Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 104, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 633 & 634, October 1994

Murder on the Internet by Henry Slesar

“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.