DM for Murder

by Matt Bendoris

  24 #Help

  Geoffrey Schroeder took refuge in a cheap motel about seventy miles north along the I-81 highway towards Scranton – the middle-of-nowhere city that was now indelibly associated with the comedy series The Office. He planned eventually to hang left along the I-90 highway to Buffalo and cross the border into Canada at Niagara Falls.

  He parked his pick-up truck two blocks from the motel, but it was still within sight, should the authorities take any interest in it. He gave a false name at reception, demanded a front-facing room, paid in cash, and put the TV on for background noise. He desperately needed to work out his next move and fast. His only saving grace was the motel receptionist had barely given him a second glance. Still, he knew it wouldn’t be long until law enforcement came calling – after all, he certainly wasn’t the first wanted man to try to flee to Canada.

  Schroeder decided to send a direct message to the person who had guided him.

  There was nothing left to do but wait for the reply.

  25 #ProfessorPainInAss

  Bryce Horrigan @BryceTripleB

  Hello everyone. This is what the baby killer looks like begging for his life. #TerrorFace

  As Captain Sorrell looked at the image of Bryce Horrigan’s face moments before he was murdered – a picture that had now been retweeted around two million times since it had been posted – he couldn’t help but think that the accompanying hashtag was a pretty accurate description.

  ‘Someone really took a lot of time to plan this,’ he said to himself. ‘They didn’t just want you dead. They wanted you to know you were going to die. To feel the fear.’

  His solitary musing was broken by Haye rapping on his door and letting himself in before Sorrell had time to answer. ‘The prof is on the premises,’ Haye announced without preamble. Under his breath, Sorrell swore.

  Professor Benedict Watson was head of criminology at Maryland University. He had been fully dedicated to his life of academia until he felt the seductive touch of celebrity when he was hired as a ‘talking head’ for a low budget documentary on serial killers, which ended up getting high ratings when it was picked up by a number of TV networks across America. Suddenly, the fifty-year-old professor was a serial killer ‘expert’ and ‘top criminal profiler’. Whenever he appeared on television, Sorrell used to scoff, ‘That dude ain’t ever met a killer, never mind caught one.’

  Sorrell was correct on both accounts. The professor had led a very privileged and sheltered life, never leaving an educational institution since kindergarten. All his criminal profiling came from theory, books and discussions in the lecture hall. He’d never had to look into a murder suspect’s eyes and tell them the game was up, as Sorrell had countless times.

  Unfortunately for Sorrell, his boss Colonel Cowan had met the professor when the academic was a guest speaker at a criminology conference. The pair hit it off and the colonel invited Watson to become Baltimore Police Department’s official profiler on a crime-by-crime basis. It was the final stamp of approval the professor craved. But Sorrell was not so enthusiastic about the appointment; he didn’t care much to be lectured on the theory of the criminal mind. His job was to bring people who do bad things to justice. What else was there to know? Colonel Cowan didn’t see it that way, telling Sorrell, ‘Think of the professor as offering a different perspective. That’ll be the extent of his involvement in cases. To be used by you like a tool.’

  ‘He’s a tool, all right,’ Sorrell had remarked to himself.

  By and large, Sorrell had been able to avoid the professor when he was on the premises due to a network of lookouts and tip-offs from his staff. And anyway, the prof would rather be giving lucrative soundbites for TV news and documentaries than getting his hands dirty with painstaking police work.

  But the Bryce Horrigan case was very different. This wasn’t just network news, it was a worldwide event and the professor’s massive ego could sense the related glory from helping to track down the perpetrator. This time, Sorrell wouldn’t be able to avoid him, especially when he was summoned to a meeting with Professor Watson in the colonel’s office.

  ‘I believe you two gentlemen know each other,’ the colonel said by way of an introduction, adding, ‘Professor Watson might have some useful advice for you, captain.’

  A little show had clearly been pre-arranged between the two men for Sorrell’s benefit as the professor brought the captain’s attention to his laptop, which was already booted up on the edge of the colonel’s desk.

