Panic lb-1

  Panic

  ( Leopold Blake - 1 )

  Nick Stephenson

  Nick Stephenson

  Panic

  Chapter 1

  Leopold Blake sighed and removed the gun from the hand of the dead senator. The body lay face-down on the hardwood floor, dressed in an expensive suit, a fresh exit wound to the back of the head staining the dead man’s white collar and neatly trimmed gray hair with dark blood. Leopold examined the left hand carefully, lifting it from the floor to get a better view in the dim light. Slowly, he sniffed the skin in long, drawn inhalations and noted a distinct smoky, metallic scent. The forensics team stood back, shuffling impatiently, waiting to get back to work. Leopold took no notice and continued sniffing. Satisfied, he stood and turned to the police lieutenant who was glaring at him from the back of the room.

  “Thoughts, Bradley?” asked Leopold, brushing the dust from his knees to the floor.

  The living room was spacious and decorated with expensive furniture, although it was in need of a serious cleaning. Warm cinders glowed in the fireplace, the flames having died hours earlier.

  The lieutenant folded his arms. “You’re supposed to be the expert.”

  “You look like a man with something to say. What’s your take on this?”

  Bradley arched his eyebrows, further creasing his wrinkled forehead. Leopold wondered if another fifteen years would have the same effect on his own face, but he pushed the thought to the back of his mind and reminded himself he was still young, if a little scruffy around the edges. The lieutenant paced over to the body and glanced down, taking a second to compose his thoughts.

  “Meet State Senator George Wilson,” said Bradley, hands on hips. “Records show he’s lived here in Boston for the last ten years. Dead in his own living room on a weekday night, with no witnesses and no signs of forced entry. Clearly a suicide. Initial blood work confirms cause of death as a gunshot wound to the head, and splatter analysis shows that the body wasn’t moved after death. The bullet we found lodged in the wall matches the gun in the senator’s hand, which was registered in his own name and purchased several years ago. There’s gunshot residue on the senator’s hand where he held the gun, and to top it all off we’ve even got a suicide note.”

  “Seems you have everything all wrapped up nicely,” replied Leopold. “Why call me in?”

  “Standing orders from the commissioner. Apparently the FBI are insisting, and they want you involved on any high profile cases. Says your perspective is useful, though I can’t see what use you are here. Open and shut, if you ask me.”

  Leopold resisted the urge to grin.

  “The commissioner asks for my involvement on a consulting basis because I pick up things people like you and your team miss. For example, is it possible you’ve failed to notice this is the third dead state senator that’s shown up in as many weeks?”

  “I heard on the news. The FBI said the deaths weren’t homicides, and it’s not like they’re well known for sharing information, so that’s all I know. What exactly have we missed here?” asked the lieutenant impatiently.

  “Good, you’re finally asking the right questions. Can you tell me how the senator managed to shoot himself while he was unconscious?”

  “What the hell do you mean, unconscious? That’s impossible.”

  “Not impossible, just unlikely. Observe.”

  Leopold took a thin penlight from his jacket pocket and shined a narrow beam of light over the senator’s prone body, illuminating the various points of interest against the musty gloom of the old house.

  “You can see the senator is lying face down on the floor. How did he get there? There’s no evidence of trauma to the head, other than the bullet wound, so a fall is unlikely. You’ll also notice the dust on the back of the senator’s suit jacket and trousers; how did the dust get there?”

  The consultant moved the beam of light across the floorboards and continued. “There are patches of floor that have less dust than others – which means the senator was on his back at some point tonight. Dust never lies.”

  “So what? People do all kinds of weird things, especially if they’re suicidal.”

  “There’s that word again. You mentioned a note?”

  Bradley nodded.

  “Typed, no doubt? No signature? Yes, I thought so. Moving on then, you’ll also notice the senator’s shoes. Expensive and well-maintained, the sole is worn but there’s no dirt. Why is he wearing dress shoes indoors? In fact, he’s dressed to go out; but there’s no evidence at all that he’s left the house tonight. Doesn’t that seem a little odd?”

  “Maybe. But it doesn’t prove anything.”

  Leopold sighed impatiently and continued. “You’ll no doubt be aware that the senator is holding the gun in his left hand – even you couldn’t miss that. We know the senator was indeed left-handed; so why were his shoelaces tied by someone right-handed? You can easily tell by the knot. Lastly, look again at the hand holding the gun. There’s gunpowder residue on there all right, I could smell as much. What’s unexpected, however, is that the senator chose to fire the weapon with his index finger, instead of holding the gun at a different angle and using his thumb.”

  “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  “Try it. Holding the gun like that is awkward. If I were going to shoot myself in the head, I’d want to make sure I didn’t miss. Using the index finger means the wrist is twisted at an unnatural angle, and is not something one sees in suicides. This man was murdered.”

  The grizzled lieutenant smirked. “That’s nothing but guesswork.”

  “I’m not guessing, Bradley. I’m observing the evidence and applying logic, reason, and experience to reach a conclusion.”

  “None of this is proof that the senator was murdered.”

