DM for Murder

by Matt Bendoris

  ‘About time,’ Sorrell said.

  ‘Yeah, but you may need to sit down for this one. They are being sent from Bryce Horrigan’s own office computer in New York.’

  Sorrell’s face was a mass of confusion. ‘Back up a minute. Not only are these tweets being sent from a dead man’s Twitter account, but they’re also coming from his own PC? How is that even possible?’

  ‘Remotely. NYPD’s computer crimes unit finally got the warrant to confiscate his PC, right? But as our guy was about to unplug all the equipment, he spotted some sort of device sticking in a USB port that he just knew shouldn’t be there. Turns out it was a bug that allowed the hacker to switch on and access his computer to send the tweets,’ Haye explained.

  ‘How come we didn’t trace it sooner?’ Sorrell demanded.

  ‘It was tricky. The user never stayed on too long. They also hopped around a lot. They would bounce around the world until they reached Horrigan’s PC, then bounce around some more. The PC was just the middle link of the chain. The tweets were finally sent from some public Wi-Fi hotspot in Prague.’

  ‘What now?’ Sorrell asked, knowing he was way out of his depth when it came to technology.

  ‘Okay, this is the really cool part,’ Haye said, struggling to contain his excitement. ‘NYPD have installed a reverse bug. All we now have to do is wait until the hacker accesses Bryce’s computer again. Not only will we be able to instantly trace back to where they really are, it will also install our own surveillance program into the hacker’s machine. It will set off like a homing beacon every time they go online. We’ve got them by the balls, cap’n,’ Haye beamed.

  ‘An electronic trap,’ Sorrell said in amazement, although his mind was already elsewhere.

  ‘Uh-huh. So, that’s the good news. But there’s bad news as well: Chrissie Hardie has turned up dead. Shot in her apartment. No sign of forced entry.’

  ‘What about her old injuries? The bite marks. Did they check for those?’ Sorrell demanded.

  ‘It’s all there, cap’n. Along with the gunshot wounds to her head, she had extensive scarring to her breasts, including one of her nipples. The Bride of Frankenstein description fits, just like O’Neill said. His story about switching her cell phone stands up, too. She did have a new iPhone. And guess what? The number matches one of the calls to Horrigan’s phone you took on the morning of his death. She may have hated Bryce, but she called his cell to find out if he was really dead. Along with one from Lacey Lanning and one from that reporter, Presley.

  ‘Her name hadn’t shown up on Bryce’s phone because it was a new number. I think knowing Bryce Horrigan was very dangerous for your health,’ Sorrell concluded.

  86 #TheSkiSet

  April felt tired and hungry as she pulled into the Highland tourist resort of Aviemore. It was just a two-and-a-half hour drive from Glasgow up the notorious A9 – Scotland’s longest road. Someone, in their infinite wisdom, had made the carriageway just two lanes wide for the majority of its 150 miles, meaning that the entire A9 had become an accident black spot as drivers risked extreme overtaking manoeuvres just to avoid getting stuck behind a caravan or slow-moving truck.

  April had actually enjoyed the journey north again, barely driving over 50mph – well below the A9’s speed limits of either 60mph or 70mph. As she barely used her mirrors and had next-to no peripheral vision, she was blissfully unaware of the huge tailbacks of frustrated drivers behind her – a perfect example of what causes so many accidents on the road in the first place.

  Although the ski season hadn’t kicked off properly yet, April could see the Cairngorm mountain range was already completely white in the distance as she took the turn-off towards Aviemore’s town centre. She thought to herself how she would have loved to ski. Not necessarily for the skiing itself, but because she had always romanticised about being part of the whole winter sports scene. Those young sophisticated go-getters with their 4x4s, impossibly white teeth and looking like they’d just stepped out of a catalogue, even after a day’s exertion on the slopes.

