DM for Murder

by Matt Bendoris

  ‘Well, I know you fellas think I’m head of some prostitution cartel, but that doesn’t pay so well, so my day job is head of security for the Baltimore City Hotel, in case you fucking forgot. Old Cliff lives alone. When he misses a shift for the first time in a hundred years or whatever, it’s my job to check it out,’ Cooper explained.

  ‘Sounds feasible. Okay, let’s move on. Give me the hooker’s name. Now,’ Sorrell demanded.

  ‘I’m a fucking ex-detective. Don’t you think I’ve asked her everything already? She was paid in cash by the guy wearing the hat. He kept it on inside the room. He had the lights out. She saw nothing. Believe me, I’ve gone over it a hundred times with her. There’s nothing more to ask,’ Cooper insisted.

  ‘There’s always more to ask. Her name or else,’ Sorrell warned.

  Cooper smirked. ‘Or else what, captain? I thought the days of beating on suspects was long gone. That’s why I left.’

  ‘Talking of which,’ Haye said, chucking several sheets of paper stapled together onto the desk in front of them, ‘this is a sworn affidavit from TP. Says you beat on him while he was cuffed. You really are a lying scumbag, Coops.’

  Cooper flicked through the pages quickly, before coming to Tre Paul Beckett’s signature and scoffed, ‘Who’s gonna take the word of some yo, with convictions as long as his arm, over a former cop with an unblemished record? You guys are pathetic. You’ve shot your load. Time for my lawyer now,’ Cooper said, leaning back and crossing his arms.

  Outside the room, Sorrell kicked a wall in frustration. ‘That is the most stubborn bastard that ever walked God’s earth. He’d rather face certain death in jail than give us her goddamn name.’

  Sorrell buried his head in his hands before sighing loudly, ‘Okay, just let him go, Haye. This is getting insane. Tonight, I’m gonna need a beer. A lot of beer.’

  50 #TrollHunting

  Finance director Jack Portland sat in his favourite coffee house in downtown Minneapolis, enjoying his usual lunchtime double espresso. He had the air of respectability that came with his position as an executive of a major city bank, which provided a very comfortable lifestyle for his wife and two children.

  Every day, Portland would peruse his copy of the Wall Street Journal before tapping away at his iPhone. To the casual observer, it looked like he was accessing the latest prices on the Dow Jones Index. In actual fact, he was switching his phone into airplane mode before using the coffee house’s Wi-Fi with the new daily code printed at the bottom of his double espresso receipt. It was a procedure that he was convinced gave him complete anonymity and the confidence to ignore the tweet he had received from Baltimore Police ordering him to get in touch. He would then log on to his Twitter account as @TruthTeller and spout the vilest filth to any famous person who irked him.

  His comments to pop star Miley Cyrus were creepy enough, but he had really enjoyed his spats with the late Bryce Horrigan, mainly because the television host took his bait and responded. Portland would spend most of his lunch hour trading insults, which would get more and more hate-filled with every response. Intellectually he was a match for Bryce, which is probably what intrigued the chat show host to keep the thread going.

  But Portland crossed the line when he promised Bryce a most painful and agonising death. He went on to tweet Horrigan’s New York home address, illegally obtained from the presenter’s bank account details from when Horrigan had been a customer with Portland’s firm. Although he would never admit it online, when he saw Horrigan’s eye-watering salary, over ten times that of his own quite considerable $120,000-a-year earnings, his hatred had amplified.

  The address tweet had been their last exchange. Horrigan had alerted his company’s security team, who had in turn informed the authorities. They had promised to investigate, but in truth did very little. However, with Bryce’s death, all old leads would now be properly looked at.

  Portland finished sending his filth to the female pop star not much older than his daughter, left a two-dollar tip, stood up and tucked the Wall Street Journal under his arm. What he hadn’t noticed were the two men, in much cheaper suits, who were sitting behind him. One had been on his own cell phone, watching the live Twitter feed of @TruthTeller, while his colleague covertly filmed Portland sending the tweets, which would later be used in evidence against him.

