From: cs92jgo@brunel.ac.uk (Justin G Otto)
Subject: Murder...
Date: Wed, 6 Apr 1994 12:16:25 GMT

There seems to be a spate of Murder films on tele at the moment. While watching
one the other night a thought occurred to me. Would the perfect murder be
possible in the future. And if not, how would the police of the time catch
whoever was responsible... Cyberpunk? Maybe not. But it got me thinking.

Murder by Persuasion...
------------------------

Smog tinted sky burned over the bridge his father built. The evening birds
sang in the twilight. Heralds of the mid-summer night. The Thames pushed and
squeezed its way through the legs of the bridge, and on toward the cold
North Sea.

"R1CH", the vanity plate of his Porsche proclaimed to passers-by. Not that
there were any. No-one wandered the streets of the Central Business District
at night. After all, no-one lived there.

He would have the all the time, and all the space he needed.

First, he dropped the neck-scarf. Watching as the orange-brown waters
swallowed the murder weapon. He would wait a couple of minutes yet. It
wouldn't be good if he were found too close to the device. Not that he
assumed it would drift far, the constriction wire in the hem weighed it down
just sufficiently for it not to float.

Ever so slowly, he inched closer to the edge himself. What good is the
perfect murder, if you're around to be accused? His was the perfect alibi.
How can a man murder his wife, if he committed suicide long before she
apparently hung herself?

Yes. He had finally found the way to exact his revenge. His life was ruined.
Why shouldn't she pay the ultimate price too? He smiled grimly. No reason at
all. In fact, she already had...

He checked his watch. But the coroner he had bribed would declare her
approximate time of death, two hours hence. That hadn't been cheap, but
David Rint and he had attended the same public school as children. That
helped things.

What a surprise that had been, old Davie Blue Rinse going into medicine.
Almost everyone had him earmarked for Politics from the day he crawled out
from the cradle.

Of course there had only been one career suitable for "Rich" Richard
Melthorpe, son of the entrepreneur Hugo Melthorpe. Richard was destined to
follow in his father's footsteps. Whether he liked it or not, he would
further the Melthorpe Corporation, and complete the work of his father in
building it into a multi-national.

But Richard was a playboy, not a businessman. His deals went wrong, his
workers turned against him, and worst of all, he married the wrong woman.
Everything he ever did was a disaster.

His epitaph would read: Richard Melthorpe - Loser BA (Hons) 1st Class...

Except for this. Just this once, he would break even.

He looked down over the edge of the Melthorpe bridge. Six lanes of traffic,
two sets of lights, and a roundabout. The bridge was a mighty construction.
Replacing the old Tower bridge, it was the new lowest bridging point of the
River Thames. The latest in a long line of money-making London Toll bridges.

Until Richard had attempted to start a price war with the ICI bridge, the
next up the river. His father's advisers had warned him, but he was too
proud to listen to these mere underlings.

He had cocked up his life, his company, and his marriage.

He changed his tenuous grip on the suspending cables of the bridge, reaching
up higher, and leaning out over the reddening water.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

The voice carried a slightly imperial, condescending tone. The kind of true
British accent that Richard had tried, but never achieved, to imitate. Ever
since he had been dragged into the country as three-year old Peytr Slavin,
the child of a political refugee.

He turned to face the speaker. The man looked like a scruffily dressed
street artist, but his hand carried the warrant smart card of an undercover
policeman. He shifted his slouch from the right foot to the left, and
offered the card for closer inspection. When Richard made no move towards
him, he pocketed it in the rear pocket of his jeans.

"Committing suicide is still a crime, Mr Melthorpe."

A cold runlet of sweat slipped down his back. The man knew who he was,
obviously this detective had come to arrest him. Maybe, his panicking mind
screamed, he just recognised you! You're still safe. She only died twenty
minutes ago. They can't have found her yet.

"Of course, officer. I had no intention of such a thing. I was merely
examining my bridge for damage, as I sometimes do." Richard smiled greasily,
he might just get out of this.

"Really?",  the detective replied, feigning interest. "Do you often examine
your bridge? Like, say, when you've killed your wife, and want to dispose of
the murder weapon?"

Richard coughed fitfully. When he had hawked up, his last spasm died, he was
able to look back at the policeman. The young detective hadn't moved.

"I'm sorry officer, I don't quite follow you", he said, attempting to hold
back the beginnings of a hysterical laugh.

The policeman smiled thinly. "Of course you don't."

He pulled out a hand-held microphone from his pocket. "I will be recording
this conversation for voice-stress analysis purposes. Do you wish to
object?"

A tightness pulled Richard's throat closed, but he managed to gasp, "Of
course not. Don't be a fool, man. What have I got to hide?"

"What indeed."

The detective meandered over to the Porsche and leant on the bonnet, pulling
out an electronic PenPad. It bleeped alive, and reflected a pale sickly
green light off his face. He read from it, pausing at significant points to
assess Richard's increasingly neutral reaction.

