The Case of Michael Lebbon: Chapter One: The Body

Michael Lebbon had seen a few dead bodies in his lifetime, but on a cold January morning in London he found himself staring a corpse with the sort of bewilderment a child experiences when confronted with something new and alien. The body looked frozen, though Michael wasn’t sure it was that cold, and supposed rigor mortis might have taken hold. Blood had pooled on the ground, seeping into the cracks in the path. There was no obvious wound, so Michael supposed the victim had been hit somewhere in the back.

His head ached to look at it for too long, and the world seemed to spin. He retched, but nothing came up. “Just as well,” he thought. He couldn’t remember much of the last few hours, which didn’t bode well for a witness statement about how he had come to find the body, or how he might know the victim.

But then, Michael wasn’t sure he did know the victim. He hadn’t been able to make himself look at the man’s face. He could only stare at the mess of blood and the stiffness of the body, and treat it all as if he were in any way qualified to make any assessment. He was not a policeman. He was not a coroner. He was just an anonymous banker in a city full of them, filing himself away every weekday morning on the Underground before sitting behind a desk for more hours than he was contracted for.

But he knew a dead body when he saw one. He had been the one to report his mother’s death a few years prior, and he had seen the mess one of his former colleagues made on the pavement when he decided that investment banking wasn’t for him. That had been a ghastly sight.

He was no stranger to death, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to look at the man in front of him with any emotion. He couldn’t be anything but calculating and observant – except, of course, in matters relating to the man’s face and identity. He stole a glance at the body again, and thought once more that he might throw up.

Still, nothing came up, and Michael began to accept that no matter how many times his stomach lurched he would not be able to avoid the reality of it all.

“Right, big boy pants on Michael. You can do this.”

He marched with false courage to the body, and knelt down in a dry spot on the ground. He closed his eyes before they befell the victim, and swore to himself. He gritted his teeth, and slowly opened his eyes, expecting a horrible visage to look up at him.

The world spun again, and Michael scampered away from the corpse. He didn’t care if he touched the blood on the ground. He didn’t care if someone watching him might judge him for his cowardice. His whole body resisted his being there. Sharp pains rang through his limbs and twisted his organs. His breathing became sharp and feral. He couldn’t look at the face, not again. Every attempt to raise his eyes resulted in pangs of agony, like church bells ringing right beside his head in all directions.

Michael didn’t know how long he had been there before someone else approached. They didn’t speak to him. He didn’t know if they were even aware that he was there. The body and its blood and the whole mess of it all were much bigger draws for attention than he was, that was for sure.

Sounds didn’t make sense to him, not while his head ached. He was sure he heard the person – a man? a woman? – calling for the police, reporting that they had found a body. Their morbid curiosity was much weaker than Michael’s had been. He had to see all and know all before he could make that call. He couldn’t let the body be disturbed or himself removed from the scene before he knew what it was that had happened. People would want to know. He had to know.

Sirens approached shortly thereafter, muffled and distant even as the swirling red and blue lights cascaded all around him. There was just one car. He looked at it with some disdain, shuffling away on the ground as they approached. They were stealing his one opportunity to examine the scene for himself. His anger brought him back to his senses, and he knew that so long as he avoided looking at the face he could stand up again. He could make them leave.

“I didn’t think there was that much blood inside a person,” said one of the officers. She was young, short, and completely covered in a heavy jacket that gave away nothing of her build. She could be a delicate flower or a professional athlete, and he wouldn’t be any the wiser.

“It’s not your first body, is it Jones?” her partner asked, a thick Scottish accent rolling through his words. He was a giant of a man, relatively speaking. He towered over Michael, at least, though he was just about average in height. Completely unassuming. A perfect drone. “Whatever did this to him, it was brutal. You wouldn’t get this from a simple gunshot.”

Jones scoffed. “When did you become such an expert?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’ve seen enough in my time. Regardless, I think I know a bit more about the matter than you Constable.”

“Sir.”