  ‘Jack Portland, I’m arresting you in connection with the death of Bryce Horrigan. You have the right to remain silent…’

  Having his Miranda rights read to him and cuffs snapped on inside his favourite café was just the beginning of his humiliation. Jack Portland would eventually be absolved of any involvement in Horrigan’s murder, but that would not prevent him from losing his job, with his career in finance in tatters. For as Portland would discover, no one, not even his favourite coffee shop, wanted to employ a troll.

  The soon to be ex-finance director was one of seventeen Horrigan suspects arrested across America on the same day.

  51 #HowTheOtherHalfLive

  April arrived outside the address in Edinburgh’s plush Barnton district with her nose twitching in anticipation. She couldn’t wait to see inside. For April loved property – especially the houses of the rich and famous. Her biggest regret was that she once turned down the offer to be a staff writer for a property supplement at a rival newspaper. In the end the wage rise she’d been offered to stay where she was had been the deciding factor. But she’d been sorely tempted as she would not only have been setting foot in the high end properties, but also running the rule on the fine dividing line between money and taste.

  April was convinced you could tell everything about a person by the way they lived. She remembered when she had once gone to interview one of Scotland’s richest businessmen at home. He was a real boardroom bruiser known for his ruthless streak. But she’d been amazed at how ramshackle and downright filthy his sprawling converted farmhouse had been. This was a man who had launched numerous hostile takeovers with military precision, yet he lived in virtual chaos.

  Many of April’s door knocks were in Scotland’s less salubrious districts, with their high-rise flats or condemned tenement buildings. April and Connor had a cruel nickname for such dilapidated council houses or junkies’ drug dens, calling them a ‘PP’ – a Piss Palace – as they usually smelled of urine and sometimes much, much worse.

  But there were no Piss Palaces in leafy Barnton; the Horrigan property was situated beside a private tennis court. The photographers who had been camped outside the Horrigan family home for the last couple of days were now gone. A notice hung on the gate by a friendly neighbour had informed the press pack that Mr and Mrs Horrigan were away and would like their privacy.

  April approached the door, dolled up to the nines as usual, with her hair recently dyed, and layers of make-up desperately trying to cover the wrinkles. She always kept her demeanour friendly and bubbly, as that was her natural disposition, but she was professional and direct, telling whoever opened the door exactly what she was there for. The heavy wooden door was answered by an elderly woman, who was unmistakably Bryce Horrigan’s mother – the presenter had taken her looks, for what they were worth. If she eyed April up and down in a slightly disapproving manner, she looked horrified when her eyes came to rest on the photographer Jack Barr, with his goatee beard and mane of long hair tied into the midlife crisis silver ponytail.

  It was April who spoke first. ‘I’m here about Bryce, Mrs Horrigan. We used to work with him. May we come in?’

  Bryce’s mother paused for a moment before she opened her door fully and stepped aside for the reporting team to enter. She didn’t say a word until she had shown them into the dining room, and directed them to take a seat. April surveyed the decor, with its wooden panelled walls and old servant call box, where a light would indicate which room their paymasters were summoning them to. The table had white lace place mats. April guessed the Horrigans hadn’t entertained anyone for a
while.

  ‘We apparently had camera crews outside day and night. Thankfully we’ve been away but goodness knows what the neighbours thought,’ Mrs Horrigan sniffed.

  April found it curious how people held onto things they perceived as being important even when faced with bereavement.

  ‘I’m April Lavender, Mrs Horrigan. I worked with your son at the Daily Chronicle for a short while. I had a few staff nights out with him and Patricia.’

  ‘Ah, Pasty, such a nice girl,’ Mrs Horrigan said, with a flicker of happiness in her eyes, which quickly dimmed when she added, ‘Such a shame what happened between her and Bryce. She loved him so much. Too much, in fact. I used to tell her she needed to keep a portion of her heart for herself, in case it should be broken.’

