Fantastic Detectives Page 10

  As I went to the closet, I felt a sense of dread. Normally in the Unnatural Quarter you might find skeletons in any random closet, but this time I found something else. When I slid the door aside, I saw the complete Van Helsing outfit hanging there—the trenchcoat, the bandolier of garlic bulbs, the floppy hat, the belt loaded with wooden stakes.

  And yes indeed, one of the stakes was missing.

  6

  TK-9399 had somehow made himself a target for either Ach-gLokh Heqht, or TK-10625, or Van Helsing. An intersection of motives. And if the killer had an entirely flexible murderous intent, then CosplayCon was full of potential victims.

  We had to find John Doe—and soon. And among hundreds of disguises.

  Fanble had had the bright idea to cross-check the registrations, discovering that the various suspect characters were all under the same street name. I had the equally brilliant idea of flipping that around: we could look up any registrations submitted by “John Doe” and find out what other characters he intended to play. Since we’d already found the Klingon, stormtrooper, Dr. Who, and cylon outfits discarded in the hotel room, John Doe had to be wandering around the con dressed as someone or something else.

  As precious seconds ticked away, McGoo, Fanble, and I waited for the interminable elevator. Each time the doors opened, the car was going up, not down. Finally, when another upbound elevator opened on Floor 10, two of the costumed fans motioned us in anyway. “Dude,” said a Star Trek redshirt, “you have to go up to go down.”

  So we rode the elevator up to Floor 14, then back down to the lobby (again, stopping at every floor). When we reached the lobby, McGoo bolted out, and the two of us zombie detectives—both the fake one and the real one—followed him to the con registration desk.

  CosplayCon was in full swing, with attendees preparing for the evening’s big masquerade, though I couldn’t see how an official “masquerade” was any different from the rest of the day here. Natural and unnatural fans were grinning. Werewolves got their pictures taken with Wolverines and a too-scrawny-looking Thor.

  We had a case to solve. I could enjoy the con after we captured the murderer.

  The registration desk wasn’t busy this time of day, since everyone already had their badges and set about to enjoy the convention (at least those who hadn’t been murdered or were considered suspects). No one was going in or out of the Motel Six Feet Under because of the lockdown.

  A woman sat behind the information table, happily knitting, while a forlorn cat sat in a zipped-up pet carrier beside her. The woman looked up. “How may I help you?”

  “We need to cross-reference your database,” McGoo said. “One of the con attendees, Mr. John Doe, registered as several different cosplay characters. We need to know the full list so we can track him down.”

  She frowned and set down her knitting close to the cat carrier; inside, the feline batted at the sidewalls, trying to catch the yarn. “Our computers are down right now, but fortunately, we rely on a more efficient analog system.” She pulled out a large plastic recipe box full of colored index cards. “I have every one of the attendees listed here. I can look up your John Doe and pull out his entries.”

  I let out a sigh of relief. “How long is that going to take?”

  “As long as it takes. I’ll flip through the cards and pull them out.”

  “Aren’t they organized alphabetically?” Fanble asked.

  “No, chronologically. By date of registration.” She began flipping through the cards one at a time, starting at the front. While we waited, I looked at the large banner at the doorway: “We Are All Someone Else Inside!”

  Right, I thought. And one of the people here is a murderer.

  A group of rowdy Klingons stormed through the lobby, chasing after a Captain Jack Sparrow who had insulted them somehow. A Mandalorian Boba Fett bounty hunter sneered at a colorful figure of Kenny from South Park, saying, “He’s no good to me dead.”

  I picked up a spare program book at the registration desk. “Find Your Inner YOU!” Killing time, I flipped through the program listings. McGoo fidgeted, waiting.

  Fanble seemed optimistic. “We’re on the verge of solving this case, I know it—and I’m proud that I could help. Is there any better way of getting in character?” He grinned, then remembered his serious expression again. I had to admit, he was doing a decent job.

  The registrar’s fingers must have been nimble from her knitting. She flipped through all the cards quickly, pulling out every one that listed John Doe. “That’s all of them.”

