This is a character I made for a CoC game than never got off the ground (I can very easily drop him back down to 1st or 2nd level: that campaign was just starting off at 3rd). If he works, cool, if not, I'm happy to play the reporter - let me know what you'd prefer.
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William Blair
William Blair, Age 32
3rd Level Defensive Character (Unemployed Lawyer. Recovering Drunk)
HP: 19
Initiative: +2
Speed: 30 ft.
Space/Reach: 5 ft./5 ft.
Armor Class: 14 (+2 Dex, +2 Defense Option), Touch 14, Flat-footed 12
Base Attack/Grapple: +1/+0
Attack: +0 Melee (1d4-1, pistol butt) or +0 Melee (1d3-1, fist) or +3
+3 handgun (1d10, x3, 20ft, 9 shots)
Abilities: Str 8, Dex 14, Con 12, Int 14, Wis 14, Cha 16. San: 70
Saves: Fortitude +2 (base +1, Con+1), Reflex +5 (base +3, Dex+2), Will +5 (base +3, Dex +2
Skills:
Bluff (Cha), 6/+9
Concentration (Wis), 5/+2
Diplomacy (Cha), 6/+13
Intimidate (Cha), 6/+11
Gather Information (Cha), 4/+9
Knowledge (Law) (Int), 5/+7
Knowledge (Occult) (Int) 3/+5
Read Lips (Wis) 6/+8
Research (Int) 6/+8
Sense Motive (Wis) 6/+8
Speak Other Language (Int) 3/+5
Spot (Wis) 4/+6
Feats: Wealth, Trustworthy, WP/Pistol.
Money: $26520.34. (Potential Salary of $7000 - currently none)
Residence
Apartment building in SoHo, NYC, owned by St. Andrew's Catholic Church Rectory. The building has many small rooms for rent, as well as a first floor which serves as a shelter for drunks. William has given money to the Church, which covers his stay for the year, plus a donation ($1000)
Equipment
Carried/Worn:
...Handgun, 9mm, 9 bullets. $30
...Wool dress suit, looking rather in need of a cleaning. $30
...Shoes. $5
...Shirt. $1
...2 Pencil and Paper. $.22
...Lighter, and Cigarrettes $.60
...Key to padlock
...Cheap Watch $6
...Rain Slicker (If Apporpriate) $5
...Handkerchief
...Folding pocket camera, 24 Exposures. $18.00
In apartment:
...In Expensive trunk and padlock. $15
......5 Dress suits, beginnig to look a little shabby: $150
......8 Shirts, $16
......Tailored Silk Suit, good condition, needs alteration to fit well again. $100
......Bible. $4.00
......Personal (badly done) drawings of "fly" that killed the Old Man
......Umbrella. $1.79
......Flask of Whiskey. $2
......A few law books. $50
......82 Bullets
...Flower pot with silk flowers, $1
......Handgun, 9 bullets. $44 (includes cost of 100 bullets) Hidden under
......flowers
With Father Gregory:
...Extra key to trunk
languages: English, Latin (3/+5)
*************************
The election. That’s where it all started going downhill for me, Reverend. Shoulda been a means to an end – a necessary, but ultimately insignificant, step on my path to the governor’s mansion. Or maybe Washington. Either one, no matter. Yeah? Well even that speakeasy on Washington Street’d be just Jake with me, now. Who wants to be mayor of Manchester anyway? Not me.
Hey, d'you know I didn’t even drink back then? I wouldn't touch it! Nope – not me, eldest grandson of the esteemed Henry W. Blair, former senator of the Great State of New Hampshire! Me being a Blair doesn’t mean much to you down here, but believe me, up there, back then, being a Blair meant you were dry as a bone, and expected everyone around you to be, too. I’d bought into it early on – helped that great state pass it’s ratification referendum. Went to a hundred-and-sixty-flippin’-four of those damned town meetings. (Hmmph. Nine people, six cows and whole gaggle of…chickens standing around in a barn. That’s your town meeting in most of New Hampshire’s little places.) But we passed it, and I was a damned shoe-in for mayor. I tell you what: voting for Prohibition, then, felt a lot better to people than living under it does, now! After being mayor, I was going to be governor. Grandfather practically guaranteed it. And only thirty years old, just like old T.R. in New York, Grandfather said. Of course, that night, he died. And they asked me how, and I told them. And that’s when things really went downhill for me.
See, Grandfather didn’t die like the records said. He didn’t get sick, didn’t even die in the arms of some younger woman like most of the other New England roylaty. That old man got his insides chewed up by a horsefly that was truly the size of a horse. At least, that what I think it was. Looked like it, to me anyway. I tried to shoot it – Grandfather kept a loaded pistol mounted on the wall of his library, but the damned thing misfired. The fly stuck it’s tongue or whatever down my grandfather’s mouth and pulled up what had to be his heart – maybe some other stuff, too, I don’t know. (I know you don’t believe me – no one does. Not sure I do, some times. Maybe if I’d shot it there’d have been proof…) Anyway, the thing flied out the window after it…after it turned to look at me, straight in the eye… and I just stood there for I don’t know how long, until my brother came in.
He didn’t know what’d happened; just that it was something bad and something bloody, and that I’d been there. I still couldn’t talk – I just stood there stupid while he cleaned everything up and put Grandfather on the washroom floor – like he’d fallen or something. Then my brother sat me down and tried to bring me out of it. Didn’t work, though. Just sat there stupid until the bulls arrived and asked what happened. That was the first time I opened my mouth. Before my brother could come up with a story about the washroom floor or something harmless, I told them about the big fly. And how it ate my grandfather’s heart and turned to stare me down before it flew away out the window. They looked at me as if I was blotto – wish I had been. The family doctor arrived a little later, but while the bulls were still there, and pronounced it a heart attack after whispering with my brother for a while. I laughed out loud, and the bulls we even surer that I was flozzled, so that went into the official report, too.
And that’s how I lost the race to become Mayor of Manchester in the Great State of New Hampshire in 1920, the Year of Our Lord. My opponent got the Union Leader to print my statement to the police on Sunday morning. He said I could disavow it and admit I’d been drunk or stand by it and admit I was crazy. I, rather convincingly I thought, maintained that I’d been “distraught”, but the damage was done. I mean, it’s a lot easier to believe that an old man fell and that his Prohibitionist grandson was actually a raving drunk, than it is to believe a five foot fly came in through the window and sucked down the old man’s heart before giving his grandson a thousand Evil Eyes and flying away, right? It was a landslide.
So I left Manchester – came down here and set to the task of becoming what I’d been accused of being – a raging drunk. In between benders, I’m trying to figure if I was crazy, or whether there really are pony-sized flies flitting around sucking out old men’s internal organs. When I get an answer I can trust, I figure things will either take a turn for the slightly better or one for the much worse. I'll letya know..
Now, I know you’ve done a lot for me, Father, I appreciate you drying me out, and I appreciate the kind offer of job at the Diocese. But I’ve got money, enough, Father (it’s pride and character I lack). After tonight, I'll promise to stay dry, and I'll even mean it this time. But that thing killed my grandfather in front of me four years ago tonight, and tonight.... tonight, I’m going to drink.
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But bringing in a new character would be fine. 