  Flora Horrigan spoke in well-educated, clipped tones, like a Miss Jean Brodie character. April couldn’t help but feel a little intimidated by her. She feared being in the company of smart people in case they should ask her a question she didn’t understand. Despite being fifty-seven years old, April still felt in danger of being ‘found out’ due to her lack of education, having left school at sixteen to become a Royal Navy Wren, and having no formal journalism training. She had often confided her fears to Connor, who would actually dispense with his normal caustic quips to reassure her: ‘Well, they’ve tried to bring in younger reporters with their degrees to replace you, and you’ve seen them all off the premises. There is only one April Lavender.’ Of course, he’d usually ruin the pep talk by adding, ‘Thank fuck,’ under his breath.

  ‘What happened between Pasty and Bryce, Mrs Horrigan?’ April enquired, half for journalistic reasons, half because she was desperate to know.

  ‘Please, call me Flora,’ she said, visibly softening her demeanour. April took the opportunity of the change of tone to place her Dictaphone clearly on the table between them, pressing the red button to record. It didn’t put off Mrs Horrigan. ‘Fame is what came between them. My son became obsessed by fame.’

  April had heard this before from Connor, who rated Bryce as one of the best newspaper writers he’d ever come across, and couldn’t for the life of him understand why Horrigan was seduced by television. One day, Connor asked him outright and was surprised by Bryce’s blunt reply: ‘You can spend your whole life writing for the country’s biggest newspaper, with your face printed in it every day and not one person will recognise you walking down the street. But a solitary appearance on a prime-time Saturday night TV show and even the taxi drivers are honking me in the street.’ A little bit of Connor’s respect for Bryce had died that day.

  Now, here April was hearing the exact same thing from Bryce’s own mother.

  Mrs Horrigan continued, ‘His father and I were astounded when he turned his back on being a lawyer. But we reluctantly had to admit he was very well suited to newspapers. He obviously had a flair for it. But then he moved to London and television came calling. He’d occasionally ring to ask what we had thought about his performance on this, that and the other television programme, but of course his father and I didn’t even know what he was talking about. The television is rarely on in our house. If it’s not The Archers, then we’re not interested. We don’t know if he took it as some sort of disapproval. Perhaps it was on our part, but his phone calls became less and less. Then he moved to New York. Very risqué as you don’t know how those awful Americans will take to a Brit. But then he started all this pro-abortion stuff. I knew he was heading for trouble. I finally called him up and told him in no uncertain terms.’

  ‘What did you say, Mrs… Flora? What did you tell him?’ April prompted.

  ‘The truth, my dear. That he would be murdered. That the Christian fundamentalists would find a focus for their anger in him. But I knew it was in one ear and out the other. He was revelling in the attention. That’s why I feared the worse. I knew he would end up dead.’

  April already had enough for a splash and a two-page spread inside. But she hadn’t been expecting what came next.

  ‘Then there was the sex,’ Mrs Horrigan said, spitting out the word ‘sex’ as if it shouldn’t be spoken, never mind done. ‘He was getting lots of it. That’s what he told me – his own mother. When I was warning him he should put his head back below the parapet, Bryce just laughed at me, saying, “But Mother, then I wouldn’t get all these amazing girls. They’re practically throwing themselves at me. If you’re famous in America, it’s like royalty. Some of them even think I AM royalty. Who am I to say otherwise if they want to bed a prince?” It was as if he was taunting me for some reason. Look at me, Mum, I’m so rich and powerful and surrounded by women. I couldn’t believe my ears. That was the last conversation I had with my only son. In truth, he didn’t even sound like Bryce anymore. He had changed; his accent, his personality, his morals, they were all gone. I didn’t know the person I was speaking to. Like an echo of the man he used to be. Tragic, isn’t it?’ Mrs Horrigan said stoically, before tears filled her eyes and she began to sob.

  April had sensed it was coming and produced a pack of hankies while the snapper cynically captured the mother’s emotional low point on camera.

  ‘Where is Mr Horrigan, Flora?’ April asked.

  ‘Donald? He goes sailing a lot now. He doesn’t talk about it. He was never one to air his feelings, not even in private. But since Bryce’s death he has become even more withdrawn. All he said was, “He should have studied at the bloody bar.” Such a pity Bryce never wanted to be a lawyer like his father.’

  April thanked Mrs Horrigan for her time and left with a very different impression of the Bryce Horrigan she had briefly known. She was starting to see why someone would want to kill him.