"I am proposing, sir, that you believe your wife dead, by your own hand. I
believe you to have attempted to kill your wife tonight by suffocation, and
subsequent hanging. When my fellow police officers on the river division
drag the river tomorrow, I think they will find an evil device of
assassination that you, sir, used to strangle your wife."

He waited for Richard to comment.

"You appear to be taking this in a quite unnaturally calm manner", he said,
indicating with a raised eyebrow his surprise, and concern.

"Then you must think me callous." Richard replied swiftly. "And yet, if I
rage at you denying this as the fallacy it most assuredly is... then I will
be a scared murderer, covering his tracks with bluster."

The detective's expression settled back into contempt, and he continued his
reading.

"Today you purchased the neck scarf we will find tomorrow from a shop in
Soho called 'The Sai'. A shop that deals in ancient weapons of the martial
arts. It was here that you first saw the killing noose, and the idea of
killing your wife formed. You ordered a noose sew into the hem of a neck
scarf connected to a minute motor, concealed within the folds of the scarf.
A motor so slow that it's motion would be almost imperceptible to the wearer
of such a device."

"A very clever idea, officer. But a touch fanciful, don't you think?"

"Oh I do. But that was why you liked it. You chose a scarf that you thought
would appeal to your wife, but she didn't like it, did she? So you arranged
a meal tonight. A little anniversary night out. And then you asked her to
wear that special present you bought her."

"I think I have to warn you, that my patience is wearing out. Unless you
have a single hard fact to back up these slanderous accusations, I suggest
you leave me alone. I have lawyers that can have you chained to a desk job
faster than you can say harassment."

"Hard facts are difficult to come by, Mr Melthorpe. But I think I have
something that may interest you."

He tapped the screen of the PenPad with the base of the microphone, and the
night was suddenly filled with a familiar voice.

"I, David Rint, swear that the voice confession I give now is the whole
truth, to the best of my knowledge. I make this confession under no duress,
and allow the video tapes of this recording to be admissible evidence in
court proceedings should..."

"Anything he says about me is obviously a lie", Richard sneered. "I always
suspected he was corrupt, but a supergrass? Pah."

The detective stopped the recording, and returned to his reading.

"She wore the scarf, and just as you planned, she suffocated. But you made a
mistake, didn't you Richard? You released the noose too early, you see. We
knew all about the hanging, but we weren't sure what you were planning to
use to kill her. Are you familiar with this device?"

He held up his PenPad which was displaying the picture of a harness covered
with small circular pads.

"It's a suspensor. Acrobats, ballet dancers and stuntmen all use them. It's
a form of anti-gravity tool. Not quite strong enough to support the whole
body weight of a woman such as your wife, but it has enough kick to prevent
her from hanging."

The detective tapped the PenPad again, and brought up some more text which
he read to an increasingly terrified Richard Melthorpe.

"She had only passed out, when you released the noose. We were able to
resuscitate her without harm. In the hard fact area, we are well over-quota,
Mr Melthorpe."

He grinned.

"Murder by persuasion, Mr Melthorpe. You convinced her to wear the tool that
would rob her of her life, but you messed even that up. Enjoy the sunset, it
may be the last you see for quite a few years."

As the detective approached with the neuro-blocker that would immobilise
Richard, he leapt backwards, off the bridge. Plunging towards the waiting
waters he was satisfied that he had won after all. No prison for him. No
lengthy trial to ruin his name. He had fought a long battle, and had finally
won the war.

The sensation of success was sweet, as he fell beneath his father's bridge.

--

The woman strode towards the door of the Porsche, opening it. Then closing
it in disgust. Her raven black hair was cropped short under her black veil
of mourning. Cold brown eyes stared at the rushing water beneath the bridge.

"Typical of the little shit. He took the keys with him."

"He jumped, just like you said he would", the detective informed her.

She allowed herself a moment of self-congratulation, then placed the
briefcase upon the car roof. The soft clack of the released catches on
leather drew his attention.

"Here is the five thousand I owe you. You acted your role perfectly, my
dear."

He paused before accepting the case.

"Don't you think you took a bit of a risk. What if the suspensor didn't
work, or the scarf was left on too long?"

She laughed, amused.

"Oh my dear", she said, removing her ring, and motioning for him to drop it
into the river. "I didn't let him get anywhere near me with a killer scarf.
In point of fact, it was me that thought up the whole sorry plot."

"But why did he jump?"

"He actually believed he had killed me, but didn't know how he was supposed
to have done it. Your every word simply filled in the blanks, and his sick
little mind invented the rest. You see, murder by persuasion is real. He
believes everything his hypnotist tells him is true."

"Oh yes, Richard. You definitely married the wrong woman", she finished.

Her fingers played with the silver locket around her neck.

--

 "With regard, to my use of the drug,
  It modified my personality.
  To the extent that I was really irritable." - FNM