DM for Murder

by Matt Bendoris

  Geoffrey scrolled back through Horrigan’s many thousands of messages to the first time the presenter had voiced his pro-choice opinion. It was as if the seasoned broadcaster was dipping his toe in the water to gauge the temperature, to see what sort of response he’d get. His retweets and replies seemed to spread like wildfire across Twitter. The torrents of abuse he received from pro-lifers were unanimous in their condemnation. It didn’t seem to deter him at all. On the contrary, Horrigan decided to ramp up the rhetoric.

  But Bryce hadn’t known what it was like to have his heart ripped out of his life; not like Geoffrey had. Horrigan had never suffered real pain and loss… until he went to Baltimore, that is.

  Bryce was dead, just as Schroeder had fantasised. But now he had to carefully plan his next move if he was to escape capture.

  20 #VirginTweeter

  Bernard Sorrell @BernardSorrell

  This is my first tweet – I hope I don’t screw it up.

  Captain Sorrell had only provided the bare minimum personal information for his profile, which simply stated, Born and bred in Baltimore. His avatar was a picture of the city’s landmark, the Key Monument. There was no mention of the police department, or any hint he worked in law enforcement. He was determined to keep his two teenage daughters out of his online existence. He already worried about them enough after his wife had pointed out their casual use of social media, and he regularly berated his kids over what they were posting.

  ‘What have I told you about posting all these pictures of yourselves and your friends, then telling the world where you are going to be on a Saturday night? This is a bad guy’s dream. He has your names, what you look like and even your location. It’s like you’re begging for trouble,’ was how one of his rants would go. His daughters would give a half-baked apology, go quiet online for a while before they were back to the idle chitter-chatter their dad hated so much. The truth was, like many cops’ kids, they were tired of the lectures they’d had all their lives about the bad men lurking in the shadows. Why should they worry when their lives were full of friends, parties and boys?

  It was their father who had the dubious pleasure of having to witness the other side of humanity. The things he’d seen would regularly keep him awake at night. It was the burden those on the frontline had to bear. He was now beginning to believe that ignorance really was bliss.

  Sorrell remembered how, as a rookie cop, he had wrestled a knife off a man who was threatening to slit the throats of his partner and three-year-old child. It had been a block from where Sorrell’s oldest school friend lived. He had later warned his high school pal to be careful as there were dangerous men in his neighbourhood. His friend had calmly put a hand on Sorrell’s shoulder and in a reassuring manner said, ‘Bernard, I have lived here all my life and I’ve never so much as seen a knife, never mind a gun, on these streets. Some fruitcake trying to slice up his family can happen anywhere.’

  It had made Sorrell realise a plain truth – that it was the cops who saw society’s underbelly. They were the ones who had to tackle the mad, bad and mentally deranged. Meanwhile, the innocents would just go about their daily routines, laughing, joking, making love, drinking beer, moaning about their bosses, having affairs, going to the ball game and basically living their humdrum lives.

  Twenty-five years on, Sorrell had stopped trying to metaphorically clean up the city. He realised a long time ago that it was a losing battle. But although he was now cynical with age and battle weary with the bureaucracy of the police department, he had never lost his core belief that if you murdered someone, you should be caught and sent to jail.

  Early on in his career, Sorrell had discovered he had a knack for homicides. On entering a crime scene he could usually suss out within minutes what had gone on. His talents were soon recognised by his superiors and he began to climb the career ladder and humble pay scales. But Sorrell also realised the higher up the chain of command he got, the further removed he was from catching the bad guys.

  He had become something of a control freak over homicides. He’d despair at some of the botched investigations carried out by his underlings or how they’d try to over-complicate their murder theories. Sorrell would berate them: ‘Stop watching CSI: Zip Code and get back to basics. The victim almost always knows their killer. And someone ALWAYS knows who the killer is. You’ve just got to find the right people to lean on.’