  She had once secretly taken a batch of ski lessons at a dry slope in Glasgow’s Bellahouston Park. Despite being not much more than a mound, April had been terrified when she finally reached the top after many comical attempts to master the Poma lift. Her instructor had told her to keep her skis in the V-position – or snowplough. She had managed to carry out those instructions to the letter for about the first two seconds, until she felt her skis straighten themselves into the parallel position, which soon had her gathering speed and hurtling straight down into the crash wall below. April hadn’t hurt herself badly, apart from a burst lip when she had raised her hands just before impact, smashing the ski pole handle into her mouth. Connor had been his usual sympathetic self the next day, when he remarked that her fat lip was the worst trout pout he’d ever seen. That had been the end of skiing as far as she was concerned, but now, seeing the sun setting over the snow-capped peaks, she wished she hadn’t been so hasty.

  It was April’s second trip north in a week, after her Inverness journey to interview the now-missing Lacey Lanning. She hoped the DJ was all right, but somehow knew she wasn’t.

  April planned to check in to the Cairnmore Hotel, get something nice and bountiful to eat, then sleep, before she hit Edwina Tolan’s doorstep at nine the next morning.

  She pulled into the hotel’s car park, situated near the old-fashioned railway she’d passed through on the train recently, with its wrought iron bridge crossing the track. April stepped outside her car and breathed deeply. ‘Ah, such fresh air,’ she announced to the world, before promptly lighting up. The hotel was like an old country manor. It looked inviting, with its busy pub and restaurant, and the tartan-wallpapered reception festooned with stag heads and various other animals shot in the name of sport.

  She liked this place, especially the smiley welcome from the innocent-looking Highland lass, whose nametag said she was called Morag. After checking in, April took herself for dinner, ordering the venison from the hotel restaurant. It was so delicious she could have eaten it all over again. Instead, she decided to take herself for a walk along the main street, where she spotted a lively bar.

  As April took her seat she couldn’t help noticing the size of the hamburgers being served. She hesitated for a moment, before ordering a burger and a large glass of red wine. April was feeling rather pleased with her deceit, as if anyone really cared that she was on her second main course of the evening.

  The smell of the grill from the kitchen practically had her salivating. But as she took the first bite out of the oversized burger, a familiar face walked through the door. April couldn’t place her at first, as she was out of context, but then the penny dropped. It was Morag, the receptionist from the hotel.

  Morag gave April a little wave, and called out, ‘Good evening, Miss Lavender. Was the venison not filling enough?’

  April turned scarlet; she had been well and truly busted.

  ‘The chef who’s on duty tonight is pretty stingy with his portions,’ Morag confided. ‘No wonder you needed something else to eat.’

  April swallowed her mouthful and smiled. ‘I am an awful glutton, aren’t I? I put it down to the fresh air up here. And it’s so cold – too cold to snow, as they say.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that. Aviemore has its own weather system. It’s very hard to predict. Don’t be too surprised if it’s all white by morning,’ Morag warned, before a large, rough farmer type came through the door and gave Morag a cursory peck on the cheek.

  Morag’s kindness convinced April more than ever that Aviemore was a charming place. It was buzzing and filled with various nationalities. April could see herself retiring here. She figured the day wouldn’t be far off when she got a tap on the shoulder from management. Connor, for all his jibes and slagging, had once told her the problem was she was too good. That had been a nice and very unexpected compliment. But s
ince one of the senior news subs had retired, she was now the oldest member of staff at the Daily Chronicle and felt very exposed.

  April finished up, tipped the waitress generously then sent a round of drinks over to Morag and her beau. As she stepped outside the bar, she felt the cold air sting her whole face and shuddered. ‘I think Morag could be right about the snow.’

  87 #HiredCar

  ‘Hi, Tom, where are you?’

  ‘In a coffee shop waiting for someone, Elvis. And you?’ Tom O’Neill replied.

  ‘Listen, I did a shitty thing so I’m phoning to warn you and apologise,’ Connor said sheepishly.

  ‘Ha, this sounds interesting. Right, sock it to me, buddy, as they say over here.’

  ‘I gave your name to Geoffrey Schroeder. I’m sorry. But he would only agree to speak if I told him who had put him in the frame. I reckoned there would be no harm in lifting your name as he wouldn’t know you from Adam. Again, I’m sorry,’ Connor said, full of remorse.