  ‘I’ve been studying the hacker’s tweets sent from Bryce Horrigan’s Twitter account after his death. Take this one, for example. It begins with “Hello everyone”. That is someone who feels comfortable in the knowledge that they haven’t been caught. They are confident enough to post yet another photograph of the crime scene from Bryce’s account because law enforcement hasn’t been able to work out how they’ve done it.’

  ‘We’re working on it,’ Sorrell said bluntly.

  The colonel intervened. ‘Now now, Bernard. I’m sure the professor didn’t mean that as a personal slight. It’s no wonder we haven’t traced them yet. People can hide behind an electronic trail going all around the world. And no police force in America’s history has faced a case like this, with over 100,000 potential suspects. You’re doing a great job. But the professor will be able to build a profile of the killer, which will help you sift out the possibles from the time-wasters.’

  Sorrell kept his thoughts on the professor’s profile to himself.

  The academic continued as if the interruption had never happened. ‘Now, look at this taunt: “This is what a baby killer looks like begging for his life.” Again, notice the confidence from the statement. This is someone who is careful and meticulously plans his moves. And when the coast is clear – i.e. their technique for delivering an untraceable tweet proves to be effective – they do it again. These will increase in frequency as the killer’s arrogance and confidence swells to even greater proportions.’

  By this point, Sorrell wasn’t sure if Watson was talking about himself or the killer.

  The professor prattled on. ‘They also know that they have an audience. I notice it’s ironic that Bryce Horrigan has nearly a million more followers since his death because of these gruesome posts by the impostor. This will present a window of opportunity to trace the killer,’ he concluded, a tad smugly.

  ‘And what about the killer’s profile. What sort of person are we looking for?’ the colonel prompted.

  Sorrell used some profiling skills of his own, noticing how the professor would almost puff out his chest to engage with the colonel, but would barely give the lower ranks like himself the time of day. The academic was a snob, Sorrell concluded.

  ‘A pro-life fundamentalist, of course, but working in unison with A N Other. The tweeter needs a fairly high level of understanding of computer networks. They are also intelligent enough not to be putting themselves directly in the firing line. Being behind a laptop or smartphone keeps them metaphorically and physically away from the crime scene and the shooter – the person who actually pulled the trigger. The shooter will be someone of much lower intelligence. Another pro-lifer, but someone already known to the authorities. They may have convictions for intimidation of abortion clinic staff; sending death threats, that sort of thing. Bryce Horrigan would have become a focal point for his anger. However, the mystery tweeter is the person pulling the strings. They would have orchestrated the assassination.’

  ‘And the puppetmaster’s profile?’ the colonel asked in hope.

  ‘White male. University educated. Deeply religious. Early thirties. Unfortunately, it’s unlikely they’ll have previous convictions.’

  A needle in a haystack, Sorrell managed to prevent himself from saying.

  ‘But as I have said, their growing confidence will be their undoing. The more he tweets, the more chance we will have of catching him,’ the profess
or said dramatically, giving the sort of soundbite that the TV cameras love so much.

  ‘Any suspects fit the professor’s profiles, captain?’ the colonel asked.

  ‘Not per se, but the professor’s profile might throw up some names that have slipped through the net,’ Sorrell said, playing the game. He added, ‘Thank you, professor, I’ll let you know how it pans out.’

  The colonel beamed at Sorrell’s compliance, dismissing him with a friendly, ‘Thanks for your time, captain.’

  Captain Sorrell had absolutely no intention of keeping the publicity-seeking professor in the loop. He thought the profile of the Twitter impostor using Bryce Horrigan’s name was pathetic. However, he did agree that the description of the potential shooter was a match.

  Back in his office, Sorrell pulled up Geoffrey Schroeder’s image on his computer. It was taken from a street CCTV camera near the Baltimore City Hotel on the day of Bryce Horrigan’s death. He’d already had the picture before the meeting with the professor, but he certainly wasn’t going to share any of his information with someone all too willing to go blabbing in front of the cameras.