  52 #BeerOClock

  Haye and Sorrell walked the two blocks from police HQ on East Fayette Street to their local watering hole, an Irish pub on East Fairmount. They didn’t talk much on the sidewalk, through a mixture of tiredness and suspicion they’d be overheard, but once inside the noisy bar, the first Guinness soon made them relax.

  Haye ordered the crab dip with a side of sweet potato fries. ‘I was so fucking busy I forgot to eat today, cap’n. Want something?’

  ‘Nah. Food gets in the way of my drinking. Truth is, Denise has cooked me something. She’d kill me if I came home smelling of drink then refused to eat. Rather just get done on one count,’ Sorrell explained, ordering another round of Guinness.

  ‘I’m glad I don’t have all that shit anymore. Don’t get me wrong, cap’n, it suits straight shooters like yourself, but I’m not cut out for family life,’ Haye replied, in between mouthfuls of food.

  Sorrell smiled for the first time in days. ‘And what makes you think I’m a straight shooter?’

  Haye nearly choked on his crab dip. ‘C’mon, cap’n, you’re the straightest guy I know. I mean that in a good way. You wouldn’t go beating the shit out of suspects like that scumbag, Coops.’

  ‘The difference is, I did it where no one saw me,’ Sorrell confessed.

  ‘Fuck off. No way you be beating up on someone?’ Haye said in amazement.

  ‘Did too. I was new. Chased this yo for ten blocks. He ran out of steam before I did. I was a lot thinner and fitter back then too. I ran round this corner and BAM, he hit me with a right hook which dislocated my jaw. Sorest thing I ever felt. My legs turned to jelly and I was about to pass out. Know why I didn’t?’ Sorrell asked.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘My shirt. I had just started dating Denise and she bought me this beautiful pink shirt. It was the first gift from a girlfriend,’ Sorrell recalled.

  ‘Pink? I’d have punched your lights out too,’ Haye joked.

  Sorrell ignored him. ‘Anyway, I look down and it’s ruined. Covered in my own blood. I thought, What will I tell Denise? So instead of passing out I flew into a rage and kicked the bastard unconscious. That was the first and last time I hit a suspect.’

  ‘Jeez, cap’n, I never knew
you had it in you. I’m not saying you’re a soft touch. No way. But I just can’t see you fucking up someone, like Coops. I guess every dog has its day,’ Haye said, shaking his head.

  ‘Know what?’ Sorrell said. ‘Coops was a good detective. I don’t believe he framed anybody. But his methods were Stone Age. He didn’t have the patience for interrogations. That’s why he always beat on people. He was always in a hurry with somewhere to go.’

  ‘Yeah, to check on his hookers down at his whorehouse,’ Haye scoffed.

  ‘You’re probably right. I always reckoned if they could have removed Coops’ evil gene, he could have risen to the top,’ Sorrell concluded.

  ‘That’s what I like about you, cap’n, even after all these years doing this fucking job, you still try to see the good in people. Me? I think Coops is a lousy fucking dirtbag, who’s going out of his way to dick us around and fuck up our investigation,’ Haye replied, thumping his empty tumbler down on the bar, which brought an unwelcome glance from the bartender.

  ‘I take it you two gentlemen would like another?’ he asked.

  Haye apologised. ‘Sorry, long day, Andy. Yeah, two Guinness and two Scotch. Jura. Eighteen-year-old. Neat. One for yourself, too.’

  The cops said nothing as Andy took his time to pour. Haye held his small glass of golden whisky admiringly up to Sorrell, and declared, ‘Slanj-uh va.’

  ‘What?’ Sorrell asked quizzically.

  ‘It’s Scotch for “Your good health”. I’m quarter Scotch myself,’ Haye said proudly.

  ‘Yeah, but only since you saw Braveheart. Before then everyone was Irish. They just swapped the Os for the Mcs.’

  ‘I fucking loved that film, cap’n. “They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our FREEDOM,”’ Haye said in a terrible Scottish accent. ‘Mel Gibson was fucking awesome. Before all the other stuff that came later,’ he added almost sadly.