  McGoo, Fanble, and I turned as she spread the cards as if they came from a Tarot deck. “All these were submitted at different times, all registered to a John Doe. He’s a very ambitious costumer.” She flipped one down. “Klingon, name of Ach-gLokh Heqht.” I was impressed by how well she pronounced the name.

  “501st stormtrooper, designated TK-10625. And a Dr. Who—Tom Baker Incarnation—oh, we have several of those here at the con.” She kept flipping down cards.

  “Old series cylon, toaster variety.” She pursued her lips. “Hmm. Honest Abe Van Helsing . . . one or two of those at the con as well, but he claims to be the real one.” She rolled her eyes, “Don’t they all? And . . . “She held up the last card, squinting down at it. “This is strange . . . he’s also dressed as Dan Shamble, Zombie PI.”

  McGoo looked at me. “What’s that all about?”

  A cold dread rose within me as I turned to look at Fanble. “You?”

  Startled, Fanble raised his hands. His fedora was askew. “No, not me! How could you think it was me? It was one of those other guys!” He shook his head as if having a seizure. “That was someone else! They were all someone else!”

  “But you’re the one who called attention to John Doe in the first place,” I said, though I liked to think I would have figured it out myself sooner or later. “If you’re the murderer, why would you put us on the trail?”

  “Because that’s what Dan Shamble would do.”

  McGoo pulled out his handcuffs, crouched, and prepared for a fight.

  Fanble lurched away. His shoulders jittered, his arms flapped. His bullet-ridden sport jacket whipped about as he thrashed. His face blurred like melted putty, fuzzing, reshifting. He shook his head. “No, not me! Gotta stay in character . . . all the voices in my head!” He clapped both hands to his temples, knocking off the fedora. “Too many personalities. So many expectations!” His features shifted, twisted.

  Ever since the Big Uneasy, just about every form of legendary creature had returned to the world, from basic garden-variety vampires, werewolves, et cetera, to the more exotic mythical beings. I had even solved a case when Santa Claus hired me to find his missing Naughty-and-Nice list. After all my years of investigating in the Quarter, I was beyond being surprised when I figured it out. “You’re a shape-shifter.”

  “That would explain all the different characters,” McGoo said. “John Doe, you are under arrest on suspicion of the murder of TK-9399.”

  Fanble backed away, still twisting and writhing. Somehow, he found the energy within himself to snap back into character so that his features looked just like mine again. He reached inside his sport jacket and drew his .38—which I suspected was very real.

  The con chairman, Phil Somerstein, ran forward with an angry and annoyed look on his face. “Hey! That’s not properly peacebonded!”

  A large number of cosplay fans had gathered in the main lobby, many in costume, everyone excited for the impending masquerade. They gasped to see Fanble wave his gun. He pointed the .38 at me again.

  I took a chance, though. I saw how determined Fanble was, how hard he worked. His features were so eerily similar to mine it was like confronting myself in the mirror. Holding my hands up, trying to calm him, I stepped closer.

  Fanble yelled, “Don’t come any closer. I’ll shoot!”

  “I’ve been shot plenty of times.”

  Then the shape-shifter swung the gun toward the fans in the crowd. “Then I’ll sh
oot them.”

  I took another step forward. “But if you’re truly in character, as me, then you know I’d never shoot innocent people. Not humans, not unnaturals.”

  The crowd grew thicker around the tableau, redshirts, numerous incarnations of the Doctor, Klingons, stormtroopers, cylons, Jedi Knights, Browncoats, Visitors, and countless anime, superhero, and videogame characters, even another faux Van Helsing, whose costume was much less impressive than the one I had seen on stage—the costume John Doe had worn.

  And it wasn’t just the cosplayers. The unnatural attendees from the Quarter were also caught in the crowd: real vampires, werewolves, even the dedicated mummy fan with his hieroglyphic Issue 0 Action Comics ashcan edition.

  Fanble’s .38 wavered. He swung it around the gathered crowd, then seemed to sulk like a marionette with the strings cut. “You’re right—Dan Shamble, Zombie PI would never do something like that.” He dropped the .38 on the floor, then shucked the sport jacket, stomped on the fedora—and his features began to morph in an extravagant transformation.

