Sherlock Holmes was sitting in his armchair by the fire playing his violin.
It was a cold and dreary night, and a storm was on its way. "Watson, my
good fellow, bring me my pipe, will you?" Watson, a slightly stocky man
came into the living room with tea, the newspaper, and Holmes' pipe. "Thank-
you Watson. Let's see, what's in the news. My word!"
"What is it Sir?" Came Watson's startled cry.
"It seems that there's been a murder! My word, look at this! Strangled,
knife-marks on her body, a Miss Shelly Placard. Watson! I believe we have a
case!"
"Are you certain, Sir, after all, the police might be on it."
"Come, now, Watson, this is a perfect case! One more criminal brought to
justice by the Famous Sherlock Holmes and Watson."
"Right, Sir. I'll get our coats."
As Holmes and Watson left the house, a scream erupted down the street, a
woman's scream. "Watson! Down there!" Holmes and Watson, as fast as they
could go, ran straight down the street, to meet a grisly sight. A girl, no
more than 17, lay in a puddle of water, face down, and clothes half-off.
She was dead, strangled, it seemed, and had bruises and knife-marks
littering her beautiful form. Watson removed his cap, and said a prayer for
the lost child. Holmes, being the inquisitive man he is, looked closer at
her marks. "Watson! These are the same marks as on the photograph in the
newspaper!"
"What does this mean, Sir?"
"Well, Watson, it seems that we have ourselves a murderer, and either this
murderer is serial, or we have copycats. Either one is dangerous. Right.
Watson, go home and bring me a blanket, will you chap?"
"Yes Sir." As Watson disappeared around the corner, Holmes couldn't help
but run his mind over the article he just read. The first victim was also
strangled, with the same knife-marks as on this girl. The murder happened
two days ago, and was found by a Mr. Mike Placard. What else was there? The
victim was also 17 years old. If this was a serial murderer, young women
were not safe. If this was a copycat, everyone was in danger. Watson came
back, panting.
"Thank you my boy." Holmes said while placing the blanket over the body.
"Something on your mind, my boy?" Watson was obviously worried about
something, he was fidgeting, shifting his weight from foot to foot, and
seemed to be avoiding Sherlock's gaze. "What is it, Watson?"
"Sir, there's been another murder."
"Watson, I believe we have a serial murderer."
