Nick Stephenson - Panic

He was glad they had no idea he was coming.

At seven a.m., the leafy expanse of Federal Plaza NYC was already full of people on their way to work, clocking in at any one of the dozen-or-so federal buildings nearby. The FBI field offices were located in the plaza’s newest and tallest building, on the twenty-third floor overlooking the state supreme court. It certainly was quite a view. Leopold sat at the back of the conference room and watched FBI Special Agent Todd Coleman take the podium and raise his palms to the noisy crowd of journalists that had gathered inside. The room gradually fell silent and he spoke.

“Thank you for coming this morning. As you already know, the bodies of State Senators Wilson, Carrera, and Hague underwent forensic analysis earlier this week to determine cause of death. I am calling this press conference to announce that the results were inconclusive. As such, we’re waiting for more evidence before we can make a definitive statement.”

He spoke slowly and calmly. Leopold noticed his suit. Probably Armani, based on the size of the lapels, and at least twelve hundred dollars. His skin was fresh and bright, a product of regular sleep and a healthy diet. This man clearly hadn’t seen any field action in quite some time.

“The FBI would like to reiterate that there is no evidence to suggest that any of the deaths are related. The FBI would like to send our deepest condolences to the families of the victims and offer our assurances that we are doing all we can to bring the perpetrators to justice. I’ll now take questions.”

Leopold watched the hands fly up into the air as Coleman finished his statement. A deep female voice asked the first question.

“Special Agent Coleman, do you expect us to believe that three state senators turning up dead in as many weeks is a coincidence ?”

“I can understand your concern, but I must remind you that we are in possession of no evidence to suggest otherwise. Next question.”

“Are you saying these people killed themselves, or that they were murdered?” a male voice continued.

“There is nothing yet to suggest the deaths were homicides. We can’t take a firm position until more evidence comes to light. I’m afraid I can’t give any more specific information at this time. Next, please.”

Another round of general questions followed, all of which Coleman answered as vaguely as possible. After ten more minutes, Coleman thanked his audience and left in a hurry. Leopold waited until the crowd of journalists began to make their way out of the door at the front of the room, and then slipped out of the rear exit while the security guards were distracted. He managed to catch up with Coleman making his way back to his office.

“Special Agent Coleman, just one second,” said Leopold, matching Coleman’s long stride.

Coleman turned, still maintaining his pace. “Who are you?”

“Leopold Blake. Pleasure to meet you.”

He held out his hand. Coleman ignored it.

“Blake? What are you doing here? I gave specific instructions to keep you out of the press conference.”

“Yes, I figured Bradley would phone ahead, so I came a little early. Nice to finally meet you, by the way. I wanted to see for myself whether you had taken my advice or not. It appears you haven’t.”

“I’m busy, Blake. There are bigger things going on today that I have to sort out, and I don’t have time to worry about this case. Tell me why I shouldn’t have security throw you out.”

Leopold took a step forward. “Because there are two dozen of the city’s most influential journalists in the room next door, just itching for some more dirt on one of the biggest stories of the year. So, if you really don’t want to talk, I can always schedule a conference of my own.”

Coleman’s face hardened and Leopold could see the muscles in his jaw bulge as he clenched his teeth. “My office. Now.”

Leopold followed Coleman to his office and sat down on the spare seat with his back to the door. The room was modestly sized, and almost every spare surface was crowded with plaques and trophies engraved with Coleman’s name. The special agent took the chair on the other side of the desk and sat partially silhouetted by the light coming in from the tall window behind him. On the right side of the window hung the blue and gold flag of the FBI, and on the left side hung the stars and stripes. Leopold chuckled softly and imagined himself on a corny television show.

“Something funny?”

“No, nothing. Nothing at all.” Leopold wondered whether the man was wearing FBI socks and slept with a picture of J. Edgar Hoover under his pillow. He held back another chuckle.

“You said you wanted to talk. So talk.”

“You told the journalists out there that you hadn’t determined cause of death,” said Leopold. “Why lie to them like that?”

“Cause of death can’t be determined, to any degree of certainty, until evidence comes to light that can prove it beyond a reasonable doubt. That’s how we work here.”

“Yes, that’s the official line. I’ll catch the evening news for your sound bites. But you and I both know these three deaths were murders. And we both know they were committed by the same person.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Coleman, scowling.

“I was there. I know a serial killer’s work when I see it.”

The FBI agent leaned forward in his chair and jabbed his index finger at Leopold.

“Now listen here. The NYPD might have every faith in your abilities, but as far as I’m concerned, there’s no place for amateurs in a murder investigation.”

Leopold reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a selection of photographs. He turned the first one face up and slapped it onto the table. “State Senator Wilson. Killed earlier this week. Single gunshot wound to the head. Made to look like a suicide, but the killer got sloppy.”

“Yes, I’ve read the -”

Leopold slapped a second photo down. “State Senator Carrera. She was found hanged in a hotel room with no signs of a struggle. Another suicide note, this time with a signature. I also found rope fibers on her wrists, which made me wonder how she managed to untie her hands and dispose of the cord after her death.”

“This isn’t necessary.”

A third photo.

“State Senator Hague, found dead in his garage. This is my favorite. He had apparently hooked up a hose to his car exhaust and committed suicide by inhaling half a tank’s worth of carbon monoxide. Problem is, he died with both hands gripping the steering wheel, which is very difficult to do if you’re in the process of gradually passing out.”

Coleman didn’t respond.

“In short: three senators plus three murders plus three staged suicides equals one killer. And you’re right.”

“Right about what?”

“There is no place for amateurs in a murder investigation.”

Coleman leant back in his chair again and held his hands together in his lap. “Like I said, Blake, there’s no evidence to suggest homicide, let alone a serial killer. This isn’t police work, this is just your particular brand of conjecture.”

“I was at all three scenes. There’s a consistent M.O. and a consistent demographic of targets. What more could you possibly need?”

Leopold’s voice caught the attention of one of the office interns as she passed by carrying a tower of paper files. The special agent waved her away and let out a long sigh.

“We need forensic evidence putting the same person at each scene, a credible witness who is willing to make a statement, or even a sensible motive that fits all three victims. We currently have none of those things, so until such evidence materializes, there’s no need to cause unnecessary panic by suggesting there may be a serial killer at large.”