  Sorrell prided himself on getting the right man, for the killers were rarely women. He’d never had an unsafe conviction or attempted to frame someone just because he was a strong suspect. Instead, Sorrell let the detective work take him to where the killer was. Then he’d nail them good. Although it didn’t allow him to sleep any easier, it did allow him to be able to face himself in the mirror each morning knowing he had done right.

  An email arrived on his iPad informing him he had a new follower.

  ‘Hey, what do you know, honey, I’ve got myself a disciple,’ he chuckled.

  ‘It’s probably just spam, babe,’ his wife, Denise, hollered back from the kitchen.

  Sorrell decided to follow back his mysterious new follower, called Baby Angel.

  Moments later he received his first direct message. It simply stated, Do you want to know who killed Bryce Horrigan?

  21 #BryceSuspects

  Before the FBI had released pictures of ‘people of interest’ for the Boston marathon bombing, the Internet sleuths had already swung into top gear. Less than twenty-four hours after the attack that killed three spectators at the finishing line and left 280 people injured, the faces of two suspects, carrying heavy objects in their backpacks, had been posted online. They turned out to be genuine ‘people of interest’ to the authorities.

  The same was happening with Bryce Horrigan’s homicide. Not out of any great love for the presenter – quite the opposite – but as a way of proving the Twittersphere could police itself. The hashtag #BryceSuspects was set up with the purpose of identifying all the people who had posted death threats to Horrigan.

  Twitter users went into overdrive. They tracked down personal information about the abusive users, including their real names and where they lived and worked. Each new bit of information was tweeted with the same hashtag so it could all be shared. The ‘targets’ were hit with a barrage of personal details about themselves and threats to reveal them as Bryce Horrigan homicide suspects to their bosses, families and friends. Most of them relented straight away, apologised profusely for their offensive tweets, claiming they were drunk. Others immediately deleted their accounts and went into hiding, but would still later receive letters from across the States from the self-appointed Twitter guardians, proving there was no hiding place. Some were just insane, getting into incredibly heated and abusive slanging matches with their accusers.

  But Geoffrey Schroeder had gone unnoticed by the Internet sleuths, having never once sent a death threat to Bryce Horrigan. Why on earth would he want to alert someone he was going to kill?

  ***

  ‘Haye, look at this. There’s a “Top 10 Bryce Suspects” trending,’ Sorrell said, much to the surprise of his detective team, who greeted his announcement with mock cheers and tongue-in-cheek congratulations.

  ‘Welcome to the twenty-first century, cap’n,’ one wag shouted. ‘You related to Bill Gates, boss?’ said another.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, very funny. Don’t you all have work to do?’ Sorrell replied, his deep dark cheeks slightly more flushed than usual.

  Haye peered over at his boss’s screen and let out a low whistle. ‘Jeez, is nothing sacred?’ Sorrell clicked on the trend. Sure enough, people had been contributing their suspect suggestions – from the humorous to the ludicrous to the downright libellous.

  ‘I used to think the press were out of order,’ Sorrell said, ‘but even they wouldn’t try a stunt like this. Printing suspects’ names – even as a joke – is unheard of.’

  ‘That’s t
he information super highway, boss. Wanna make a bomb to blow up the Boston marathon? It’s just a few clicks away. Child porn? Fundamentalism? Hell, I even came across a how-to-kill-a-cop guide. It’s all there,’ Haye said with a shrug.

  ‘Well, if this is the future, I don’t care much for it. I mean what’s with these trolls in the first place? Grown men abusing folks. I just don’t get it,’ Sorrell replied.

  ‘Not just adults, cap’n. It’s the kids, too. Have you heard of One Direction?’

  ‘Who, or what, are One Direction?’ Sorrell asked.

  ‘Come on, cap’n. One Direction. 1D. Harry Styles. They’re the latest boyband. Your daughters will know them.’

  Sorrell stared at Haye with unblinking eyes. He was probably right, his daughters kept up to date with all the latest music trends. ‘So what?’ he shrugged.

