Tiny versions of characters from Dr. Who, Star Trek, and Star Wars stared down at me. I guessed that the characters I could not recognize were from less popular movies, anime, and comic books.
There were props as well, hundreds of them. Some had tags from Hollywood prop houses; others were made for mass consumption. This was a collection that any science fiction geek would truly envy. “Geek” was probably an understatement. To say that Mr. May was a bit of a nerd would be like saying Fonzie is a bit cool. Mr. May was a nerd’s nerd. Perhaps the king of all nerds.
Bob interrupted my thoughts. “Do you have any idea what this shit is worth? There is not an action figure here that would sell for less than a hundred dollars. The movie props alone are worth twenty to fifty thousand. Not a one of them would go for less than a grand. Some of the toys from the fifties, the robots and ray guns—fucking priceless.”
“I have never seen you so excited.”
“Do you see that light saber and the cricket gun from Men in Black? The label says they were ‘screen used.’ How do you put a price on that? Dude, I am telling you, this is the holy grail of collectables.”
“Should I step out? Give you and the room some time alone?”
He did a little twirl, arms spread, as if he were a model presenting the contents at a trade show. “I’m just telling you, this is the big leagues.”
I was keeping an eye out for anything that might have been used as a murder weapon. Although, the police would have taken away anything obvious. There were loads of futuristic weapons: sonic screwdrivers, blasters, ray guns, phasers, and light sabers—none of which appeared to be functional.
There was a club from The Planet of the Apes, but it was made out of a harmless rubber. There was a Klingon bat’leth, but the blade was lightweight and unsharpened. There were also two curved knifes from one of the Riddick movies, but they were created for display rather than use.
When we left the room, I felt dizzy and disoriented. It was like going back in time. The transition from mid-nineteenth century home to science fiction room was jarring. This experience may not have helped me solve a murder mystery, but it told me quite a bit about my client.
Mr. May’s shut-in status might have had less to do with his agoraphobia and more to do with simply having no reason to leave the house. Bob had already indicated he would be glad to stay here. What was the point of leaving? He had everything he needed. In this space alone, he had a kitchen, a bathroom, and a laundry room, and more square footage than most houses. He was certainly strange, but nothing I saw seemed to peg him as the homicidal type—whatever that means.