Ramis stayed crouched beside Victor Lang's body for a long minute, letting the scene settle into his mind. The rain continued its soft rhythm against the tall windows, making the river outside look like moving gray ink. Inside the apartment, the air felt thick and still, as if the room itself was holding its breath. The faint sweet smell lingered near the chair—light, almost floral, but mixed with something chemical he couldn't place yet.
He rose carefully, favoring his left leg. Detective Ruiz stepped closer, notepad in hand, his thick mustache twitching as he spoke in a low voice.
"Maid arrived at 7:15 sharp. She has her own key—Lang trusted her for years. Said the door was locked from inside, chain still on. She called out, no answer. Found him exactly like this. No mess. No struggle. Guy looks like he died happy."
Ramis nodded, eyes moving across the room again. Everything was neat. Too neat. A half-drunk glass of water sat on the side table, condensation long gone. A closed laptop rested on the coffee table. The television was off. On the wall, a large abstract painting in blues and grays hung perfectly straight.
"Any security cameras in the building?" Ramis asked.
Ruiz flipped a page. "Lobby has them. Hallway on this floor too. Captain already sent someone to pull the footage. So far, nothing unusual last night. Lang came home alone around 9:40 PM. No visitors after that."
Captain Marcus Walker leaned against the doorframe, arms still crossed. His face was calm, but Ramis could see the tension in his father's shoulders. Marcus had seen hundreds of bodies in his career, but this one bothered him. The peaceful smile felt wrong, like a joke no one was laughing at.
"Son, take your time," Marcus said quietly. "Forensics is almost done. They'll move the body soon. Tell me what you see that we're missing."
Ramis walked slowly around the armchair, studying Victor Lang from every angle. The man had been handsome in life, he had dark hair with a touch of gray at the temples, clean-shaven, expensive watch still on his wrist. His hands were soft, manicured. No defensive wounds nor ligature marks. The robe was tied neatly at the waist.
"He didn't fight," Ramis murmured. "Didn't even try to stand up. Whatever happened, it was fast… or he welcomed it."
He bent down again and gently lifted one of Lang's hands with a gloved finger. The skin was cool but not ice-cold yet. Rigor mortis was just beginning to set in the smaller muscles. Time of death probably between midnight and 3 AM.
The sweet smell grew stronger near the mouth. Ramis leaned in carefully.
"Smell that?" he asked Ruiz.
The detective nodded. "Yeah. Like expensive perfume mixed with… almonds? Could be nothing."
"Or cyanide," Ramis said flatly. "But cyanide usually looks messier. Convulsions. Bitter almond smell is classic, but this is sweeter. We need the tox screen fast."
Marcus stepped fully into the room. "I already pushed for priority. Lab knows it's mine. They'll rush it."
Ramis straightened and moved to the kitchen area. It was open-plan, all stainless steel and white marble. A single plate with toast crumbs sat in the sink. A bottle of red wine stood on the counter, cork still in, only one glass used. He opened the fridge. Inside were neatly arranged containers of healthy meals, expensive cheese, and a small bottle of what looked like sleeping pills.
He picked up the pill bottle with gloved fingers. Prescription for Victor Lang. Ambien. Half full.
"Insomnia?" Ramis asked over his shoulder.
"According to his assistant, yes," Ruiz replied. "Worked late hours. Big stress. Crypto investments, hedge funds. Guy made enemies just by breathing."
Ramis set the bottle down and opened a few cabinets. Nothing out of place. He returned to the living room and sat on the edge of the white couch, careful not to disturb anything. From this angle, he could see Lang's face clearly. That small, peaceful smile.
"People don't smile like that when they die of poison," Ramis said. "Or heart attack. Or anything normal. It's like… he saw something good right at the end."
Marcus rubbed his jaw. "Or someone made him see it. Drugs? Hallucinogen?"
"Possible. But no injection marks I can see. No powder and residue on the glass."