  As the flaccid flesh, skull, and facial features reorganized themselves, Fanble shifted through Tom Baker, then into a burly Klingon, thrashed about, and finally settled on a powerful and murderous character, someone who would not hesitate to harm innocent fans: Van Helsing—Honest Abe, ruthless vampire serial killer. His eyes flashed, his dark hair writhed. He drew his lips back to expose his teeth in a glare. “I’ll kill you all!”

  But despite his facial features, he didn’t have his full costume, didn’t have his tools or props.

  Before McGoo and I could bolt forward to seize him, though, my doppelganger lunged toward the crowd like a quarterback in a game. The fans yelled, trying to scramble away.

  Then I saw where he was headed. Van Helsing leaped toward the other Van Helsing cosplayer, knocking him to the ground and ripping at the wooden stakes thrust into his belt. He drew back, holding up one of the sharp projectiles.

  Trying to get away, the vampires in the crowd screamed, “Watch out! He’s got a stake!”

  Van Helsing’s hands blurred as if they were rapid-fire crossbows. He hurled his sharp projectiles at random into the crowd, and somehow every stake struck and injured a Star Trek redshirt, all of whom dropped to the ground, bleeding.

  Drawing my own .38, I yelled at McGoo. “As Van Helsing at least he’s human. We can take him down.”

  Realizing his vulnerability as a human, Van Helsing blurred and took on a different form, sprouting fur and massive muscles. His face elongated into a fang-filled canine muzzle and he became a powerful bull werewolf.

  I hesitated before I fired, but McGoo didn’t. He drew one of his two service revolvers. “I’ll just wing him,” he said.

  McGoo’s shot struck him in the shoulder, which flung the shapeshifter backward to the floor of the lobby. He thrashed about like an earthworm on a hotplate.

  “It’s just a flesh wound. I was careful—Nothing to worry about.”

  The shapeshifter didn’t react as if it were a minor injury, though. He wailed and spasmed, clearly dying.

  “What did you hit him with, McGoo?” I asked.

  “Uh-oh. Looks like John Doe picked the wrong cosplay creature this time.” He looked down at his service revolver. “This is the one loaded with silver bullets in case I get in a shootout against unnaturals.”

  The shapeshifter moaned and jittered, shed his werewolf persona, and lay twitching—a formless thing like a store mannequin whose features had melted away, gasping out of a round toothless mouth.

  He said something, and I bent close, still feeling a certain connection to the man—to the being—who had known and imitated me so well. John Doe gasped, “I couldn’t stand the pressure . . . I just wanted to be somebody . . . to be everybody.”

  With a last writhing rattle, the shapeshifter lost even its featureless humanoid form and dissolved into a puddle of organic goo that seeped into the StainGuard carpet of the motel lobby.

  I stood next to McGoo, and he shook his head. “I didn’t mean to kill him. Now there’ll be a lot of paperwork.” He sighed. “I can honestly say I’ve never seen a shapeshifter before.”

  I turned to him. “How would you ever know if you had?”

  The cylon con security guards came forward to help wrap up, and McGoo decided there was no further need for a lockdown. I realized that it was a good thing McGoo had coaxed me here in the first place.

  I felt sorry for Fanble. He had been so earnest, wanting to be the best “me” he could be. I often wondered who I really was inside, just an undead guy who liked to solve cases—was that enough? I had a wonderful (if ectoplasmic) girlfriend in Sheyenne, a great partner in Robin, a true friend in McGoo. I didn’t have a need to be anybody else. Zombie detective suited me just fine.

  Phil Somerstein announced that the CosplayCon Masquerade would take place in fifteen minutes, on schedule. He called out, “Photo opportunities in the side hall.”

  McGoo looked at me, adjusted his cap, and I adjusted my fedora. Both of us had to remain in character, of course. “I told you this would be fun, Shamble. Thanks for your help solving the case.”

  “It’s what I do,” I said. Maybe I’d call Sheyenne after all. She might enjoy this with me. The event ran all weekend.

  As people passed, Phil Somerstein handed out pre-registration cards for next year’s CosplayCon. Almost everybody took one.

  So did I.

