“How do we handle this?” Janea asked. “I mean… do we tell people he’s dead even?”
“Have to eventually,” Greg said. “Damn, I wish we’d never tried to smoke out this perp.”
“My idea,” Janea said.
“Yeah,” Greg said, grinning mirthlessly. “But I went along with it. As soon as I’ve done this crappy job cleaning him up I’ll go talk to the con committee and tell them what happened. But we want to keep panic down. We’ll just treat it as an unknown cause, might have been a fluke heart condition, and say there’s indications there was more than one person present. We want to find out who might have been meeting with him.”
“That will do,” Barbara said, nodding. “I’ll go down to the lower floors and check around.”
“This investigation is getting seriously out of control,” Greg said, shaking his head.
“No,” Janea said, shaking her own. “It’s simply got Special Circumstances. You don’t want to see ‘out of control.’ ”
Chapter Fifteen
There had been nobody at all in view on the third floor, directly below the landing where Timson had been found. On the second floor, however, there were several open doors and some room parties going on. Barb walked down to the first open door and poked her head through.
Despite the temperature, and the official no-smoking policy of the hotel, there was a window open and several people sitting by it filling the room with smoke. Among them was Folsom Duncan and she realized she’d found the Wharf Rat suite.
“Barb,” Duncan called from the back of the room. “Come in, come in. Have a drink! Have several. There’s dick all else to do!”
“You’re drinking tea,” Barbara pointed out, sidling into the room. She recognized several of the Wharf Rats from the rest of the con and nodded at people, exchanging greetings. Mandy and Norm weren’t there, she noticed.
“I didn’t say anything about alcohol,” Duncan said, smiling. “Although it’s around. As an alternative there are various soft drinks in the tub and for those with stronger constitutions I’ve broken out my stash of Indian black tea.”
“You don’t have any panels?” Barb asked.
“Not until tomorrow,” Duncan said, shrugging. “And very few people are going to them, anyway. The weather seems to have them huddling in.”
“That and the serial killer!” one of the Wharf Rats said, laughing.
“There’s that,” Duncan said, grinning. “Dare him to come in this room,” he added with a laugh.
“I don’t get the joke,” Barbara said, frowning.
“Oh, you seem cool,” Folsom said, smiling. “Are you bothered by weapons?”
“Not at all,” Barb said, her brow creased.
“George, get the door,” Folsom said, gesturing with his chin. When the Wharf Rat was standing by the door he nodded. “Wharf Rats… present!”
Just about everyone in the room reached behind a back, to a hip or into a purse and came up holding a weapon. And then everyone started checking and clearing them for safety. Barbara knew she was staring but it was a bit much. Especially when bags started being dragged out and the assault rifles started appearing.
“I asked if you were comfortable around weapons,” Folsom said, setting an H K SOCOM identical to the one in her purse on the table.
“I am,” Barb said. “When they’re in the hands of people I know are trustworthy with them.”
“Everyone who just drew a weapon has a concealed carry permit,” Duncan said. “In one state or another. And they all meet the minimum criteria to carry around everyone else in the room.”
“They all cleared their weapons?” Barbara asked, dipping into her purse and drawing, clearing and setting down the H K next to his.
“A lady after my own heart,” Duncan replied, grinning.
“Perhaps,” Barb said, picking the weapon back up, loading it and setting it back in her purse. “Could we talk for a moment, alone?”
“With you?” Duncan said, getting up. “Any time.”
“Where?” Barbara asked.
“The adjoining room,” Folsom said, gesturing. He led her into the room and shut the door. “You’re not bothered by that, are you?” he asked, cautiously, gesturing at the door.
“I’d be more bothered if you hadn’t asked,” Barb admitted. “Do you know Timson?”
“Can’t say the name rings a bell,” Duncan said. “But I’ll admit I’m lousy with names.”
“He was the head of the Hunters in the LARPers,” Barbara said. “He’s been found dead. Overdose, apparently.”
“Oh, I know who you mean,” Duncan said, his eyes lighting. “He’s a friend of Krake’s.”
“Really?” Barb said, surprised.
“He was on a panel with Krake on research in writing,” Duncan said, nodding. “He and Krake had been thinking of doing a series together since Krake’s specialty is Greek and Roman history and that guy… Timson? He’s an expert in really ancient writings, all the way back to cuneiform from what Krake said.”
“Well, there’s not going to be a series now,” Barbara pointed out. “He’s most sincerely dead.”
“And there’s a rumor,” Duncan said, his eyes narrowing, “credibly traceable to you, that there’s a serial killer at the con.”
“The body had no indications of violence,” Barb said.
“And what would a homemaker know about that sort of thing?” Duncan asked, exasperated. “I’m sorry, the next thing you’re going to tell me is that your name is Miss Marple.”
“What?”
“Agatha Christie? Never mind. Look, I don’t know who you are or what you’re playing around with-”
“I’m a consultant with the FBI,” Barbara said, throwing up her hands. “Okay? You know Greg Donahue is an FBI agent, right?”
“But he’s on leave…” Duncan said then paused. “He’s not, is he? He’s actually on assignment, isn’t he?” His face had gotten very blank.
“Yes, he’s on assignment,” Barb said, sighing. “And, yes, we spread the rumor to try to get the killer to bolt. But instead he’s changing MO. Timson looks like an OD, we’re… not sure how he was killed.”
“And you’re not a very good liar,” Duncan said, angrily. “Somebody already tried to call out and we can’t. Now you’re telling me we’re playing Ten Little Indians?”
“If you mean he’s hunting us, yes, it looks like it,” Barbara said, unhappily. “There’s an HRT team on standby at the Roanoke airport. But we can’t call them in. We can’t even get a sheriff’s car in here.”
“Shit,” Duncan said, standing up and pacing back and forth. “Herding cats…” he muttered.
“What are you talking about?” Barb asked.
“How to keep people alive,” Duncan snapped. “Greg’s worried about catching the perp and so are you, although from your eyes ‘catching’ probably isn’t what you’re thinking. Me, I’m trying to figure out how to cut down the casualties. And the first thing we need is solid police response. We need to get in contact with that HRT and get them in here. Get sheriff’s deputies in here. Seal this place down, vet every single person, pull out all the suspects and find out which one did the killings. Which means we need to get back in contact.”
“The roads are packed,” she pointed out. “And it’s a half mile to the nearest intersection. And there’s no guarantee that there will be anything there. Trying to move through this snowstorm is suicide.”
“We’ve got, among the Wharf Rats, a half a dozen people with serious cold-weather training and background,” Duncan said, shaking his head. “This isn’t a horror movie. We just get the experts in and let them run wild. And to get them in we send out a team with all the gear we can make or scrounge. If they take a few hours, if they take all night, whatever it takes. I’m thinking about what happens in the meantime.”