  26 #DeadCheerleader

  ABT News @ABTnews

  All the staff and colleagues send their condolences to the friends and family of @BryceTripleB. He will be sorely missed.

  In the weeks prior to his death, Bryce Horrigan had been even more infuriating to work with than usual.

  There was no doubt Horrigan was supremely talented as a journalist, but the transformation to chat show host had not been an easy one. His TV show was a curious affair, originally setting out in the vein of David Letterman, Conan O’Brien, Jay Leno and fellow Scot Craig Ferguson. But there was one major flaw with Bryce sticking to the tried and tested late night format – he just wasn’t funny, with no comedic timing whatsoever. So he shifted direction to add a more current affairs feel, with congressmen sitting on the same couches as TV celebrities and film stars. The politicians would get a rough ride, while he would fawn over the film stars and TV personalities. It was a ratings disaster. Bryce had been heading for a very public and humiliating sacking and began to present his show like a condemned man, trying too hard to get arguments going with political guests, making his interviews look stilted and contrived.

  That all changed with the case of Tiffany Wilson-Jones, a middle-class sophomore college girl from the University of Virginia, who had undergone an illegal abortion and died from the botched procedure. The tragedy had occurred after the Virginia House of Delegates had effectively outlawed all abortions in 2012 – declaring the rights of a person apply from the moment the sperm and egg unite. Being the natural newshound that he was, Bryce sunk his teeth straight into the story and made it his own.

  ‘It’s very simple,’ he declared the day after Tiffany’s death had become a national talking point. ‘Had abortions been legal in her state, Tiffany would be alive today. This is a girl who had it all: top of her class with a bright future ahead of her. Yet she died in agony, her insides shredded by a BUTCHER,’ he said with great emphasis, loving his use of emotive, headline-grabbing phrases. ‘But this isn’t the eighteenth century, people. This is America. The best country in the world, I’m repeatedly being told. Yet it is a country where you force your youngest and most talented citizens to pay with their lives just because they’ve made a simple mistake.’

  The fact that Tiffany Wilson-Jones was a blonde, all-American girl, who looked damn sexy in her cheerleading pictures, only helped his cause. For it is an indisputable fact that had a poor, less attractive girl died in such circumstances, then her passing would have hardly troubled the headline writers at her local newspaper – which is just the way the media cookie crumbles.

  Bryce seized the fortuitous timing. Now he had a campaign he could throw himself into. He steered any conversation on his show onto his own pro-abortion agenda, which had suddenly become a hot potato in America once again thanks to a dead cheerleader.

  27 #Blagger

  Connor sat in Edinburgh airport’s departure lounge waiting to catch the Continental flight to Newark before flying to Baltimore. He was hoping he’d get lucky. Like most journalists, Connor was a blagger. Whether it was a holiday or dining out at a restaurant, journalists would try to get money off, or the whole thing for free.

  Connor wasn’t the worst offender. He’d once had an editor who was able to blag gratis holidays for himself, his wife, their six kids and his mother-in-law, who was dragged along as an unpaid babysitter. When the editor and his brood had been late for one flight, missing it entirely, he had casually phoned the harassed travel firm PR and demanded she got him on the next departure – in business class, of course.

  That was taking the piss as far as Connor was concerned. But that didn’t stop him firing off an email to an attractive airline PR he had once met at a function. At least Connor was up front about his intentions, openly asking if there was any chance of an upgrade before handily supplying the flight number. He got the desired response: ‘I’ll see what I can do – chancer.’ He promised the PR lunch on him the next time she was in Glasgow. It was a welcome relief because business class flights for reporters had long since been scrapped.

  Continental airlines made an announcement for a Mr Presley to make himself known to the check-in desk. He’d be flying business class, after all, meaning Connor could rest fully then hit the ground running.

  He was soon settled into his spacious seat, with a complimentary glass of champagne. The economy passengers were still boarding, which gave Connor time to scroll through his tweets when he spotted one from ABT News and suddenly had a thought. He knew someone who worked for Bryce. He tapped in the name Tom O’Neill and saw his name and picture pop up. He ‘followed’ Tom before typing, Hi Tommy. Long time no speak. Please follow me as I need to DM you.