  Introduction to “Death in Hathaway Tower”

  Ryan M. Williams writes in many genres, including romance, mystery, and science fiction. In fact, his Fiction River history proves it, since his most recent appearance was in our sixth issue, Moonscapes, with a hard science fiction story.

  “Death in Hathaway Tower” is about as far from hard science fiction as a writer can get. Written in the tradition of the most classic mysteries, this story takes all the familiar tropes and adds a few fantastic elements, making an old tale new.

  He believes “Death in Hathaway Tower” might be the beginning of a new series. I most certainly hope so.

  Death in Hathaway Tower

  Ryan M. Williams

  The whole party was enjoying the silky smooth lemon custard while Mr. Bailey related his experiences beyond the wall surrounding the Towers of Stone and Metal, when a shrill scream came from the library.

  All conversation ceased. The candle flames barely flickered. The long dining hall was silent. Eight pairs of eyes in the room fixed on Emily Hathaway, the host of the evening. She was twenty, and no taller than she’d been at thirteen, though she had a more shapely figure now. Tonight she wore a shimmery gown of elvish silk, the color of fresh green leaves, that complemented her flaming red curls and matched her eyes. So pale was her skin, and so delicate her features, that some suggested there was elvish blood in her family. Unlikely, given that the Hathaway’s had held Hathaway Tower for fifteen generations, but she had some of that look about her.

  Mr. Bailey coughed into his napkin. Beside him his wife clung to his arm.

  Emily lifted her chin. Across the room her butler, and troll, Clasp, stood unmoving against the wall. He was a big gray-skinned figure in a dark kilt with the traditional sash, a slash of scarlet weave, across his chest. She locked her eyes on his tiny black eyes. A twitch of her head and Clasp moved like a boulder breaking loose on a mountain. Thunderous footsteps carried him across the timbered floor to the heavy oak door leading to the library. He pulled it open and disappeared through, shoulders brushing the frame on each side. The door banged shut behind him.

  “Never mind that,” Emily said, “Likely one of the housemaids frightened at her own shadow. Mr. Bailey? You were talking about your time among the Salvagers?”

  Mr. Bailey was her late father’s friend and the years had stripped away his handsome features along with his right ear. The scar stretched from there down across his cheek and through his lips. He tended to drool when he ate. Or spoke.

  He opened his mouth to talk when the door bang
ed open again and Clasp’s crashing footsteps returned. Emily apologetically smiled at her guests. Tall and regal Mrs. Watersmith turned her freshly powdered face to her escort for the evening, the handsome and young Mr. Dempsey, and whispered something.

  Clasp’s massive head came down close to Emily’s own. She smelled grilled onions on his breath.

  “A body, Miss. In the library.”

  She kept her face controlled, even managed a small apologetic smile that would have made her father proud had he lived to see it.

  “If you’ll excuse me? I’ll only be a moment.” She rose to her feet. The gentlemen at the table rose as well, Mr. Crane struggling to heave his bulk up. He shook the whole table in the process. His napkin tumbled onto his plate.

  Emily followed Clasp, forever a child in his shadow. He stood twice her height, a moving mountain. As a small girl she had climbed those craggy heights, much to her mother’s annoyance. After the fever took her mother in the night, and Emily became the lady of the Hathaway Tower, she had left such things behind.

  A body? In her library? She wished for those lost days when she wasn’t the last Hathaway.

  Clasp held the library door for her and she steeled herself as she went inside.

  There was a body, curled up on the mammoth-skin rug in front of the fire. Emily saw that first, right off, unable to miss it.

  That wasn’t all. Anna, one of the house maids, stood just inside the library, not looking at the body but turned away. Her arms clasped her thin body as her shoulders shook.

  Most shocking of all was the man that stood across the room from her. He was tall, nearly as tall as Clasp but lithe. His skin, like hers, was pale and unmarked. He wore bright green leather shorts but his chest and arms were bare. The black hilts of his knives rose above his belt on each hip. A band of silver circled his neck. A green cloak billowed around him, fastened with green leather straps to his wrists, bare ankles and thick shoulders. A long white braid, decorated with knobs of bone, stone and wood trailed down around his neck, across a hard chest, all the way down past his navel.