  “No? Picture it: The senator is in the house all evening and dressed in a formal suit, even though he’s not expecting company and has not intention of going out. After dressing, he ties his shoes with the wrong hand and walks downstairs, lies on his back on the floor and then stands up again, awkwardly positions a gun in his mouth, pulls the trigger, and then somehow falls onto his front. Does that seem likely?”

  Bradley scowled, folding his arms in resignation. “I suppose not. What’s your genius theory then, Mr. Blake?”

  The consultant paused before replying, lifting one finger to his lips as he considered his response. “The senator has a highly stressful job, enough to cause his hair to turn white despite only being in his mid-forties. A man like that will probably have trouble sleeping. Tell me, was the senator on any kind of medication for insomnia?”

  “We found an empty bottle of sleeping pills on his bedside, nothing out of the ordinary. Over-the-counter stuff.”

  “Any alcohol?”

  “An empty glass.”

  “Whiskey?”

  “Smelled like it. How did you know?”

  “It helps me sleep too,” said Leopold. “So the senator takes sleeping pills on a regular basis and washes them down with whiskey, meaning the killer only has to swap out the usual medication for something a little stronger. Once the senator is unconscious, the killer dresses him and takes him down to the living room, where he puts the gun in the senator’s hand and fires a single shot through the head. As a result, toxicology reports will show nothing in George Wilson’s system other than sleeping drugs, which would be nothing out of the ordinary, and the whole thing looks like a suicide.”

  “Why bother knocking him out? Why not just shoot him and reposition the body? Or use poison?”

  “Too risky. The killer had to make it look like suicide, which means that as well as making sure there were no unexpected substances in the blood, he had to avoid any evidence of a fight. The killer would hav
e had to make sure the senator was alive when he shot him, otherwise the wound would have bled out differently.”

  “Okay, say your theory is correct. What do we do now?”

  “Run the usual toxicology reports and check for any elevated levels of sleeping drugs, particularly those not present in over-the-counter medication. Try Midazolam for starters. When you isolate the chemical not present in the senator’s usual bedtime cocktail, you’ll know it wasn’t suicide.”

  “But why would anyone murder the senator?”

  “Good, Lieutenant, your second intelligent question of the evening. The vast majority of premeditated crimes happen for one of three reasons: money, revenge, or power. The senator was wealthy, no doubt about that, but nothing is missing from his home, which suggests we can rule out a robbery.”

  “So we’re looking for a revenge killing? Or something politically motivated?”

  “Precisely. The senator was in a position powerful enough to make enemies; we just need to narrow down the list.”

  “How do we do that?” asked Bradley, pulling out a pen and small notepad from his coat pocket.

  “I expect you’ve been watching the news recently. This is an election year, and tensions are running high. Senator Wilson made a lot of enemies by speaking his mind. Find out who has the strongest motive, and you’ve got your killer.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. Focus on any leads you have on hired killers or mercenaries; this has all the hallmarks of a professional job. With high-profile targets like this, you’re looking for someone who can afford to pay for the best. Start by checking out the wealthier members of government with a reason to hold a grudge. Other than that, I’d recommend good old-fashioned police work.”

  “You’re not going to help?”

  “I’ve already helped. You don’t want me taking all the credit, do you? I’ve given you everything you need to get started. If you find any more bodies, let me know.”

  The lieutenant opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it.

  Leopold stepped back from the body and made his way to the front door, nodding to the forensics team as he passed. “He’s all yours.”

  “Wait, Mr. Blake.” Bradley strode across the hallway and caught up with Leopold on the doorstep. “Don’t for one second think I’m impressed with your showing off. We would have figured it out eventually.”

  “I’m sure you would.”

  Bradley turned to go back inside, then paused. “I’m curious. Have you ever been wrong?”

  Leopold looked straight into the lieutenant’s eyes and smiled. “Just once.”

  He walked out into the night, closing the door firmly behind him.

  Chapter 2

  Christina Logan and her two girlfriends sat at the bar, giggling and wailing along to the music. Suave, the newest mid-town New York hotspot, had only been open a few weeks, and it was still impossible to get in unless you had the right connections. Christina knew this, and had taken advantage of her social status to bag a few VIP tickets for herself and her friends. She looked around the nightclub and beamed a brilliant white smile as she caught the eye of a tall, muscular guy across the room. He raised his bottle of beer in salute and started walking over, smiling back at her as he weaved in and out of the crowd.

  The VIP room at Suave was not like your average club. People didn’t come here to dance, they came to be seen and they came to drink. Usually by the bottle. The music was played loud and the lights were kept low; nobody wanted conversation and everybody wanted to look their best. Christina felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to the girlfriend to her right – Candice, the one with the sharp nails.

  “That guy is totally into you!” Candice shouted over the thrumming music, nodding at the muscular guy as he drew closer.

  “He’s cute!” Dakota chimed in from the left. “But what about your boyfriend?”

  “Hank?” replied Christina. “He’s not really my boyfriend. Just some guy I’m seeing. Besides, he’s been acting a little weird recently. He said he didn’t want me going out tonight. He still thinks I’m back at the dorm.”

  “Good move,” said Candice. “He never has to know. You just concentrate on having fun!”

