Fear is like a looking glass....
“What I’ve found so far about the rugby lottery is the chains are being redirected, there’s code recycling and the murder or murderers are getting harder to track, making the bets harder to track to the actual bettors. I convinced the tech team at the police department to track the I.P. addresses of every user found on Walter Ashford’s computer. I tracked several of them myself. Some linked to genuine fans of the game who were betting through the fantasy rugby lottery website, but after background checks and extensive interviews were found to be unwitting participates in the rugby murders or not involved at all, since their bets were less than £10 (15.56 USD).” Eva walked behind her desk and handed Mr. Kane a file folder from her portfolio.
Mr. Kane looked at the information inside. “But a few pounds could be a ruse to divert the police from finding out who exactly are the partners in crime. Because maybe they know we’re onto them.”
“Yes, true. The police are still monitoring around the clock those who’ve been ruled out and the rest of those participating fans betting in the rugby lottery.”
“People are still betting through this website?” Mr. Kane said raising a furrowed brow.
“Yes, there are extreme fanatics of the game and the players. The police can’t risk shutting the site down. They risk not being able to catch the real criminal or criminals.”
“What’s this world coming to?” Mr. Kane shook his head. “There’s no way they could be doing the shootings themselves. There’s a risk of getting caught. They must’ve hired mercenaries. No, not mercenaries, they wouldn’t have left any additional casualties like in Johannesburg. The first two matches a hired gun had to have been used. There were no added casualties just the impending targets. The other two matches the shootings were sloppy, the one in Johannesburg and Australia versus New Zealand match where both players had been shot alone outside of the stadium. Those were possibly random.” Mr. Kane swallowed hard, rubbing his forehead.
“This is getting to be scarier and scarier by the second,” Eva sighed, her hand on Othor’s shoulder. He nodded, both of them staring out of the sixteenth-century oriel window of Othor’s home office, overlooking the Bristol Channel.
“In a sea of rugby fanatics, how do we find the one or ones, who are deranged and brilliant enough to kill through the internet without getting their hands dirty? Whoever they are their influence is absolutely staggering and frustrating. We’ve been at this for over three years and every step forward seems like a major setback.” He rubbed his forefinger along his chin. “Instead of looking at who’s betting we should look at those registering, selecting and joining the leagues and creating their own teams through the fantasy rugby lottery website. Those making draft picks and those with salary caps that are too unusual to ignore. Yes, we need to check those salary caps again. Nothing will be left sacred.”
“I guess we’ll both be burning the midnight oil tonight on this one.”
Weeping Well is written by Angel Chadwick.