KILLER ADDICTION: When Murder Becomes A Habit

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

THE HARSH BEEPING OF the alarm clock blasted its way into Leonard’s consciousness as he awoke, exhausted, from yet another fitful night’s sleep. He wearily got out of bed, walked the three steps to the desk and turned off the alarm. He had learnt long ago that the alarm’s snooze function was a recipe for oversleeping, so had moved the clock to the other side of the room, forcing him to get out of bed to silence the racket.

Leonard walked to the bathroom and started his mental preparation for the day ahead by adhering to his rigid morning regime. He started with toilet, shower, and shave, then plastered his hair to his head with old-fashioned Brylcreem. Next were his wire-rimmed spectacles, which were almost unnecessary because his eyesight was not bad. He only had a low power prescription but liked to wear his glasses for the added sense of superior intelligence he felt they portrayed.

After his regular bowl of oatmeal, Leonard put on his suit pants and crisp, white business shirt, both immaculately laundered and pressed by his maid, followed by his shiny black business shoes. He inserted his plastic pocket protector and one each of a black, blue, and red pen in the left breast pocket of his shirt, then put on his tie and his best tweed jacket complete with brown leather elbow patches. He then picked up his slim gunmetal briefcase and headed out of his apartment looking the very picture of bookish intellectualism.

Despite being over six feet tall, Leonard walked in precise, small steps, a study in minimalism. It was his way of blending into the background and not making an impact or attracting attention. Unfortunately, it didn’t always work. As he walked into the lobby of his apartment complex, the building manager spotted him and said, ‘Good morning Mister Price, you’re looking mighty fine today.’

Leonard grunted in response and muttered under his breath, ‘Unlike you, you insufferable moron. And that’s Doctor Price to you,’ treating the man with the same disdain as he did all the other idiots in his building.

Leonard walked out of the historic Colonial Village residential complex on to Wilson Boulevard in Arlington County, Virginia for his short walk to the Court House Metro Station.

The peak hour crush was in full swing by the time Leonard reached the subway. Tens of thousands of commuters were making their daily pilgrimage into the power centre of Washington, District of Columbia, or just ‘DC’. The trains on the Orange line of the Metro included a smattering of early bird tourists keen to check out the famous landmarks in the immediate area. Popular choices included the imposing Pentagon, Arlington Military Cemetery and the gravesite of President John F. Kennedy for the more morbid observers.

Leonard tuned out of the commuter mayhem for the next eleven minutes on his train journey that took him under the Potomac River. He absorbed himself in his well-worn copy of Ulysses by James Joyce, one of his favourite books to read in public because of the intellectual gravitas he felt that it portrayed to the other passengers.

Flowing along in the human crush with thousands of commuters, Leonard got off his train at Farragut North Metro Station. The famed Golden Triangle extended from the White House across to Dupont Circle in Downtown DC. He took the direct accessway into the swanky Washington Square Building at 1050 Connecticut Avenue NW, past the specialty shops selling cigars, shaving gear, and Victoria’s Secret lingerie. He passed the Washington Square Post Office, the restaurants and bars, without a second thought to being a stone’s throw away from the seat of the most powerful man in the world at the White House.

Leonard strode haughtily through the foyer and the building security guard greeted him as usual and said, ‘Good morning, Sir.’

Leonard responded with his usual flick of the eyes, not even a grunt or a nod, and muttered, ‘Imbecile,’ under his breath.

After a brief wait in the lobby, Leonard stepped into the elevator and punched the button for the top floor. After his quick ride, he exited the lift and entered the expansive foyer of Langhorne and Cartwright Insurance Brokers. He made his usual stop in the kitchen and poured himself the regular batch of filthy coffee that somehow once again achieved the unlikely combination of lukewarm temperature but burnt flavour.

Leonard made his way to his own private hell of a ten-foot by ten-foot office cubicle formed by dull grey partitions. There was no personalisation to make it his own—such individualisation was strictly against company policy. He logged into his computer and started his work as an insurance actuary; a daily grind of risk assessments, claim reviews and calculating the value of human life. His mood slowly improved as he lost himself in numbers and disconnected from the human interactions that had occupied his morning.

His day of calculations to assign compensation for lost lives, missing body parts and various diseases finally ended. Leonard headed off to the one-and-only social activity he attended—his local Mensa meeting. Leonard’s Mensa gatherings were a haven for him. He could stimulate his genius mind and communicate with his peers on an even footing, far away from the stupidity of the populace that he dealt with daily.

He craved the attention and admiration of his clever compatriots, all of whom had scored in the top two percent of intelligence testing. They recognised Leonard as one of the intellectual elite where the members were defined by the number on their I.Q. scale rather than their personality, an area where Leonard was sadly lacking.

After a delicious meal at the club meeting, Leonard left early as usual and made the trip home to his apartment, feeling drained and exhausted. He removed his clothes and dumped them on the floor, saying silent thanks for his maid Esmerelda. The old Portuguese woman visited his apartment every day and took care of everything for him. She cooked, cleaned, shopped, washed, and ironed. Leonard had gotten so used to Esmerelda running the apartment he took no notice of whatever was lying around, knowing that by the next night everything would be clean again. Esmerelda’s daughter filled in for her on Sundays and on her two weeks holiday per year, so Leonard was looked after constantly. He never needed to occupy his brilliant mind with such trivial matters as doing laundry or buying toilet paper, let alone cooking or cleaning.

Leonard fell into bed early. In less than a minute, just at the onset of sleep, he experienced a hypnagogic jerk. The violent spasm jerked him awake, an uncomfortably common occurrence that troubled Leonard often in the transition zone between the worlds of consciousness and sleep. He was disturbed but relieved it wasn’t another panic-inducing episode of sleep paralysis, where he was aware of his surroundings but totally paralysed and unable to move or speak just as he was about to doze off. Leonard sighed, rolled over and fell asleep within seconds, exhausted.