  There was silence down the line and Connor fully expected a verbal bashing that would be both justified and deserved. He was surprised by Tom’s response. ‘Have you met him yet, Elvis?’

  ‘No, I’m going tonight. Need to hire a car first,’ Connor said, more to himself.

  ‘Fuck it, you can have mine. Where are you staying?’

  ‘The Baltimore City Hotel, right on the harbour.’

  ‘I’m in the Yellow Tree Hotel on University Parkway. Get yourself a cab and she’s all yours. And, Elvis, remember, this guy is dangerous. Very unstable. Do you want me to come with you?’ O’Neill asked.

  ‘No, Tom. He’s twitchy as hell. He’ll run a mile. I need to speak to him. If what he says is of interest, I’ll tell him to turn himself into Sorrell.’

  ‘Good plan. But call me if you get into any shit. I’ll tell the captain and let him know where you are. And don’t worry about using my name. Had the blue suede shoe been on the other foot, I’d have dropped you right in it too, Elvis,’ O’Neill said reassuringly.

  88 #Timing

  Bryce Horrigan’s office computer screen once again flickered into life, shortly after 3pm EST. The first safety check the remote user tested was the PC’s webcam, to satisfy themselves the room was empty, before the username ‘BHorrigan’ was typed in followed by the password in the space below. The user accessed the Twitter home page, but instead of typing Bryce’s username and password to log into his account, they entered another identity: @BabyAngel. They then typed out a DM to one @BernardSorrell.

  One hundred and ninety miles away in Sorrell’s Baltimore office, the captain, Fidel and Haye watched the live feed from an NYPD camera set up to monitor Horrigan’s PC. They watched in real-time as the remote user DM’d the captain.

  ‘That explains why the Horrigan and Baby Angel tweets were usually sent at the same times,’ Fidel said. ‘The Horrigan tweets were roughly around 3am, give or take an hour or so, when they knew for sure the office was empty. But Baby Angel needed to engage with the captain during the day, so chose 3pm.’

  Haye added, ‘Get this, 3pm is when the ABT News team always have their afternoon conferences. So our hacker would be fairly confident that Bryce’s office would be empty at both 3am and 3pm. They’d use the webcam to make sure, too.’

  ‘They’d also need to know that there was a 3pm conference in the first place,’ pondered Sorrell.

  Fidel took a call from his IT counterpart at NYPD. ‘The reverse bug worked. They’ve traced them. We’ve got the hacker’s current location,’ he said, scribbling down on a notepad the information from New York.

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ Sorrell said as he raised his massive bulk onto his feet, opened his drawer and placed his police standard issue Glock 22 .40-calibre pistol snugly into his shoulder holster. ‘I think it’s time to catch our killer.’

  It was the first time a direct message from Baby Angel to the captain would go unanswered.

  89 #Solitaire

  Connor took a cab to the Yellow Tree Hotel as instructed. But on the way there he received a DM from Tom: Slight change of plan, Elvis. I have to shoot off for a meeting. I’ve left the keys with the valet. They’ll get the car for you. Good luck.

  Tom quickly sent another: There’s a full tank of gas. Just remember to tip the valet, ya mean Scots bastard!!

  Connor retorted, Rather be a mean Scots bastard than a bog-trotter.

  I’m from Northern Ireland, remember? The bog-trotters are over the border, Tom wrote back.

  The valet arrived with Tom’s Ford Focus. Connor tipped him as instructed then familiarised himself with the controls before driving on the right side of the road. He found it easy. He didn’t understand what all the fuss was about.

  Connor recalled April telling him a story of her dream holiday to Saint-Tropez on the French Riviera. She had hired a villa and planned to live like a film star for a week. The only problem was negotiating the hire car and driving on the ‘wrong’ side of the road. After nearly causing two pile-ups just leaving the airport complex, she returned the car back to the hire desk and took the bus instead. ‘Six hours it took me to get from the airport to my villa. And what did I do all week? Played solitaire because I had no car to go anywhere.’ Connor had remarked how he was sure the film stars also played solitaire on the French Riviera too… after all the sex, booze and drugs.

  He chuckled to himself. ‘I miss the crazy old bat – shit, I’m even talking to myself like her now.’