  ‘Well, whoever the band members start dating get the most vile abuse and death threat tweets from their fans. They have more than twenty million Twitter followers. At least double that of Horrigan.’

  ‘I am more than capable of doing the math,’ Sorrell drawled.

  ‘The point is, these are just kids, cap’n,’ Haye said, while tapping at his keyboard. ‘But listen to this: “Harry is too good for a slut like you. If you don’t leave him alone I am going to stab your slut pussy then my brother will rape you.” Here’s another: “Get your ugly, filthy, whore hands off Niall or you will die. I’m gonna shoot you in the pussy.” That one included the address of the bastard’s poor girlfriend. And that’s just some of over 300,000 threatening tweets. And these were the ones serious enough to be investigated. The first girl was thirteen years old. The other, fourteen. Good families. Good schools.’

  Sorrell sat in stunned silence before he offered, ‘Teenage hormones?’

  ‘More than that, cap’n. I’m sure your daughters had a crush on someone at that age…’

  Haye was cut off with a warning look from his boss. ‘Careful where you’re going with this, Haye.’

  ‘Sorry, cap’n. What I mean is, teenage girls may have confused thoughts at that age, but instead of sharing it with their diary they now share it on Twitter. It’s given them a voice. And direct access to the stars.’

  ‘But this is more than just trash talk, Haye. That girl actively went out to obtain an address. That’s a serious threat. Real cause and motive. They have mental health issues,’ Sorrell reckoned.

  ‘I don’t know, cap’n. I think people can adopt different personas online. An alter ego. That’s why many hide behind avatars. They can be someone else online. Live out their fantasies, however warped.’

  ‘Talking of which, what do you make of this?’ Sorrell said in hushed tones as he clicked on the direct message from Baby Angel asking if he’d like to know who murdered Bryce Horrigan.

  ‘Could be a time-waster, boss?’ Haye reasoned.

  ‘I don’t think so. I got this about ten minutes after I set up my account,’ Sorrell replied.

  ‘Ten minutes? Someone either knew you were going to open a Twitter account or was waiting for you to do it, cap’n,’ Haye figured.

  ‘Waiting? How?’ Sorrell wanted to know more.

  ‘Well, anyone with Google could find out with one search you were heading up the case. So they check Twitter for someone matching your profile and find nothing, right? But this is a Twitter killer – the whole case is being built round that. They just know you have gotta go online at some point. So they keep searching and searching until, hey bingo, Sorrell pops up. Resident of Maryland. Now even if you’re not the Captain Sorrell they’re looking for, and they tweet the wrong person, what does it matter? They know they’re safe. They’re hidden where we can’t find them. It’s a fishing exercise, then they reel you in.’

  Sorrell appreciated Haye’s layman terms explanation – it made it perfectly clear to him that, for Baby Angel, this was all just a game. He decided to play along… for now. He sent a direct message reply in his typically forthright manner:

  Who are you?

  22 #WhatsAMatterYou?

  April felt drained from the day’s events, once the adrenalin had worn off. She found it harder and harder to motivate herself every morning. She just didn’t have the energy anymore for the demands of working on a national newspaper.

  April decided she couldn’t be bothered cooking so decided to eat at her favourite restaurant on the way home. Its owner, Luigi, may have wandering arms like an octopus, but he made the finest Italian food on Glasgow’s Southside.

  The portly proprietor was busy serving a table of six when she arrived, which suited her fine as April wanted to take her table with the bare minimum of fuss. She ordered her usual dish of meatballs and a large glass of house red wine, then decided she’d try to tweet from her phone, as Connor had showed her.

  Minutes later, Luigi was by her side, bending down to give elaborate kisses to both of April’s cheeks, smudging her half-moon spectacles in the process.

  ‘Ma a-favourite customer. Always good tae see ye, hen.’ Luigi had been born in Naples but spent almost all his life in Scotland, leaving him with a ridiculous Neapolitan twang that would break into strong Glaswegian mid-sentence. ‘But today, you ignore Luigi, for your phone. Why you ignore Luigi, eh?’ he said in mock hurt.

