Detective Bell leaned over to a paramedic. "As soon as Mrs. McNamara calms down, we'd like to ask her a few questions." The paramedic nodded.
"It's awful." Joan said. Ms Lindbar now had her arm around Eleanor McNamara. "Just imagine what it would be like if your husband or wife's last words were…that." She turned. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock had left her side, and was now squatting beside the body. "Watson, would you please come over?" He had pulled up the sleeve of Carl's shirt to expose his forearm. There were a series of bruises. "Take a look."
"At what?"
"Bruising."
"Of course there's bruising. He had cancer. He would have been getting IV chemo at least." Sherlock shook his head. Joan narrowed her eyes. A cold feeling began to spider-web through her stomach.
"According to our friend Ms. Lindbar, he's been aware that his impending death was unstoppable for months. Most people choose to stop chemotherapy once they've given up. We can check with the hospital to verify, but I doubt it will disprove me. Chemotherapy is unpleasant and expensive. So that begs the question, why are these bruises so fresh?" Joan glanced at Eleanor and leaned in closer.
"You think—you think he was on drugs?" Sherlock nodded.
"And I think I know which." Sherlock leaned back on his heels, his lips flattened against each other in a grim line.
"Heroin?" He bowed his head.
"That would be the most logical assumption."
"Sherlock…"
"Painkiller, takes you out of the real world. Causes euphoria. Appealing for someone in a desperate situation. If I am not in error, he may have simply overdosed."
"But what about his last words. 'What have you done to me, you witch,' doesn't that suggest anything?"
"As I know you know, the minds of people on heroin don't function quite properly. Perhaps he personified the drug, or his cancer. Perhaps he spoke of the person that administered the drug. Perhaps this person was, in fact, Eleanor McNamara. But you are right, it signifies something. This may still be murder. Heroin may be the chosen method."
"What are you two talking about?" Detective Bell came up and stood between them.
"Sherlock thinks Carl died of a heroin overdose."
"Who is the in charge of this establishment?" Sherlock asked.
"Wait, heroin?" Bell looked at Joan, then Sherlock. "What makes you-"
"The manager, good detective! Who is the manager?"
"Robby Kent, that guy in the yellow shirt." Bell pointed to a fit man with graying hair. "But hang on a sec, I want to know-"
"Sorry detective, I'll have to catch you later. Text me, I won't reply. I must speak with Mr. Kent." Sherlock strode across the room. Detective Bell stared at him, and then turned to Watson.
"What's up with him?"
Mr. Kent was being questioned by a medic.
"No, really I'm fine, thank you. Yes, I'm sure, I'm fine. Positive. Just sad and a little shocked, but physically I'm fine. Mentally too, yes, just emotionally disturbed."
"Mr. Kent, may I have a word?" Kent looked at the medic, who shrugged and walked away.
"Sure. Are you the police?"
"Essentially. Do you own Panteras?" Sherlock folded his arms.
"No, I just run this class. Why?" Kent wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Sherlock shrugged.
"Curious. Were you acquainted with the late Carl McNamara?" Kent bobbed his head noncommittally.
"Yeah, you could say that. I saw him in every meditative session of the sanctum and inner sanctum."
"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I'm not quite clear on the meaning of 'sanctum' used in this manner?" Sherlock tilted his head. Kent frowned.
"Sorry, what?"
"What do you mean by using the word 'sanctum'?" Joan walked up and stood next to Sherlock. Kent squinted.
"Not sure, really. It's what Adam calls it. Adam Dromsky, the owner. It's where people connect spiritually to their after-selves, and the ones of people they know."
"After-selves?"
"Well, yeah." Seeing the blank looks on Joan and Sherlock's faces, he tried to elaborate. "You know, you after you're gone. After death." Sherlock and Joan looked at each other. Her voice high, and struggling to keep it from escalating, Joan said.
"That's a very dangerous thing to do, Mr. Kent. You can't invent a religion and feed it to people who already in such fragile condition. It's very damaging to their mindset, especially if it's one that morbid." As she was saying it, Joan glanced at Sherlock, and saw the same repulsed look on it that she felt.
"Ah. I see you two aren't believers. It's a shame. You should come by sometime. It really works. Your life will change. Will that be all?" Kent smiled.
