Detective Paul Lais rubbed his eyes until bursts of static exploded behind his eyelids.
His office at the precinct was a claustrophobic box smelling of stale sweat, smoke, cheap printer ink, and despair. On his desk, next to a mountain of unanswered press inquiries, his computer monitor glowed with the paused security footage from Premium Point, Westchester.
He had watched it exactly sixty-three times. One further play, and he would have started hallucinating.
He had watched Arthur Brown's black SUV pull into the driveway at precisely 5:45 PM. He had watched the hedge fund manager step out, aggressively barking into his Bluetooth earpiece. He had watched the Miller twins standing behind their little wooden lemonade stand, flinching slightly as Brown stormed past them. He checked the footage for these selected timestamps over a whole week, but found nothing at all.
No interaction. No exchange of cups. No spiked drinks. Brown had marched straight to his front door, completely ignoring the children and the elegant neighbour, Vera, who was trimming her orchids in the background. Every day he monitored, the routine repeated with almost no difference.
The footage was a flawless, irrefutable confirmation of everything the neighbours had told him. It was an absolute, terrifying dead end.
The phone on his desk rang for the hundredth time that hour. He didn't answer it. The press had already caught the scent of blood. They were calling it the "Madison Avenue Curse". The affluent elite of the city were panicking, convinced a corporate terrorist was targeting high-net-worth individuals. The Mayor was breathing down the Police Commissioner's neck, and the Commissioner was breathing down Lais'.
Driven by pure, unadulterated desperation, Lais grabbed his coat and left his smelly box. He needed science to give him a miracle. To save him.
The descent into the basement of the Medical Examiner's office always felt like stepping into a refrigerated tomb. The heavy metal doors sealed away the city's noise, replacing it with the low, sterile hum of ventilation fans and the blindingly bright clinical lighting.
Lais pushed the double doors to the main autopsy suite open and froze.
The main overhead fluorescents were oddly turned off. The room was bathed in the harsh, concentrated glare of a single surgical halogen lamp angled over a stainless steel table.
"Victor?" Lais called out, his voice bouncing off the tiled walls.
From the dark corner of the room came a sudden, sharp crack, followed by a wet crunching sound. Lais's hand instinctively drifted toward his holster before his eyes adjusted to the shadows.
It was Aria, Dr. Choclaire's pale, unnerving assistant. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the dark, scrolling through an iPad. She popped another hard peppermint candy into her mouth and crushed it between her teeth, staring blankly at the detective.
"Ah, Paul," a smooth, velvet voice echoed from the centre of the room. "I was wondering when you would succumb to your frustration and come down to my kingdom."
Dr. Victor Choclaire stepped into the pool of light. He wasn't wearing his usual white surgical coat or gloves. He was in his immaculate charcoal suit, holding a heavy glass specimen jar up to the halogen lamp. He was gently tracing the curve of the glass with his index finger, looking at the floating mass inside with an expression of profound, almost religious adoration.
"Tell me you found the vector, Victor," Lais said, his voice tight. "Tell me toxicology found how the neurotoxin got into his system. The neighbourhood is a dead end. The footage shows him interacting with absolutely no one. The coffee was clean…"
Choclaire didn't look at him. He kept his eyes fixed on the jar.
"Do you know what this is, Paul?" Choclaire whispered, his voice echoing softly.
Lais stepped closer, giving a brief, shy glance at the contents suspended in the amber formaldehyde. "I don't care about your souvenirs, Victor. I need answers."
"This," Choclaire said, ignoring the outburst, "is not merely my souvenir, Detective. It's an experiment I am conducting on your behalf."
Lais, more puzzled by the second, stared blankly at the jar first, then at Victor, then at the jar again. His glowering expression and confusion didn't soften despite the doctor's bright, happy—and concerning—smile.
"Excuse me, Victor, am I missing a piece?" asked the detective, still visibly confused.
"Many, actually. Indeed, as you can see here, I am testing the paralysis effect that every available neurotoxin has on frogs. At this point, I have made my team test every existing and known neurotoxin, but still nothing, and this is the last resort I could think of."
Lais recoiled slightly, a wave of revulsion washing over him. "Why? I mean, how come? I mean, I can't believe science has failed…"
"No, it didn't. Science can never possibly fail; that's why I chose it as a major," Choclaire replied starkly.
"Then why play mix and match on these poor living things?" asked Lais under his breath. It wasn't a critique of his medical expertise; it was more a question of the doctor's twisted morality. Paul was exactly the kind of student who fainted in science class while dissecting frogs or sheep brains just for educational purposes. Shit, I should have bitten my tongue. "Oh… I thought your job desensitised you, Paul," Choclaire purred, sliding the jar rather clumsily into his suit pocket.
"It has in most cases, but not when it is totally deliberate… Still, I appreciate your help and willingness to go beyond standard protocols to help me," Lais attempted to dissipate the tension after this ping-pong of veiled insults.
"Ah, yes. Anyway, I will let you know as soon as I find a match, or something that might be of use to you." Choclaire turned his back to the detective. "Aria, keep researching neurotoxins and flaccid paralysis in the medical literature. I'll give you three more mints when you bring me something."
"Victor, what if, since there is absolutely no trace, the press is just having fun making up a catchy narrative, and he just died naturally? The other two victims in the same area yielded no traces as well." The detective was thinking out loud, meaning no insult to Choclaire's competence. "I am starting to think that this is a conspiracy against the police, to show our incompetence."
Choclaire exhaled so deeply that his whole figure slumped down. "Look, Paul, I appreciate your concern, but I have been doing autopsies for over fifteen years, if we include medical school. I have controlled for and thought of every possible natural cause. I double-, even triple-checked, but there must be some substance of some sort causing this flaccid paralysis. That's not natural, for sure. I can't be certain what it is, though. We need more time for that, I'm sorry, Paul. I don't have a magic wand, and you should take a break, clear your mind completely, and come back tomorrow. Your famous a-ha moments won't come out of exhaustion, Mr Detective."
Lais massaged his temples, feeling a migraine pulsing behind his eyes. "Yeah, you're right, my friend. If every logical route is a dead end, I need to think outside the box." Lais turned his back to the surgical table and started walking slowly towards the heavy swing doors. "I'll take the rest of the day off, but in case you find something, please do call me on my private number."
"Good luck, Detective," Victor said, failing to hold back a guttural laugh. I don't have friends, Paul. Lais walked back down the sterile hallway, the heavy doors swinging shut behind him. But even as he reached the elevator, he couldn't shake the oppressive feeling settling in his chest, accompanied by the echoing crunch of Aria's candy and Choclaire's suffocating, satisfied chuckle.