives nodded. “He always tried to say something good about the books he read. Even the ones he hated the most, he tried to find something to praise. He was always trying to be positive.” She dabbed at her eyes with tissue.
“Did he know Muriam Devers?”
For an instant Turner thought he saw a look of intense distaste rush across her features.
“They met many years ago when he still went to conventions all the time. They did correspond frequently, the past few years; they exchanged tons of e-mails. He always got along with her, but they were more acquaintances than friends. He did go
“There were occasional rumors about him being slipshod or careless. Nobody bothered to challenge him. Let me give you an example of what I mean. He kept a bestseller list on his site. He claimed he got the data from bookstores. A few people claimed a disproportionate number of books he liked made it on the list.”
“Did that make people angry?” Turner asked.
“It was one list on a relatively obscure site. He might have been a big fish, but the pond isn’t that big. I doubt if anyone much cared. If it was the New York Times list or Publishers Weekly , people might care. Not for this. Not for murder.”
Fenwick said, “It might have made a difference to someone who got on the list or made someone angry who didn’t make the list because of Foublin’s serendipitous way of doing it.”
“I never heard of anyone protesting,” Murkle said. “A few people complained about how odd it was sometimes. Not a big deal. I did my own informal checking. I found no problem. When I brought up his name to have him be the fan guest of honor, no one mentioned any problems, and I certainly wasn’t going to. After all, I was the one who proposed his name. I had no proof. No one else did either, or no one brought any forward. And he does have a large following.”
A woman dressed as an inmate of a harem out of the Arabian Nights entered. She was in her late forties. She might have been all of five feet tall and weighed about one hundred and ten.
Sanchez said, “This is Anna Foublin.”
This was the toughest part of Turner’s job. It never became easier. He hoped it never would. Turner said, “Mrs. Foublin, I have some bad news.”
She gazed at him.
“Your husband has been murdered.”
She glanced at each of them, her eyes finally resting on Murkle. “Is this true?” Mrs. Foublin asked.
Murkle nodded.
Mrs. Foublin dissolved in tears. Murkle rushed to her. Mrs. Foublin fell into her arms. After comforting her for some moments, Murkle led her to a seat. The older woman patted her arm and said soothing words. Turner produced tissues. When Mrs. Foublin was more composed, Turner got her some water to drink. He watched her swallow several gulps. “Can I see him?” she asked. “I have to see him. I don’t believe this.”
Turner said, “We’ll go with you to identify him. Ms. Murkle may come with if you wish.” The body, covered by a white sheet, was on a gurney on the twenty-sixth floor.
After they completed the unpleasant task of identification, they returned to the interrogation suite. Turner said, “It’s important that we interview Mrs. Foublin.” He didn’t want to order Murkle out, but he didn’t want her here for the interview either.
Murkle caught on. She stood up. “If you need anything, Anna, I’ll be right outside.”
Mrs. Foublin, Turner, and Fenwick sat together. Mrs. Foublin kept a stack of tissues at her side.
Mrs. Foublin pulled in several deep breaths and asked, “What happened?”
Turner gave a brief description, leaving out the grisly details. When done, he said, “Mrs. Foublin, we know this is an awful time, but we need to discuss this. The first hours of a case are the most important.”
She nodded.
“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to harm your husband?”
“No. He was a dear, sweet, innocent man. You know he ran a review site on the Internet?” The detectives nodded. “He always tried to say something good about the books he read. Even the ones he hated the most, he tried to find something to praise. He was always trying to be positive.” She dabbed at her eyes with tissue.
“Did he know Muriam Devers?”
For an instant Turner thought he saw a look of intense distaste rush across her features.
“They met many years ago when he still went to conventions all the time. They did correspond frequently, the past few years; they exchanged tons of e-mails. He always got along with her, but they were more acquaintances than friends. He did go
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