Nick Stephenson - Panic

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 have had to make sure the senator was alive when he shot him, otherwise the wound would have bled out differently.”