  Seconds later, Connor received the notification email:

  @DerryDude1887 is now following you.

  Connor whispered to himself, ‘Yes – contact.’

  The next message he received was a DM from O’Neill: What’s your phone no. Elvis? Moments after sending it, Connor received a call: ‘You were supposed to have my job in New York, you know,’ Tom said in his thick Northern Irish accent.

  ‘Get lost, really?’ Connor said in genuine amazement after taking the transatlantic call. Connor had known Tom O’Neill only briefly after handing in his notice to Bryce, when the Irishman was recruited as his replacement.

  ‘Whenever Bryce got pissed off with me, he’d say things like, “I should have brought Elvis with me instead,” or, “I wouldn’t have had the same problems with Elvis.” I don’t mind admitting I hated hearing your name. Even now, when Blue Suede Shoes comes on the radio I still turn it over,’ Tom laughed.

  ‘I guess I’d hate me too after that,’ Connor replied.

  ‘I thought he was deadly serious at one point. I’m surprised he never contacted you?’ Tom asked, with something sounding like a touch of paranoia.

  ‘Well, I can tell you I didn’t hear a peep,’ Connor assured him. ‘Of course, I couldn’t help thinking “what if” when he became a big name in America. But then again, at least I’m not in your situation now.’

  Connor was greeted with total silence down the line.

  Eventually Tom replied, ‘Couldn’t have put it more bluntly myself, to be honest, Elvis. I’m fucked. No Bryce. No show. No job. I’ll be back before my visa runs out. This is the inherent danger of being so reliant on someone else’s career, I guess.’

  Connor changed tack. ‘Listen, Tommy, they’re just closing the plane doors so I’m going to have to go. But I’ll be in Baltimore soon. Do you think you could keep me in the loop?’

  ‘Sure. I can be your insider – no direct quotes, though. And I’ll need paying. I’m going to need all the money I can get.’

  ‘Great, I’ll DM you,’ Connor said with a smile.

  28 #OldDogsNewTricks<
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  The email alert on April’s Samsung Galaxy let her know she had been sent a new tweet. She could of course use the app Connor had installed on her phone, but she found it hard to type anything on the screen, cursing her ‘little sausage fingers’. She decided to use what Connor called her ‘glorified laptop’ – the iPad with the wireless keyboard. April searched for Twitter on Google, then was met with the object of her many fears – the log on screen. She could remember her username easy enough, but then became stumped at her password. Which was strange as she only ever used a variation of the name of her cat, Cheeka, with a selection of numbers ranging from her own date of birth to the moggy’s.

  April placed her nightly generous helping of gin and tonic on the side table and plonked herself in her favourite chair. She was determined she could conquer this. Her daughter Jayne was always moaning at her that technophobia was all in the mind. But as far as April was concerned, technology wasn’t there to help and enhance her life. It was to be tolerated. Given the choice, April still hankered for the days of old, with her typewriter and overflowing ashtray. How she missed smoking all day at her desk. ‘Puff, puff, puff, tap, tap, tap,’ April said.

  April loved her sound effects. They occasionally even made it into her copy; like the time she wrote a feature about a couple who had turned their home into an owlery. Her intro had begun, HOOT believe it! That didn’t make it into the paper but onto the wall of shame instead, which was an old cork message board where the sub-editors – the journalists who edit, re-write and make articles fit the spaces on the pages – printed out and pinned the funniest copy filed by the reporters and agencies.

  Officially, April was meant to have given up smoking. A strong lecture from her doctor at her annual company health check-up warned of high blood pressure and of being at risk from a stroke. An even sterner lecture from her daughter concluded with the emotional blackmail that April was being cruel to her one and only granddaughter Alana. Connor had also got on her case when she nipped off for one of her increasingly frequent cigarette breaks. He even helpfully compiled a time and motion sheet for her.