Doug Allyn - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 104, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 633 & 634, October 1994

The woman’s voice rose above this last.

“David, what does he mean? Is he deranged?”

Hamilton was beginning to think this might well be the case. Nothing was making any sense. He hated himself for asking, but he had to know. “Who is Achermann, then?”

“Achermann! Why, he’s our kennel keeper. What of it?”

Hamilton began to giggle. At first softly, then louder, and louder, until he was laughing uncontrollably, tears tracking down his cheeks and mixing with blood. And after a time, his thoughts turned to Joyce.

“You know what I think it is?” Jerry said to the burly detective. “Two hundred thousand cries for help. That’s what Flench was trying to send.”

The detective turned away from the computer screen, one of a half-dozen work stations lined up like tombstones in the brightly lit office. The analogy was apt, since the body of Ralph Flench had just been removed from the room.

“These things are hooked up to two hundred thousand others?”

“It’s called the internet,” Jerry said. He was in his element. Jerry was only a rookie, but his reputation as a computer hacker had put him in tandem with the top homicide cop on the force.

Joe Bliss knew he was a computer illiterate, but at his age he didn’t feel obliged to learn new tricks. He was only half listening when Jerry told him about the internet, describing all the on-line services and all the bulletin board members gleefully tapping messages to each other across something Jerry called cyberspace. All Bliss wanted to know was: which one of Flench’s subordinates slipped rat poison into his office-party cocktail?

Apparently, Flench had been a frustrated military man. The six people in his command became his personal regiment. He marched between their desks like an Inspector General, looking for the slightest breach of discipline. In the past year, he had discharged two employees, one for playing a game of Crystal Quest, the other for exchanging e-mail banter with a young woman.

Bliss couldn’t decide which of the six hated Flench the most. Bill Milton and Ann Green didn’t conceal their feelings. Frank Ryan’s eyes blazed with hatred. Jack Marvin had smiled throughout the interrogation, Jane Denning made unlady-like remarks about the dead man. Bill Leeds suggested another party, to celebrate.

There weren’t many signs of the fatal Christmas party: an artificial tree, a wreath, a few plastic cups, one of which was Exhibit A in the police laboratory. It had yielded no fingerprints; only traces of the poison that had ended Ralph Flench’s life.

“Somebody handed it to him,” Bliss said. “He must have known his killer. But he didn’t know it was his murderer until the party was over and he was alone...”

“Then the pains started,” Jerry said. “He must have been too weak to call anybody, so he did the next best thing — sent a message out to the internet!”

Bliss grunted. “That’s why I brought you in, kid, so you could figure out what he was trying to send. What is it, anyway? Some kind of computer code?”

Jerry looked at the screen and read the symbols again.

“Y3O0 JQ4F8H 5468HT 59 I800 J3.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “There isn’t any special code. There are coded instructions, but this is just garbage. ‘Garbage in, garbage out.’ That’s what we always say... Ever think of taking lessons, Detective?”

He grinned smugly and Bliss, annoyed, started out of the room. But in the doorway, he stopped suddenly and clumped back to the computer desk. He sat down and said:

“I think I’ll give you a lesson, wise guy. In how to catch a killer.

© 1994 by Michael Z. Lewin

When it comes to lively dialogue, Michael Z. Lewin is one of the best in the crime field. Not surprising when you learn that he has devoted a good part of his career to writing radio plays for the BBC. The following story could almost be a radio play, consisting as it does almost entirely of an exchange between two young people on a train...

The man walked slowly along the aisle and then stopped. “Excuse me,” he said.

The woman looked up from her book. “Yes?”

“Is this seat taken?” He pointed to one of two empty across the table she was resting her elbows on.

“No,” she said, without betraying her annoyance. The carriage was by no means full. Elsewhere there were empty pairs of seats, even another table. Oh well, it happens. She could always move to another seat herself. Unfair. A pain. A fact of life.

The woman picked her book up.

Inevitably the man spoke again. “Are you enjoying it?” The woman said nothing. The man, however, persisted. “The book. Is it good?”

“Fine,” the woman said without raising her eyes.

The man said, “It’s just that I have been waiting my whole career for this moment.”

Still not raising her eyes, and despite her expectations, the woman felt a flicker of curiosity as she digested what he had said. She said, “Oh yes?” in a way that could equally be the prelude for a go-away-and-leave-me-alone outburst.

“My whole career,” the man repeated easily. “It’s been sort of a dream. A career target. And now it’s happened.”

The woman put her book down. “What are you talking about?” she said.

“I wrote what you are reading,” the man said.

“You...” She looked at the cover of the book.

With a modest laugh, the man said, “I am Clive Kessler. I’ve always hoped that one day I would see someone reading one of my books on the train and now it’s happened. I suppose it’s a rite-of-passage event for a writer. A coming of age.” He grinned good-naturedly.

The woman smiled. “You’re Clive Kessler?” she asked, and once the question was out, she felt stupid to have asked it.

Kessler reached across the table, asking to shake hands. In a mock-American voice he said, “And you are my one millionth customer, so you win the grand prize.”

The woman shook hands. “What prize?”

“A cuppa coffee and a Briddish Rail donut. D’ya take sugar?”

“Yes,” the woman said.

“I’ll be right back,” the man said.

By the time Kessler returned with two coffees and two jam donuts the woman had read what little there was about the author on the cover of her paperback thriller.

“I didn’t know how much sugar to bring,” he said. “If one of these mingy little packets isn’t enough you can always scrape some off a donut. Here, use mine.” He began to scrape sugar onto a serviette. “No no,” she laughed. “This is plenty.”

“If you’re sure,” he said. “As my one millionth customer, I want to see you’re treated right.”

“I must say,” she said, “you’re younger than I would have expected, for having written eight novels.”

“And you’re younger than I expected my millionth reader to be,” Kessler said quickly. “No, in fact I am older than I look.”

“Are you?”

“Thirty-four. Do I look thirty-four?”

She shook her head. Although his hair was beginning to recede, she would have guessed late twenties. Not an unpleasant-looking man, and when he joked his face lit up.