Kick, punch, MURDER

A Detective Mike Steward Story
By Yash Nanayakkara

It was exactly 8:02pm. Undefeated kickboxing champion Lee Chiang was in the ring, fighting to keep his title. His opponent, John Hoskins, was striving to maintain consciousness, with an injured jaw and a bloody nose.

“OUCH!” exclaimed the commentator, as Lee gave a devastating kick to Hoskins’ knee. “That must have hurt a bit!” John Hoskins was now down on his knees, with a now crippled leg. Lee just needed one kick on John’s head, and that would have been hit. A kick and maybe a punch as well for emphasis. Lee grinned with triumph, as he went onto a kicking stance and flexed his leg. Suddenly, he just fell back.

“What is this? What’s wrong with Lee? MY GOODNESS! He’s toppled to the floor!” The commentator wasn’t exaggerating. Lee Chiang was now lying dead on the floor in an inhumane pose. Spectators screamed. Hoskins looked baffled. Something had happened, and no one knew what.

***

A few miles away from the stadium, renowned detective Mike Steward sat in the Hilltop Police station listening to bad pop music and reading a mystery novel in an empty office. All the other officers had gone home, but he had decided to wait for Commissioner Bulstock to finish a few phone calls before going with him to have a drink at the Blue Booze pub. A few months ago, Mike had solved the elaborate murder mystery of Mr. Hank Lawrence, in which he was betrayed by a friend of his. That friend ended up dead, but the nerve of that betrayal was still stuck in his mind. Just as he was about to play another bad pop song on his iPod, the commissioner came running into the office. “Mike! TURN OFF THAT DISASTROUS POP MUSIC! There’s been a murder!”

“This is not bad pop mus…A MURDER!” Mike, suddenly awoken from a lazy internal slumber and got into action. “Come on Commissioner,” exclaimed Mike, as he put on his navy-blue beret and yellow coat. “Time to solve a murder.”

***

“So, Commissioner,” enquired Mike, as the black police Sedan drove off into the night, “what’s the news?”

“A kickboxer, Chiang Lee. Age 28. He apparently dropped dead in the middle of a fight, in the Town Fighting Stadium.”

“Chiang Lee!” cried Mike, astounded. “He was the best kickboxer there was! But how did he die?”

***

At the stadium, Mike and the commissioner were in the ring, next to the body of the dead kickboxer. The fighting ring was encapsulated in yellow tape, while reporters with flashing cameras struggled outside the tape inside a large crowd of people. Suddenly, Mike and the commissioner witnessed a dishevelled man sliding under the police tape and striding towards them.

“Sorry gentlemen, if my attire is unsuitable,” said the man. It was evident that he had been pummelled about while wading through the mob of distraught reporters and people. “My name is David Rodriguez, owner of this kickboxing stadium, and organiser of this fighting event.” He stuck out his hand. Mike took it.

“Mike Steward. Detective from the Hilltop Police department. This is Commissioner Bulstock.” The commissioner waved.

“How do ya’ do, bud?”

David forced out a light laugh.

“Mr. Rodriguez, do you have any idea as to how Mr. Lee here might have died?” enquired Mike.

“No. None at all. Lee was healthy, strong. No illnesses. But during the championship today, he just dropped dead on the floor. Took everyone by shock. I mean, he seemed so fit when I gave him a drink of orange juice before the fight to get his adrenaline up.”

“Hmmm…” thought Mike.

“Seems pretty uncanny. A star kickboxer of peak health, just dying here and there. Looks like foul play to me,” said the commissioner. He took another look at the dead body lying in a frightening angle, with Lee’s legs tucked under the ever so slightly pale body. “Yep, definitely uncanny.”

Mike rolled over the body and examined it. “No bullets or darts or any other punctures in the skin. He wasn’t killed during the fight, which means…”

“Ah!” exclaimed the commissioner, “he was poisoned!”

“Exactly. Mr. Rodriguez, I am authorizing an autopsy on the body of Lee Chiang. We need to confirm whether he was poisoned or not.”

“Yes, yes, of course…” replied Rodriguez, and walked away.

“In the meantime, Commissioner,” Mike turned around to face the commissioner, we need to find out who would have a motive to kill Chiang.”

***

Back at the police station, Mike was racking his brain to find a suspect. He had looked through Chiang’s previous fights in the tournament, to see who might be jealous of Chiang to the extent of putting poison into his drink, or perhaps putting some poison powder into his food. Even though the previous ten fighters had looked vicious, further in-depth research showed that they had no personal grudges against Lee. Also, all of them had never fought with Lee before the tournament in any other events, so it was highly unlikely that anyone would go through the trouble of murdering him when they didn’t even know him much.

Commissioner, this case is an intricate one. Why would someone want to murder Lee? He was just a kickboxer…” Mike flipped through more documents. All of a sudden, Mike came across John Hoskins’s details. His eyes opened wide, and his brain went into hyperdrive.

“Commissioner, we have to meet the other finalist in the tournament, NOW.”

Mike got out of the black Sedan, along with Commissioner Bulstock, right outside a rather impressive mansion.

“The mansion of John Hoskins,” whispered the commissioner in awe. A fountain in the center of the ground surrounding the mansion resembled the fighter himself, John. At that precise moment, a gush of water was spewed out from the fountain mouth.

“Don’t be too dazzled, Commissioner. We are standing in the yard of a killer.”

***

John Hoskins’ guards reluctantly opened the main entrance and allowed the two officers to enter. Hoskins was spread out, bare-chested on a velvet sofa, holding an ice pack to his left temple. His eyes were closed.

“John Hoskins? We have some questions for you,” said the commissioner. Hoskins’ eyes opened up with a slight surprise.

“What d’ya wanna ask me?”

“We only have one question for you, Hoskins. Did you order Lee to be poisoned or not? ANSWER ME!” Mike was in “bad cop” mode now.

Pebbles of sweat appeared on Hoskins face, and he began to breathe a little heavier. All the signs of guilt were embroidered across his face.

“Hm, I thought so. Looks like that guilty conscience hurts more than that bruise on your head huh?” Mike gleamed with triumph, as he watched the commissioner put handcuffs onto the murderer’s hands, until he realized something.

“Commissioner…” whispered Mike, in an intonation of re-found suspicion, “the autopsy just arrived. They sent a picture. It’s cyanide.”

“But,” said the commissioner, “cyanide acts in minutes! Hoskins never came came into contact with Lee within hours of the fight!”

“Which means that there was an inside man as well. Some-one who met Lee and had a drink with him just before the fight.”

“Mike, I know who did it. The only person who gave him a drink of orange juice just before the fight.”

Mike nodded and said one word. “Rodriguez.”

***

David Rodriguez sat in the upper terrace of his house, marveling at his success of murdering Lee.

“Ha! That detective will never even suspect me!”

“Oh really?” A familiar voice that he had heard the previous day drifted through the room towards his ears. The voice of Detective Mike Steward. Rodriguez’ face turned swiftly from one of glee to one of utter horror, as he slowly turned around shivering to face the gun that Mike was holding up. He mumbled two words.

“Darn it.”

***

Mike watched as both Rodriguez and Hoskins were dragged out of the police car that was sitting outside the Hilltop police station. He strode back into the commissioner’s office, wading through the number of officers congratulating him on his new success.

“I won’t say that it was easy Commissioner. It was a real challenge.”

“All the more reason to celebrate!” The commissioner guffawed.

“I won’t say no to that Commissioner!”