Panic

“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 u

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 have 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 ru

 “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 co