Chapter 4 - The Laboratory Report
The interrogation room at the Chicago Police Department’s 1st District precinct smelled of stale carpet, cheap disinfectant, and decades of despair.
The metal table between Elena and Detective Marcus Vance—no relation to the tech billionaire, thankfully—was cluttered with plastic evidence bags, a laptop, and Elena’s smartphone, which lay face up with the screen dark.
“Let’s go through it one more time, Miss Morales,” Detective Vance said, rubbing his tired eyes. He was a veteran homicide cop with graying temples and a permanent scowl. “You were standing approximately six feet away from the head table when Mrs. Vance dropped the tablet into the glass.”
“Yes,” Elena said for the third time, her hands wrapped around a paper cup of lukewarm tap water. “She thought nobody was looking because the orchestra had just finished the prelude. Her back was partially turned toward the floral arrangement, but the mirror behind the buffet table reflected her hands clearly.”
“And you’ve never met Mrs. Vance prior to tonight?”
“Never. I don't move in her circles, Detective. I clean tables and serve canapés.”
Detective Vance grunted, leaning back in his metal chair and tapping a pen against his notepad. “Well, your timing was either miraculous or terrifying. If you hadn't knocked that glass over when you did... things would look very different right now.”
“Is the lab report back?” Elena asked, leaning forward.
Before the detective could answer, the heavy steel door of the interrogation room swung open. A young tech officer in a blue uniform stepped inside, holding a crisp printed lab analysis sheet. He placed it directly in front of Detective Vance without a word, then turned and walked out, closing the door softly.
Detective Vance scanned the document. His thick gray eyebrows drew together, forming a deep V above his nose. He whistled softly through his teeth.
“Well,” the detective muttered, sliding the paper across the metal table toward Elena. “Turns out it wasn't an aspirin, and it wasn't a breath mint.”
Elena looked down at the report. Medical terminology blurred for a second before her eyes locked onto the active chemical compound highlighted in yellow marker: Suxamethonium chloride, commonly known as succinylcholine—a powerful, fast-acting neuromuscular blocker used exclusively in hospital settings for surgical intubation.
“It paralyzes the skeletal muscles,” Detective Vance explained grimly, reading her thoughts. “Including the diaphragm. Within two minutes of ingestion, the victim loses the ability to breathe. Consciousness remains completely intact until hypoxia sets in. It mimics a massive, catastrophic cardiac arrest. And because it metabolizes rapidly in the bloodstream, standard post-mortem tox screens often miss it entirely unless specifically tested for.”
Elena felt the blood drain from her face. A wave of nausea rolled over her stomach.
“She was going to suffocate him,” Elena whispered, her voice shaking. “In front of a hundred and fifty people... she was going to watch him die.”
“And the best part?” Detective Vance added darkly. “Because the wedding reception was catered, and because Julian Vance had consumed several glasses of wine and champagne throughout the evening, the coroner would have ruled it a sudden heart attack brought on by pre-existing stress and alcohol poisoning. No foul play suspected. Case closed.”
He tapped the edge of the lab report. “Which brings us to the most interesting development of the evening.”
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“What development?”
“Mr. Vance has arrived at the precinct,” the detective said, standing up and buttoning his jacket. “And he’s requested an immediate, private conversation with you in the Captain’s office.”
