Page 124 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

Does your mom’s boyfriend fuck you? Post pix.

Call the police!

Take ur top off.

In the chans—the underground message boards, where you can find just about everything—there are a number of lengthy forums devoted to suicide; they don’t exist to get people help. They’re how-to guides. Hundreds of thousands of pro-self-harm fans. The chans are text and still photos, a few GIFs, so they tend not to end up on ViewNow, but occasionally there’s a video post that makes its way here.

In the comments I see someone has courteously sent Tammy a hyperlink to one of the forums.

She continues, “There’s no point to anything. My boyfriend said he hates me. He called me fat.”

Tammybird begins to sob.

IM me we’ll talk, get you help!!!!

Your beautiful, you dont want to die!!

UR hot!

You have pills?

Pills r so fucking lame. Hanging. Its the only way. IM me I’ll walk you thru it.

At ViewNow we can access the IP address of everyone who posts. I can send Tammybird’s to the cops and they can get a warrant so that the poster’s internet providers will hand over her physical address—as long as she’s not using a proxy, which she isn’t. A welfare check ensues. This can happen fast, especially in a case of looming suicide. The authorities could be at her door within the hour.

But now I have a dilemma. If I push the button to save her, my name appears on the reports the police will read. And I absolutely don’t want this to happen.

On the other hand, if Tammy takes the advice of some of the helpful commentators and does the deed and it’s discovered that I reviewed the post, questions will arise as to why I didn’t get her help.

The police again.

So?

Out of self-interest, I decide I’ll send it to our law-enforcement liaison department.

But I’m in no hurry. I tap the keys to unearth her ISP slowly, thinking, if I’m lucky they won’t get to her in time.

And, if I’mparticularlylucky, she might even kill herself on the livestream.

66

The tactical team approached the door.

Quiet. Utterly quiet.

Sachs, in the lead, knew they were pros. Any metal that could clink had been wrapped in strips of cloth or electrical tape. All phones and radios were on mute.

The entire six-person team, four men, two women, plus Sachs, were even breathing silently. That’s easy—even if it appears comical—you just open your mouth wide.

The op had all come together quickly.

“Rhyme, I’ve got the results of that carpet sample in Kitt’s apartment. You’re going to want to see this.”

He’d looked over her discovery and he, Sachs and Spencer began discussing the totality of the evidence from the scenes.

Rhyme had said, “That’s our answer. Call Lon and get an ESU tac team together. Hurry. We’re out of time.”

And now here they were.

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