2
Betty pulled out of the parking lot and joined other cars on the highway. It wasn't a long drive to her house, but Betty was still bitter. She turned off the highway and entered her neighborhood. It wasn't a rich part of London, but comfortable enough. Betty rubbed her arm gingerly and cursed loudly.
Once, just once, she glanced at her arm, and she narrowly missed a red light in the road. "I'm getting too old for this," Betty muttered, and started on her way again. It became increasingly harder for Betty to drive as the journey continued. As she reached her usual parking space, Betty lost control of the car. It screeched with newfound acceleration, and as soon as it gained speed, it lost it. Betty O'Brien crashed her car into her own house, and died instantly.
[0o0o0]
Sherlock tightened his scarf around his neck on the nippy September day. He turned to John, who somehow was still surprised to see a crime scene after many of their ordeals. After putting on latex gloves, Sherlock weaved his way through the yellow tape and reached the car. Although the car crash happened the previous night, the car still let off an eerie smoke into the street.
"Who is she?" John asked Lestrade.
"Betty O'Brien, sixty-two. From what we can see, she died on impact, but we don't know why she crashed. And," Lestrade added grumpily, "because of recent events, we have to take every death into consideration. Perhaps, even, connecting them to the other killings."
Sherlock examined the scene before him. He grazed the steering wheel with his gloved fingertips, and then studied the victim's shirt. Next, he looked at Betty's wrist, then her arms. Almost satisfied, Sherlock finished his findings by looking at the tire marks that led up to the crash. Grinning, he skillfully snapped off his latex gloves. "I believe it's safe to say that this murder is connected."
Lestrade looked up from his clipboard. "What? Murder?"
Sherlock nodded curtly. "That's right. It's murder, from what I can tell, anyway. I'm sure an autopsy will prove my theory."
"And, just what is your theory," inquired Anderson, emerging from behind the car and pronouncing the word 'theory' like it was a revolting insect.
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Ah, Anderson. I thought Lestrade would have gotten rid of by now, seeing as we can never seem to get along." He paused before beginning again. "The marks on this woman's shirt and on the steering wheel indicate that she was leaning against it before the crash and the airbag went off. It is logical to assume she was drunk. However, she is wearing a bracelet for a hospital, and has an injection mark on her arm. This may seem normal, but look at these tire tracks. Look!" Lestrade, Anderson, and John looked at them confusedly. "What? Do you not see?" Sherlock asked, shocked. "Why am I always surprised? It's like talking to infants. The tracks! They are too long for this to have been an accident. An accident would have left shorter, much darker tracks, but these are long and light. Why? Because something made this woman unconscious enough for her to lean forward on her steering wheel before the crash."
"Do you ever get tired of showing off?" asked Anderson.
"No," Sherlock replied, "and do you want to know why? Never does ordinary mankind cease to amaze me at its stupidity! You are such a confused lot, aren't you? It must be horrible—"
"Can we get to the point, please?" Lestrade cut in.
"Well, we will know what killed her when the autopsy is completed," Sherlock said, walking away briskly and throwing away his gloves in a nearby bin.
"But, Sherlock!" Lestrade called. "The last two autopsies were inconclusive!" Sherlock pretended as if he didn't hear and continued walking, John in close pursuit.
