Nick Stephenson - Panic

“You’re probably too late for that,” said Beth, sitting up to face the police sergeant. “Christina’s blind to this guy. She’d do anything for him. She’s completely in love and there’s no talking to her. It doesn’t matter how much of a bastard he can be, or how he treats her. She always defends him and says it’s her fault. Makes me fucking sick. This is the guy.”

Beth scribbled Hank’s address down on a piece of scrap paper and handed it to Mary. “Here’s a picture,” she said, holding up her phone. “Don’t tell him we sent you.”

“Thanks for talking to me,” said Mary. “We’ll make sure Christina gets home safe.”

She stood up and walked over to the door, nodding at the two girls reassuringly. Jerome and Leopold followed her out the door, and they rode the elevator back down to the lobby together.

“That was good work,” said Leopold, as they walked out onto the street. “You really connected with those girls. Got us just the lead we needed.”

“You really think the boyfriend has anything to do with this?” asked Mary, as the elevator opened up to the entrance hall with a subdued chime.

“It’s a good place to start. Besides, if he’s not the one pulling the strings, he should at least be able to tell us where Christina went after she met up with him.”

“I don’t like the sound of this guy,” said Mary, her expression hardening. “I don’t know if I’m going be able to hold myself back if it turns out he’s beating her.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Leopold. “I’d be more concerned about what Jerome might do.”

It had been easy enough to gain access to Hank’s building. As Leopold had predicted, they were immediately buzzed in once Jerome had informed a neighbor they were there to check the gas lines, following the report of a leak. The tenant they spoke to simply told them to let themselves out when they had finished.

The bodyguard led the way as they climbed the stairs to Hank’s seventh-floor apartment. The only other movement in the building was on the third floor, where a team of decorators was making renovations. The stairwell smelled of new paint, and judging by the mess the decorators had left, it looked like each apartment was being given a full revamp. They reached Hank’s door and Jerome knocked heavily. There was no answer, so he tried the handle.

“Deadbolts.”

“Do the honors, Jerome,” said Leopold, gesturing for Mary to stand behind him.

The huge bodyguard took a couple of big steps backward, lowered his shoulder, and charged. The door frame splintered as the force of his body ripped out the hinges and bolts, scattering pieces of wood all over the floor. Jerome stepped inside, kicking the debris to one side.

Hank’s apartment was small and modestly furnished. The doorway opened into the living area, which also included a small kitchenette. To the right was a short hallway that led through to a cramped bedroom and a bathroom. The apartment had been recently decorated with a new coat of magnolia paint, except for the hallway, which was still exposed drywall. Overall, the apartment was meticulously arranged and scrubbed clean, with nothing out of place. Nothing except for the dead body that was slumped up against the wall.

“No one’s here; place is deserted,” said Jerome, his hand still resting on his firearm as he returned from checking the other rooms.

Leopold knelt by the body. The dead man was wearing casual clothes, had short brown hair and was decorated with numerous ear piercings and tattoos. Leopold noticed tiny red marks on the inside of his elbow, probably from drug use. The dead man’s left wrist had been slashed, leaving a gash that ran half the length of his forearm. Thick, dark blood had pooled around his arms and legs, staining the carpet where he sat. He held a serrated knife in his right hand, the blade flecked with dried blood.

Mary knelt down next to Leopold and fished the man’s wallet from inside his back pocket, tilting the body slightly to allow her access.

“This is Hank,” said the sergeant, examining the driver’s licence and getting back up on her feet.

Leopold leaned in closer and examined the wound. Hank’s injuries appeared to have been caused by the serrated blade he was holding, judging by the tears in the flesh surrounding the deep gash on his arm. There were no other signs of injury on the body, although a full autopsy would be required to know for sure.

“Whoever did this took their time,” said the consultant, squinting closer at the deep cut. “The wound is very convincing.”

“What do you mean?” asked Mary, getting to her feet.

“Hank committing suicide is too great a coincidence, considering everything that’s happened,” said the consultant, frowning.

“Sure, I can buy that. But we’ll need more than circumstantial evidence to prove murder.”

“And there’s the rub. Whoever is leaving the trail of bodies is making them look just enough like suicides to give a jury enough reasonable doubt to throw out a murder charge.”

“There must be some evidence we can use.”.

“The blood pooling around Hank’s body is a little darker than I would have expected,” said Leopold, pointing to the stains on the carpet. “This happens when the heart isn’t pumping enough oxygen into the blood, and is usually caused when something constricts the oxygen supply.”

“Someone strangled him?” asked Jerome, from across the room.

“Not likely,” replied Leopold, “otherwise we’d see bruising around the neck. However, I do think his airways were constricted prior to death. Mostly likely something inserted into the wind pipe, which would be much harder to detect during an autopsy.”

“Why not just let him choke?” asked Mary.

“The point is to make it look like a suicide. People don’t usually dispatch themselves by sticking foreign objects into their windpipes, and if Hank had died prior to the wrists being cut we’d be able to tell. Judging by the lack of color around his face and lips, I’m certain it’s the blood loss that killed him.”

“So the killer stopped Hank breathing just long enough for him to pass out?” asked the police sergeant.

“Yes. Cutting off his oxygen for long enough beforehand would have made it far easier to arrange Hank in this position. If he’d struggled, the killer might not have been able to be so convincing.”

“Not convincing enough for you. But I’d imagine it’s convincing enough for a jury,” said Mary. “Just one question: How did the killer get out? The door was locked from the inside when we arrived.”

“Check the windows,” said Leopold.

Jerome unlatched the living room window, which opened just enough to fit his forearm through.

“The windows don’t open all the way,” he remarked. “No chance anyone could have fit their whole body through, even if they did ignore the fifty-foot drop.”

Leopold took a few minutes to examine the rest of the apartment. The tiny kitchen was littered with unopened mail that had been left on the countertop, and there was a strong smell of decomposing food coming from underneath the sink. He pulled open one of the cupboard doors and recoiled as the smell from the open garbage can hit his nose and he quickly shut the door again. He turned to leave, but noticed a letter lying open on top of the pile of junk mail. He picked it up and studied it carefully.

“Found anything?” asked Mary.

“Just a bank statement,” said Leopold. “Nothing unusual. We can use the account reference to check for any irregularities. Should save us getting a warrant, at least.”

Mary walked over and examined the piece of paper in the consultant’s hand.