Death in the Big Apple was hardly a quiet matter. It was usually a chaotic symphony of shattered glass, cinematic screams, frantic 911 calls, and the copper stench of blood soaking into carpets.

  Detective Paul Lais was used to that symphony of murder. He relied on it. The mess was where the mistakes were made.

  However, standing in the centre of Arthur Brown’s mahogany-panelled office on Madison Avenue, Det. Lais found nothing but a suffocating, expensive silence.

  "Time of death?" Lais asked, keeping his voice low. The room demanded reverence, not out of respect for the dead, but because it felt like walking through a museum. It felt like attending a Madame Tussauds exhibition, to be precise.

  Dr. Victor Choclaire, the medical examiner, adjusted his nitrile gloves and drew the thermometer from his black leather medical bag. He looked down at the body. "Somewhere between midnight and three in the morning." He paused, looking up. "But honestly, Paul? I’ve been doing this job for almost ten years now, and I’ve never seen a corpse look quite so... serene."

  Lais stepped closer to the leather armchair. Arthur Brown, a man known in the financial district for his explosive temper and ruthless corporate takeovers, was sitting perfectly upright. One hand rested gently on the armrest; the other held a silver pen. His eyes were still open.

  He didn't look dead. He looked as if he were listening to a symphony orchestra, deeply relaxed.

  "I agree with you, Victor. It’s quite unusual. Heart failure?" Lais asked, though his gut told him otherwise.

  "Could be," Dr. Choclaire replied, shining a penlight into Brown’s unresponsive pupils. "But look at his face. When a heart gives out, there’s usually a spasm. Pain. A clutching of the chest. The facial muscles contort. Brown’s face is completely slack. It’s almost as if the muscles forgot how to hold tension. Someone ironed out his wrinkles before he stopped breathing."

  Det. Lais frowned, his eyes scanning the immaculate desk. There were no scattered papers, no overturned chairs. The killer hadn't forced their way in. Arthur Brown had invited them in, or he had never noticed they were there at all. But the killer left no visible traces. Were they even here to begin with?

  This was the third victim this month. The press had already dubbed the killer the Silent Monster, a moniker Lais found utterly useless. It didn't give him a profile; it only highlighted the department's incompetence.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  "What about the tox screen on the last two?" Lais asked, pacing slowly around the chair.

  "Clean," Choclaire sighed. "Standard poisons—cyanide, arsenic, strychnine—all came back negative. If this is a chemical, it’s something esoteric. Something that mimics a natural biological shutdown and leaves the system rapidly."

  The detective stopped at the edge of the desk. Next to a silver letter opener lay a white and blue china mug that was half full. Or half empty.

  Lais leaned down, sniffing the air near the rim without touching it. Coffee. Expired milk. Sugar.

  "Uhm, Victor, do you think it was the coffee? It’s been sitting here for a while," Lais murmured, his brow furrowing. He looked at the massive glass cabinet against the wall, housing a collection of single malt scotches that cost more than Lais’s annual salary. "Why would a man with a five-thousand-dollar bottle of Macallan be drinking just plain coffee so late at night?"

  "Maybe he had work to do," an officer chimed in from the doorway.

  Lais ignored him. He stared at the dark liquid. It was just out of place enough to make the detective question it, but not completely out of the ordinary. Still, it didn’t fit quite right in this room of leather, mahogany, and ruthless ambition. It was too innocent.

  Innocence is the perfect cover, Lais thought.

  "Bag the cup," Lais ordered, pointing a gloved finger at it. "Carefully. I want every drop of that liquid analysed by the state lab. Tell them to look beyond the standard panels. Look for neurotoxins. Look for anything that causes flaccid paralysis."

  "You think the drink was spiked?" Dr. Choclaire asked, packing away his instruments.

  "I think we are dealing either with an unfortunate medical incident, or with someone who doesn't see murder as an act of rage," Lais said, his eyes drifting back to Arthur Brown’s unnervingly peaceful face. "Rage is sloppy. This... this is curated. They didn't just want him dead. They wanted him quiet."

  Lais walked over to the large bay window overlooking the street. Fifteen stories down, Central Park was bathed in the crisp morning light. It all looked so peaceful, innocent, even heartwarming. Definitely not like a crime scene.

  Lais watched people starting their day, enjoying the spring sun. He also checked the other buildings and the park for any clues.

  Nothing.

  Maybe this job has corrupted my soul enough to make me see a murder in every odd situation, Lais thought. His "what ifs" usually led to the aha moments that had made him rise through the ranks, but this time felt different. Still, he had to please the press by capturing this silent killer, if it existed at all.

  Lais turned his back to the window, leaving his people-watching behind.

  They were looking for a phantom. Someone who walked among these people, completely unnoticed, turning arrogant men into perfect, silent statues.

  "Take the body," Lais said, his voice hard. "And don't mess up his suit. I have a feeling our killer would be very offended if we ruined their display."