Star Whacker-11

Since I had no intention of shooting, stabbing, bombing or otherwise using violence means to kill the target, I had to figure out what method to use. Again I chose to poison my target, but I could not go with inducing a narcotic overdose this time. Again, I had the use of unusual habits as well as advanced age (if you can call being over 50 “advanced age” anywhere but the entertainment business), so I went with using a hallucinogenic substance. I would introduce it into the target’s liquid intake, which would be faster due to the failed attempt that would immediately precede my kill, wait for the target to come under its influence and then induce the target to do something like jump off the balcony.

I had a few useful fans in the local university campuses, so procuring what I needed—access to the labs and materials—was not difficult. I pass around some tickets, some backstage passes, and some empty promises (“Sure, I can get you some face time.”). I get what I need, take a weekend at the family cabin—while my FBI-with-benefits went out of town—and cook up the stuff. (I did not fail chemistry while in school.) Then, once I knew which rooms the target booked, I secreted the stuff in those rooms and waited.

I didn’t need to wait for long. The target’s advance team arrived a few days before, and as I’d expected the target’s deputy security head—recently hired when the target’s tour came to North America—was the ex-IRA guy. He proved to be a bold man, operating openly and audaciously as his own bad self; his advance sheet says “Ex-IRA” on it, and he’s used that to build his security credentials, with a focus on “counter-terrorism”. I have to respect the man for being a bold son of a bitch.

I called my FBI fun-gal after he arrived. She and I had a laugh, and then she agreed to notify her superiors- assuming that they weren’t already on the ball. I needed him to do his thing, however, and that meant giving him enough rope to hang himself. I took advantage of my day job reputation as a celebrity journalist and gossip columnist to get a fluff interview out of him, of that “What’s your job on this tour?” sort. He and I walked and talked, and during this time we stopped for a drink. I got him to relax; he did not pierce my mask. This meant that he left fingerprints and DNA, which I collected when I told him to go ahead while I picked up the tab. Samples secured, I finished my interview with him. As I monitored the traffic that came after I posted the interview, I handed a set of my samples to my galpal; she passed them to the local police agencies under the cover of a FBI advisory warning.

So, what did I do with the other set? Well, I got them ready to ensure that he took the fall for the target’s death.