Wells crouched down beside the body, ignoring Michael utterly. He was a handsome enough man, and he filled his coat, leaving no doubt that he could handle himself in a fight. If he wasn’t a policeman, Michael thought he could have been an action star in Hollywood. He was certainly big enough for the part.

Michael made a mental note not to cross the Detective.

“Early thirties, male,” Wells said.

“Assumed male,” Jones replied, jotting down everything in a small notebook.

Wells sighed. “Assumed male. Average height and build. Victim laying on his back. No obvious injury to the head. Must have been here a couple of hours, based on his condition. Without disturbing the body, I could hazard a guess that he fell backwards onto the injury that caused him to bleed out. Forensics required to determine cause of death.” He looked up at Jones. “You get all that, Constable?”

“Yes sir.”

“I can see a wallet coming out of his pocket,” Wells told her. He snapped on a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket, and gently pulled the wallet loose. “Let’s see if our friend here has a name.”

Michael’s eyes lit up. Maybe he didn’t need to see the face, if the man had ID. He wasn’t sure how to convince them to share it. Perhaps it would be in the paper. He had been paying attention to the Detective’s description. He had everything he needed to flesh out the story when he returned to the office. That would be a story to tell over coffee, that was for sure. A murder. An honest to goodness murder in central London, and he’d found the body before anybody else.

“Kensington,” Wells said quietly.

Michael’s heart fluttered. He knew Kensington well. Many of the banking drones lived out that way. He joined their ranks on the Underground all the time, pouring in from Notting Hill and Chelsea.

“You don’t mean…”

“Long way from home, but he may be another for your list. Bloody awful mess he made, if you’ll excuse the pun.”

It was Jones’ turn to roll her eyes. “Is this not getting a little above our paygrade?”

“Only if we connect the dots properly,” Wells replied.

She looked around nervously, her eyes glancing over Michael. When it was clear no one else was around, she whispered, “But a serial killer? In London? When was the last time anyone investigated something like this?”

The Detective looked over the body once more. “All the signs are there. Right address. Correct age range. And the, um…desanguination of it all. If that’s what this was supposed to be. Like I said, he made a mess.”

“You assume it’s a man. The killer, I mean.”

Wells shrugged. “Forensics will be here shortly. Cordon off the area best as you can, and I’ll see if there’s any sign of a murder weapon.”

“The ID,” Jones called to him.

It was still in his right hand, the wallet in his left. She pulled a pair of clear evidence bags out of her pocket, opening it for him gently. He placed the wallet and ID in their respective bags, before turning his focus on the immediate area. The blood had gone a long way, splayed out across the ground like it had been gushing for hours without end.

Michael climbed to his feet and followed Jones to the car. He tried calling out to her, to ask who the man was, but he couldn’t find his voice. She didn’t seem to pay him any heed as she opened the boot, placing the evidence bag down inside while she grabbed a roll of tape and some cones.
He stared into the depths of the boot for what felt like an eternity, his eyes struggling to focus and his mind grappling with the words and the photograph on the ID.

“Excuse me, I think there’s been some of mistake,” he said to her. She began setting up the cones, ignoring him. “Constable Jones, this has to be some sort of practical joke.” Again she ignored him, and he found his temper turning foul. He reached out for her, determined to make her listen.

He wasn’t sure if he imagined it or not, but he was certain his hand passed through her shoulder. She shuddered, as if a chill had run down her spine beneath the heavy coat.

“Don’t lose your nerve now, or you’ll never make it in this field,” Jones heckled from afar.

“It’s just a draught,” she muttered to herself.

Michael stared at his hand for a moment, and reached out for her again. This time he was sure his hand had not made contact with her. She leapt, dropping the cones and tape out of her hands in one quick motion. She was blushing as she picked them up, but Michael’s attention was no longer on the Constable. He was turning back to the body, all hesitation gone from his movements.

The ID had not been lying. It was not a prank. Michael stared at the body lying on the ground, rigid and pale and most definitely dead. His own face looked back at him.

Michael Lebbon was dead.

***

End of chapter!

Well, there it is! The first chapter of The Case of Michael Lebbon. If you’ve enjoyed it, you can keep reading for free by signing up for my newsletter.