Murder at the Mayors Mansion

Thomas Hale’s body is still warm.

That narrows the window. Minutes, not hours.

The blow came from behind — powerful, precise. No hesitation marks. No defensive wounds. Hale trusted whoever stood behind him.
You kneel and notice his right hand clenched tight. You pry it open.

A torn scrap of paper falls into your palm. Two letters, written hastily:
E L

Not a full name. A warning. Or an accusation.

You pocket it without comment.