  90 #AvyMore

  ‘Detective Crosbie? It’s Lieutenant Haye here,’ the detective said as he made his way to his car with Captain Sorrell. ‘NYPD’s computer crimes unit have got a trace on Bryce Horrigan’s hacker. It’s a UK IP address. Located in Scotland. Somewhere called Avy More?’

  Crosbie sat bolt upright in his chair. ‘Aviemore? Are you sure?’

  DCI Crosbie then spelt out the place name with his own unique version of the phonetic alphabet. ‘Asshole. Vagina. Idiot. Ejaculate. Minge. Orgasm. Rimming. Ejaculate?’

  ‘Jeezus, yeah, that’s the place. Are you all right in the head, buddy?’

  ‘Never been better, thanks. I feel tip, titty, twatty top. But now I’ve gotta go, sport,’ Crosbie said, which was his idea of an Americanism.

  For the first time it was the Scottish detective who slammed the phone down on his US counterpart.

  91 #WhiteOut

  April woke early with a strange light in her room that even the hotel’s black-out blinds failed to keep out. She opened them to find a white blanket of thick snow over everything. Down below one of the porters was trying to dig out the hotel mini-bus with a snow shovel. It looked at least a foot deep. April stared at her high heels beside the bed and mumbled, ‘Well, those bad boys aren’t going to cut it.’ She needed to go shopping for more climate-appropriate clobber before hitting Edwina Tolan’s doorstep this morning.

  April dressed, ate and spoke to the porter, who she saw come through the door with the snow shovel. He had successfully freed the minibus and April asked if he would give her a lift to the nearest outdoors shop. She also asked if he would kindly dig out her own car.

  Then she took a call from Kenny Black, the photographer from Inverness she was due to meet. There was no way he could make it through – the snow ploughs were battling to clear the A9 and he estimated it’d be late afternoon at the earliest before he could make it. But with more heavy snow forecast, even that wasn’t guaranteed. ‘Oh well, on your own again, April,’ she sighed. The porter smiled. April wasn’t the only single ageing female guest he’d seen talking to herself over the years.

  Even though the porter was used to the conditions, his mini-bus slipped from side to side, clipping a kerb, as he dropped April off at the nearest outdoors shop. Tottering in her high heels, she gingerly made her way to the front door, only to slip over as her inappropriate footwear sent her flying. Two members of staff rushed to her a
id, taking considerable effort to help her to her feet, as April had winded herself and was incapable of moving.

  Finally she was able to gasp, ‘Thanks… I always like to make an entrance.’

  After a seat and a glass of water, she was able to ascertain that nothing was seriously damaged. ‘Plenty of padding,’ she said, patting the many folds of her stomach. ‘Now I need you to find the right clobber to cover it. You might want to start with a tent and work backwards.’ Forty minutes later, a new April emerged into a fresh blizzard, looking like the Michelin man. She was dressed from top to toe in Berghaus clothes, from the ski jacket to the salopettes, hat and boots. Her thighs made a ‘swoosh, swoosh, swoosh’ sound as she walked back to the hotel, fearing she would spontaneously combust.

  Her car had now been cleared. She tipped the porter a tenner, then, studying her mobile, asked, ‘Is there a problem with the signal? I’ve no bars on my phone.’

  The porter laughed. ‘There’s always a problem up here. It’s temperamental, to say the least. And when the snow comes down like this, forget it.’

  April may have been wearing the right gear now, but she found conditions underfoot still as treacherous and her car was not fitted with winter tyres. In fact, the tread on the front wheels was barely legal. She strapped herself into the driver’s seat and hoped for the best. This was going to be even more of a white-knuckle hair-raising drive than usual.

  ***

  DCI Crosbie’s powerful police BMW was having an equally tough time of it, with its rear-wheel drive practically useless in the near white-out conditions on the hazardous A9.

  ‘This minge mobile is no more than a motorised sledge in the snow,’ he cursed to himself. He repeatedly got April’s ‘out of service’ message as he tried her mobile from his hands-free. Suddenly he received a call from a local sergeant in Aviemore he’d asked to go and intercept April at the hotel.