A young forensic technician, a woman in her late twenties with glasses and a tight bun, approached them. Her name tag read TECH K. MORENO.
"Captain, we're ready to bag him. But Mr. Walker might want to see this first." She held up a small clear evidence bag. Inside was a single white card, no bigger than a business card. On it, written in elegant black ink, were the words:
"Sweet dreams are made of this.
— The Sandman"
Ramis felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. He took the bag carefully and studied the handwriting. Neat, flowing, almost artistic. No fingerprints visible on the card itself.
"Where was this?" he asked.
"Under his left hand," Moreno said. "We almost missed it because of how neatly his fingers were placed."
Marcus swore under his breath. "A calling card. Son of a bitch is playing games."
Ramis handed the bag back. His green eyes narrowed. "This wasn't a robbery or a random hit. This was personal, the killer wanted us to find this. Wanted us to know he—or she—has style."
He stood up and walked to the window. From the fifteenth floor, the city looked peaceful despite the rain. Cars moved like slow ants along the river road. Somewhere down there, the killer might be having morning coffee, smiling at the thought of what he left behind.
Ramis turned back to his father. "Dad, I want to talk to the maid, the assistant, and anyone who saw Lang yesterday. Also, pull his phone records, emails, recent deals. This Sandman left a note. That means he wants attention. He'll probably leave more."
Marcus nodded. "Already on it. I'll clear it with the chief so you can work alongside us. Officially this time. No more 'consulting' bullshit. You're on the team for this one."
Detective Ruiz raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He knew better than to argue with the captain when it came to his son.
Ramis gave a small smile. "Thanks. I'll try not to step on too many toes."
"You always say that," Marcus replied with a tired chuckle. "Then you do anyway."
The forensic team began moving the body carefully onto a stretcher. Victor Lang's head lolled slightly as they lifted him, but the smile stayed frozen on his face. Ramis watched until the black bag zipped shut. Something about this case felt bigger than one dead rich man. The note was too clean, too confident. The scene too perfect.
As the stretcher rolled out, Ramis's phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out. A text from his mother:
Elena: Heard from your father. Be careful, baby. Call me tonight. Love you.
He typed back quickly: Will do. Love you too.
Marcus noticed. "Your mom?"
"Yeah. She already knows."
"That woman knows everything before I do," Marcus muttered, but there was affection in his voice. Their family was tight. Always had been. Even with her secret service work and his long homicide hours, they made time. Sunday dinners. Random texts. Ramis was their only child, and they spoiled him with attention, not money.
Ramis slipped the phone away. "I'm going to the station with you. I want to see the security footage myself."
"Fine. But first, let's get some real coffee. This apartment air is giving me the creeps."
They walked out together into the hallway. Officer Reyes was still standing guard by the elevator. She gave Ramis a quick, curious glance. He nodded politely as they passed.
Down in the lobby, the doorman was being questioned by another detective. The man looked nervous, twisting his hands. Ramis made a mental note to talk to him later.
Outside, the rain had eased into a light mist. Ramis and his father climbed into Marcus's unmarked police sedan. The inside smelled of fast food wrappers and old leather.
As they pulled away from Grandview Towers, Ramis stared at the building in the side mirror until it disappeared behind other cars.
"Sandman," he said quietly. "Who the hell calls himself that?"
Marcus gripped the steering wheel tighter. "Someone who thinks he's smarter than all of us. But he doesn't know you yet, son."
Ramis leaned back in the seat, his sharp green eyes reflecting the passing city lights. The ache in his knee was stronger now, but his mind was clear and racing.
This was only the beginning. One body. One note. One smile that shouldn't exist.
Somewhere in Eldridge City, a killer was waiting for the next move. And Ramis Walker was already planning his.
The gray morning stretched on, full of quiet questions and hidden answers.
A/N:
Hallucinogens are a diverse class of psychoactive substances that profoundly alter perception, consciousness, mood, and thought, often causing hallucinations.