Nick Stephenson - Panic

Leopold looked Coleman in the eye and smiled. “And that’s it, isn’t it?” He continued, “You want to keep this as quiet as possible. You know as well as I that these deaths are connected, but you don’t want to admit you can’t figure out why. Better to blame the whole thing on a lack of evidence, I suspect. You need to trust me, I know you want to get to the bottom of this before any more bodies start surfacing.”

Coleman broke eye contact shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. “The FBI will not release statements of record that are based on the opinion of one consultant,” he said, in a tone that clearly signaled the end of the meeting.

“You’re making a mistake. There are people in danger.”

“We’re done here, Blake,” grunted Coleman, gesturing toward the door. “I have work to do. I don’t have time to entertain these unsubstantiated theories. Come back to me with some solid evidence, and maybe we’ll talk. Please see yourself out.”

Leopold nodded a brisk goodbye before stalking out of the office back to the elevators. He paused at the lobby desk and leaned over to speak to the middle-aged receptionist, whispering just loud enough for her to hear him over the television that had been bolted to the wall to keep visitors entertained as they waited. A news anchor mentioned something about stolen military weapons before the video feed cut to a busty weather girl for the day’s forecast. Talk about priorities.

“Madeline, thank you again for your help this morning,” said Leopold, grasping her hand and smiling broadly.

“Any time, Leopold,” replied Madeline, blushing slightly. “I hope the meeting went well. And thank you again for getting me this job. I can’t tell you how much it’s helped me out.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“And good luck this morning at the University.”

Leopold kissed the back of her hand before saying goodbye and heading to the elevators. As he rode the thirty stories down to the ground floor, his cell phone rang.

“Yes, hello?”

“Blake. This is Bradley. I just got a phone call from Coleman and he’s not pleased. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I needed to speak to Coleman in person, seeing as how he doesn’t return my phone calls.”

“Can you blame him? How the hell did you get in?”

“The secret to getting what one wants,” said Leopold, “is to have friends in high places.”

“What the hell are you – ”

He grinned and hung up.

Mary eyed the clock on the wall of her office and groaned. It was nearly eight a.m., and she hadn’t taken a break since she’d been called out in the middle of the night. Her report glared at her from her monitor – yet another case with no leads. Nobody had witnessed the attack, and the area had been wiped clean, not so much as a speck of dust out of place. Which meant Mary had no blood spatter, fiber, or DNA evidence to work with. Which also meant that Captain Oakes would bust a blood vessel when he found out. Mary put her head in her hands and closed her eyes. Shit .

She raised her head again and stared at the screen, watching the cursor blink impatiently. Her headache returned, throbbing behind her eyes and squeezing the inside of her skull like a vice. She reached for the coffee cup. Empty.

“Jordan! What the hell is going on?”

Captain Oakes burst into the room, slamming the door into the wall as he came. The cheap shutters on the windows rattled in protest. He crossed the tiny office in one step and slapped both palms down onto the edge of Mary’s flimsy desk. His considerable weight caused the whole thing to rock side to side. Oakes smelled of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne and wore a thick moustache that, at this range, Mary could see was stained with coffee. His fat face was red and sweaty, as it always was when he got angry about something. Which was pretty often.

“I want answers, Jordan. Don’t tell me this is another dead end? It’s my ass on the line right now,” said the Captain.

Bullshit , thought Mary. She resisted the urge to say it out loud, but she knew Oakes would hand her over on a silver platter the second he needed to escape blame himself. Instead, Mary drew a deep breath and composed herself.

“Three victims were found dead at the scene. One Caucasian male was shot in the head, two Caucasian females killed by…” Mary paused. “Other methods. The ID checks at the club brought up details of another girl with them who wasn’t found at the scene.”

“Suspects? Leads? Anything?”

“Not yet, sir. But we’re working on it.”

“Well, you’d better work faster. I’ve got enough with the commissioner up my ass about helping the FBI with this dead senator case, I don’t need this gang warfare shit hitting the papers as well.”

“I don’t think it was gang-related, sir.”

“I don’t give a shit what you think , Jordan. Just get me some answers. Find out who the girl is and get me some answers.”

“We know who the girl is, sir. Christina Logan. Daughter of New York State Senator Logan.”

“Shit. The FBI are going to want in on this one too. Get them on the phone.”

“Already done, sir. They put me in touch with Senator Logan’s office. His assistant is setting up a call for later this morning.”

“You better get me something solid, Jordan,” Oakes growled, “I can’t go back to the commissioner with another dead-end case. You’ve got until Monday to find me something useful or I’ll have your ass working the graveyard shift for a year. Understood?”

Mary nodded. She was used to working weekends anyway. The Captain grunted something and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The shutters rattled again and the room fell silent. Mary groaned and resisted the urge to punch the computer screen. Conjuring a solid lead out of thin air was going to be impossible, but she’d be damned if she’d work nights for a year. She had seen what that did to people.

Mary flicked off the screen and screwed up her eyes in an attempt to relieve her headache. She picked up the phone and dialled Senator Logan’s office for the third time, praying she could get through to him before he had a chance to speak to the FBI and ruin any chance she had of finding some answers.

The mid-morning New York City sun rose just high enough to peek over the tall buildings that surrounded Columbia University’s Morningside campus as ten thousand students, parents, and faculty members congregated on the lawn. The sea of light-blue caps and gowns bobbed up and down as the crowds milled about, waiting for the master of ceremonies to announce that everyone should take their seats. This Saturday morning in mid-May marked the 259th academic year’s Commencement ceremony, where the University would grant degree certificates, medals, awards, and honorary degrees to its students and prominent members of the community. The ceremony was due to last until the early afternoon, and tradition mandated that the entire event would be held outdoors on the Low Plaza lawns, come rain or shine.

Leopold hoped for the latter as he pulled on his cap and gown and made his way toward the stage at the head of the gathering masses, just in front of the university’s statue of the alma mater that looked out over the entire north side of the campus. He climbed the shallow steps to the stage and took a seat next to an elderly woman, probably one of the senior faculty members, who nodded politely as he took his seat. Leopold sat quietly, watching the crowd gather, and wondered how long the ceremony would take.

The view was impressive. The lawns were surrounded on all sides by the grand University buildings, including the dominating visage of Butler Library to the south and the dome of the Low Memorial building to the north. The disjointed murmurs wafting up from the crowd suggested nobody was paying attention quite yet, but the noise levels were beginning to rise.