  ‘I am tweeting, Luigi. Or trying to,’ April explained. ‘It’s all about raising my profile, you see. It is going to save the newspaper industry, apparently.’

  ‘What pish are you a-telling Luigi?’ The restaurateur nearly always referred to himself in the third person. ‘The only people who make a-money from the Internet are fraudsters and pornsters. You wanna make a-porno with Luigi?’ he said, smiling, with his eyebrows arched sky high. April knew he was only half-joking.

  ‘I don’t think there would be much demand to see me in the buff, Luigi. Not when you can have the pick of all these skinny little minxes online.’

  ‘What, with their fake a-titties? They make Luigi sad. Why ruin their bodies with these horrible things. I like a-real titties, like a-yours,’ Luigi said, giving April a bear hug and making sure he discreetly managed to get a feel of her ample breasts in the process.

  ‘Technically, Luigi, that is sexual assault,’ April cautioned her eager suitor.

  ‘I a-know. Luigi is an old sex pest. But I’m a nice old a-sex pest, don’t you think?’

  April would have to concede that point. ‘With the juiciest meatballs in Glasgow,’ she added with a wink.

  Luigi blushed. ‘April. You know I a-love you. And I wanna marry you. But you are a big cock tease.’

  23 #PersonOfInterest

  Baby Angel @BabyAngel

  You shouldn’t be worried about who I am. But

  @GeoffreySchroeder might be a POI.

  Captain Sorrell received the direct message less than three minutes after sending his own DM to Baby Angel.

  ‘Do we have a Geoffrey Schroeder as a Person Of Interest?’ Sorrell asked Haye.

  ‘I’ll check him out, cap’n. We’re still waiting for a complete list of all those who were investigated for threatening Horrigan,’ Haye replied.

  ‘Be helpful to know if he’s on the radar as soon as,’ Sorrell said, returning to his screen.

  The captain typed back:

  Bernard Sorrell @BernardSorrell

  I like to know who I’m talking to. Why would Geoffrey Schroeder be of interest?’

  It took less than thirty seconds for a reply to come through.

  Baby Angel @BabyAngel

  Ask yourself why he’s not in Kansas City anymore.

  Bernard Sorrell @BernardSorrell

  Why don’t you tell me?

  Baby Angel @BabyAngel

  Because he was in Baltimore, stupid.

  Sorrell sat back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head, staring at the last DM. His thought process was interrupted by Haye, who c
ame into Sorrell’s office reading out sheets he’d just printed off.

  ‘Geoffrey Schroeder you said, cap’n? His background is usual minimum wage stuff, trailer trash from Shitsville, Missouri. With a good motive: he lost his beloved fiancée and unborn son to an illegal abortion. Poor bastard didn’t even know his fiancée was pregnant, never mind the fact she’d gone for a termination.’

  Sorrell let out a slow-whistle response.

  ‘As you can imagine, cap’n, he bore a grudge against the doctor who fucked up his family. Loads of harassment charges and all the usual stuff you’d expect. He ramps things up a notch when he’s later discovered with explosives in his car. We never discovered what he planned to do with them as his lawyer got him off on the wrap before it even went to court. But Bryce Horrigan became his new focus of attention this year with all the pro-choice stuff, and Schroeder sent him loads of pictures of late abortions. State police gave him a formal warning and kept regular tabs on him – dropping by his trailer, just letting him know they were still interested in him. But get this. Less than a month ago, he’s a no-show. He hasn’t been seen since.’

  ‘I take it we have his mugshot?’ Sorrell enquired.

  ‘Of course, cap’n,’ Haye said, brandishing a police photo of Schroeder. ‘Want me to send it as an all-rounder before he makes a run for the border?’

  ‘No. Not yet,’ Sorrell said. ‘Let’s keep Geoffrey Schroeder to ourselves for the time being,’ he added thoughtfully.