  Christina grinned and began to feel the effects of the vodka from their fifty-dollar cocktails. She felt her skin warm as the alcohol spread through her body, making her smile even more as the tall, handsome guy approached and leaned against the bar, looking at Christina as he spoke.

  “Hey, you ladies having a good night? The name’s Finn. What’s yours?”

  “Christina,” she beamed and looked down, fiddling with the cocktail stick in her now olive-free Martini. She saw Dakota bobbing up and down on the stool, trying to look over Finn’s back to hear what she was saying.

  “You in college? You look like a student. Isn’t it a little late to be out on a school night?” Finn’s voice was smooth, even though he was practically shouting over the beat of the dance track that was playing, and his eyes twinkled as he spoke.

  “We’re all Columbia Law. Nobody works much on a Friday, so we can sleep in. You won’t tell anyone, will you?” Christina said coyly, biting her bottom lip.

  “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  “So, what do you do for a living?” said Christina, wanting to know just how many drinks she could expect him to pay for.

  “Oh, you know; this and that. Mostly private equity investments, that kinda thing.”

  “Sounds interesting, I’d love to hear more, but we’re running out of drinks. Why don’t you pull up a chair?”

  Finn laughed and shook his head. He put down his drink, stood up, and took a few steps back so that he could address all three girls.

  “Ladies, it’s been an absolute pleasure, but I’m afraid I have to be leaving soon. I’ve got other places to be tonight.”

  Christina pulled a face in disappointment, a trick that always worked on her father. This guy wasn’t going anywhere.

  “I’m sorry, I really do! But how about this: I’ve got a friend who works the doors at Halo downtown. My driver’s outside; you guys are welcome to take a ride down to the club and I’ll meet you there later. I’ll call ahead and have the champagne waiting.”

  Christina looked to her girlfriends, all of whom seemed impressed, and nodded enthusiastically at Finn. “Sure, sounds like a plan. Lead the way!”

  Finn took Christina by the hand and led the three girls toward the exit. Christina stumbled as they went down the stairs, her impossibly high heels not helping her balance, and Finn caught her before she could fall. She looked up into his gorgeous brown eyes and grinned.

  “My hero!”

  Christina grabbed onto his thick arm with both hands and let him carry most of her weight out of the club and onto the streets. She was looking forward to getting him home later.

  The four party-goers spilled out onto the sidewalk, and Christina immediately felt the brisk midnight air around her bare legs; this was not the weather for short skirts, but looking good came with a price and cold legs were part of the bargain. Christina found her footing despite the clawing numbness brought on by the vodka, and unhanded Finn so that she could walk unaided. Dakota and Candice walked ahead, looking around for signs of a town car.

  “It’s just up here,” Finn called out, pointing to the end of the street where the streetlights had gone out. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  Dakota and Candice disappeared from view, and Finn ushered Christina to where the car was waiting, just out of sight of the main road. Except there was no car. Candice and Dakota turned around, clearly confused. There is no car. Christina wheeled around to face Finn, the adrenaline now pumping away the alcohol that had been making her fuzzy and slow. Finn was stood still just a couple of feet away, and he spoke slowly.

  “I did what you wanted. I couldn’t get her alone.”

  Christina didn’t realize until it was too late. Finn’s eyes were focused somewhere above and behind her; he was sp
eaking to someone they hadn’t seen. Before she had time to react, Christina heard a metallic thunk and Finn’s head jerked back, a small, red mark appearing in the center of his forehead. Thick, dark fluid began to drip slowly down his face as Finn’s lifeless body first crumpled onto its knees and then fell backward onto the road. Christina felt her stomach lurch and she spun around, kicking off her high heels, ready to put five years of kick-boxing training to use. Candice and Dakota were a little slower, still wondering what was happening as a dark figure approached from behind. The enormous man wore what looked like body armor, with thick boots, gloves, and a ski mask. He held the gun limply by his side. The two girls turned slowly as he drew within a few feet and spoke.

  “I’m in the mood for some exercise.”

  The voice was deep and raspy, but strangely quiet and calm. The man dropped his gun to the floor. What happened next was a blur; the man brought his fist hard against Candice’s nose, forcing her to stumble back as her nasal bridge collapsed with a wet crunch. A palm edge connected with Dakota’s throat, apparently crushing her wind pipe as she immediately fell to her knees, gasping and choking for air. Christina’s feet were rooted in place. Move, dammit, move! She tried to will her uncooperative legs to propel her away from the horror in front of her, but she couldn’t get them to function.

  Two huge hands grasped Dakota’s head, an arm as thick as a tree trunk across her throat. Christina knew what was going to happen next. With a savage jerk, the man broke Dakota’s neck before she could take another ragged breath. He dropped the lifeless body and moved toward Candice, who held one hand to her bloody face, blindly flailing the other in an attempt to work out where she was. The attacker grabbed her loose arm and pulled her in toward him, bringing his knee to her stomach and knocking the wind out of her. He put both hands around her neck and squeezed. Christina could see Candice’s eyes bulge in surprise and horror and heard the cartilage and muscle in her neck popping and tearing as the man’s grip collapsed her larynx. She quickly fell still.