Political Science 101

Chapter Ninety-Four

WHEN DETECTIVE Lenny Knight approached the flashing red and blue lights, his mind was trying to rehearse the speech he hoped to give that night — the impromptu soliloquy exposing Ray Doyle as a scandalous fraud. But his mind was also plagued by the thought that he was likely about to see the dead body of his prime witness, who gave him the lead which helped him expose this scandal in the first place.

Maybe, he thought to himself, I'm just over thinking this. Maybe it's someone else.

Maybe not.

The afternoon air was damp and heavy as Knight approached the creek on foot. For some reason, at that moment, it felt like a scene from a television show — a body under a sheet was positioned conspicuously next to the flowing water as onlookers and police lingered; everyone seemed unsure of who was in charge. A quick glance around the police demographic told him he was the only detective on-scene and was therefore — by presence and default — now in charge.

"What's the story?" he said, approaching the loosely-uniformed CSI personnel. "Someone said the she had my business card on her."

"Yep," a man said, turning around, revealing his identity to Detective Knight; Lenny remembered him as Pat, the CSI supervisor he'd spoken to several months prior when he'd chased a suspect's black Ford Explorer — chased it right into the path of a sanitation truck, killing both occupants ("Chuck B," the man Ana implicated in the assassination of Arnold Jenkins; and George McFarlane, president of Merriam University — the oddest couple, for sure).

"Cause of death?" Lenny said, doing his best to sound like Leroy Jethro Gibbs.

"Single gunshot wound to the back of the head," Pat replied. "Point-blank range. Clean entry wound in the back of the head, but had to have been a high-caliber gun with hollow-points because the exit wound blew out her entire face."

"Damn..." Lenny said, trying to keep his mind's-eye from imagining this image.

"And the gun was close enough to the back of her head when she was shot, it caught some of her hair on fire."

"She was executed," Lenny said, feeling like he was stating the obvious, not unlike the way cops do on TV to keep the less-intelligent viewers current on the events of the plot.

"Looks like it," Pat said callously. As the Crime Scene Investigations supervisor, he'd long ago lost count of how many deceased murder, suicide, and/or accident victims he'd seen and processed.

"Well," Lenny said with an uncomfortable exhale, "damn."

Pat approached Detective Knight and handed him the damp business card pulled from the victim's pocket. "Here," he said, as though he was handing him a tissue or a stick of gum.

"Thanks," Knight said, gripping the small card delicately and reluctantly. It felt cold in his fingertips; uncomfortable and awkward wet paper.

"Any idea who she was?" Pat asked.

"I don't know," Knight replied. "Maybe."

"Well," Pat said, we'll get her back and run her prints. If she's in the system for anything, we'll figure it out. I'll give you a call when I know more."

Detective Knight turned and walked away, walking slowly and heavily, feeling like he'd been dealt another defeat.

"You need to call Mitch Bradley," an unfamiliar voice from behind Lenny said loudly, awkwardly, but matter-of-factly.

Detective Knight froze for a moment. Over the years, the one thing he'd never adjusted to was seeing a dead human being. The sentimental part of him seemed to always deeply appreciate the depth involved in the loss of a life — this was someone who was born, who had parents, friends, even lovers; and now, she was dead. Someone knew her, someone loved her, and someone will miss her. And even though he knew he should probably be callous to this — being a detective who'd worked innumerable homicides — he never wanted to not feel it either.

Yet, in the moment, he was snapped from it when he heard an unfamiliar voice utter the name "Mitch Bradley." He turned to see a young man in a hooded sweatshirt and blue jeans, holding an iPad and wearing aviator sunglasses.

"Seriously," the man said, "you need to call Mitch Bradley."

"Excuse me," Detective Knight said authoritatively, "but who the hell are you?"

"I'm just a concerned citizen," he said.

"What does that even mean?" Knight said, clearly running out of patience with this man who had not yet identified himself, but clearly knew of a very important connection which Lenny only thought he knew.

"I just," he paused, rubbing his head back to front a few times, flattening his short deep dark brown hair, even though it wasn't sticking up, "I might know some things. I might know some people. We should probably talk."

"How do you know Mitch Bradley?" Lenny said, approaching the dark-haired man with condescension.

"Well," he said, "I know him tangentially."

"What?" Lenny said, now face-to-face with the man. "You'd better start making some sense, because saying things like that and revealing information like that is a very good way to become a suspect."

"I didn't have anything to do with this," the man said, "but I might know some things."

"What's your name?" Lenny asked, taking out a small pad of paper and a pen.

"Call me ... Keating," he said.

"Call you Keating? Is that not your real name?"

"No."

"No one tells Mitch Bradley what happened here until we get a positive ID," Detective Knight said sternly. "Got it?"

"Understood," Keating said. "But I still think I can help."

"Help with what?" Knight asked.

"Let'stalk," Keating replied.