The forensic examiner and the sergeant don't quite look the young man in the eye when they give him the report at the station. "Why is he missing?" Detective Inspector Dimmock stared at them. "Please don't tell me that Holmes nutter was involved."
Anderson and Donovan glance at each other, surprised he'd come to that conclusion, but the rat-faced man makes a sour face. "Surprisingly, no," Anderson said dourly, "we believe Brenner's gang was the cause."
"And you didn't see anyone suspicious around them," Dimmock goes on, not quite patiently, hitching his thumbs in his pockets.
"No, sir," Donovan replies, as toneless as she can manage without gritting her teeth. She should've talked him out of it, but then, she's never been able to talk her boss out of anything boneheaded, including consulting that freak. Then again, Lestrade gets results from his foolhardiness, but this time, the result wasn't what they wanted. "We didn't want to spook the target."
"Good job, then," the detective inspector said sourly, "Max Brenner and his colleagues now have Lestrade and a bystander who wasn't even apprised of the situation before he pulled her in."
Donovan's lips thin considerably. "Molly Hooper isn't exactly a bystander," she says reluctantly, "she's a coroner at St. Bart's, does autopsies for us."
Dimmock frowned, then pulled out a notebook. "Hooper, St. Bart's," he murmured, then sighed loudly. "Honestly, this stinks of Sherlock Holmes and he isn't even here." He could feel his hair gray, if it didn't run away from his forehead entirely. "All right, let's have another look at the last spots where Brenner's victims were taken and found. We're missing something, and it's not just Lestrade."
The mocha-skinned woman and the pale man nodded at each other, and pull out photos from the files. "Brenner's gang takes them from all parts of London," Donovan says, as if by rote, "and leaves them all over London."
"Yes, making it easier for us to narrow our search somewhat," Dimmock says, his eyes almost absently scanning the photos. "How long ago was Lestrade's earpiece destroyed?"
Anderson checks his watch. "About thirteen minutes ago," he answers.
"And it was found less than ten minutes ago," Dimmock says, "Anderson, find what you can from the pieces." When the forensic examiner doesn't move, the youthful D.I. glared at him. "Well? Lestrade isn't painting his nails waiting for the results!" As soon as Anderson hustled, he sighed. "I'm surprised someone got the drop on him," he muttered.
"Same here," Donovan frowned. "Especially if a civilian was involved."
"You said she wasn't exactly a civilian," Dimmock reminded her.
"Yeah, but she's not a copper, she's a doctor," she retorted. "And not a very social one, either."
The D.I. nodded, "Yeah, got that. Still, it's not like she was part of the plan in the first place." Then he frowned. "Does he do this a lot, flying by the seat of his pants?"
The sergeant pursed her lips. "He prefers to call it 'following his instincts'. It usually doesn't go as pear-shaped like this, sir." She narrowed her gaze at the photos on the table. "Brenner doesn't repeat his pickups or drops. In fact, he makes sure none of them repeats."
"Which is why we're having a damned time catching him," Dimmock snapped, "I know that. But there's a pattern, there's always a pattern, we just don't see it yet …"
"Pickups in daylight, drop-offs at night," Donovan sing-songs, then shakes her head. "Other than that, there seems to be no rhyme or reason."
"Of course there is," Dimmock said flatly. "Otherwise he wouldn't have been able to get away with this as long as he has."
She and the D.I. stare at each other, already tired of the other's company. "Right, give me time to read the files again," she said, "sir."
Dimmock nodded, and he's left alone with the white erase board filled with the same general facts as those in the files, along with the new information. He stared at the photo of Lestrade, which looked less like an ID photo and more like a mugshot, along with the Xeroxed photo of Hooper looking like she was constantly surprised. Perhaps she was.
Then he closed his eyes, wishing the nightmare hadn't become so damn personal.