"For now, yes. Let's go, Watson." Sherlock pulled her away. She looked over her shoulder to see Kent, the angelic smile still present on his face, as tranquil in the middle of the bustling personnel as if it was a park in spring. Her blood shivered and burned at the same time. How could people so that? To take advantage of the most emotionally vulnerable people in the world was, to her, worse than murder. She stormed off after Sherlock.
Eleanor McNamara went home with Ms. Lindbar. Detective Bell had decided that questioning her that day was pointless. Now Sherlock and Joan sat, with Detective Bell in Captain Gregson's office, waiting for the results of the autopsy.
"The wife was a wreck. I don't see how she could have done it. I have to say I agree with Holmes's theory about the overdose. Maybe it was heroin, maybe it was something else. But it wasn't murder."
"Now let's not be premature, Detective Bell." Sherlock interlocked his fingers.
"What? An hour ago you said it was a heroin overdose, and now you're not sure?" Sherlock tilted his head.
"I am sure that it was an overdose that killed him. It could still be murder."
"But the wife had no motive to kill her husband—he was already dying." Joan said.
"Maybe he cut her out of the will or something." Bell said. Sherlock shook his head.
"He was bankrupt even before he had cancer, remember? The only money she was getting from him was life insurance, and by murdering him, that would be jeopardized." Sherlock rubbed his stubble.
"Well then who had motive to kill him? You're saying that it's murder and yet you have no suspects." Captain Gregson, leaning on his desk, pen in hand, glared. Joan frowned.
"There was that Panteras group. I don't know about you, but what their doing seems immoral and exploitive. We should put a stop to them."
"It's not so easy Ms. Watson." Gregson set his pen down and folded his arms. "Now if we can pin them for murder, then yes."
"Why would they want someone to die during one of their sessions? It doesn't make sense. It would give them a bad rep." Bell shook his head.
"It would make sense if he defrauded them somehow." Joan looked at Sherlock.
"I believe that while it is possible that Panteras could have motive to kill Carl McNamara, it is, as Detective Bell pointed out highly unlikely for them to do so during one of their own sessions." Joan sighed.
"Detective Bell, autopsy is in." The door opened. A blonde head poked into the room.
"Alright. Be back in a sec." Bell left the room.
"What I don't understand is why anyone would kill a man scheduled to die? What makes this look like murder, Holmes? It could even have been suicide. You know what I think? I think that you're still touchy on the drug thing, and so you're extra sensitive. You should be even more aware of the fact that people kill themselves, intentionally or no, with this stuff every day. It's not usually considered murder."
Sherlock leaned forward, hands on his knees. "Carl McNamara's reaction was not the reaction of a suicide. It was alarmed and frustrated. Now, I may be wrong, but I do not want to write this case off so rapidly. It has nothing to do with my previous addiction and I'd appreciate it if my personal matters stayed out of this conversation. Is there a problem with that?"
"Of course not. But I'd appreciate it if your personal matters stayed out, too. The time of my men is very valuable, and I don't want to see it wasted because you have some emotional hang-up!"
"Then I shall continue to investigate on my own." Sherlock sat back, crossing his legs and putting his fingers together.
"Come up with evidence, just one lead, and we'll back you."
"I've got it." The door opened and Detective Bell returned. Glancing between the captain and Sherlock he said, "Something wrong?"
"Not at all. The captain and I were simply having a little debate on the gravity of murder." Gregson glared at Sherlock. "Pray continue, Detective Bell."
"You were right, it was heroin. There were traces of previous usage of the drug in his system. And as for the cancer, even without the OD he had days to live." The detective looked up. "No sign of violence, or sedatives, the victim willingly received the dose."
"Doesn't prove anything, patient could have not known what was in the syringe."
"God, we've got a doctor slash sober companion and an addict looking at this case. Or rather, imagining it!" Gregson threw his hands up. "There is no case here."
"Captain, with all due respect, something is very wrong at Panteras. These people clearly have no morals and I wouldn't put it past them-"
"They are con men, Joan. And unfortunately, this country has freedom of religion, so if some poor fool decides to go to them, I can't stop him. There is also a huge difference between a con man and a murderer!"
"May I see the insurance policy of Carl McNamara?" Sherlock turned to Detective Bell.
"I'll see if I can get my hands on it. We're all on the same side here." He walked out again. Captain Gregson covered his face with a hand. After a moment, he said,
"I just don't see what there is to investigate. It's a horrible, awful story, but at the same time, no fingers point to anyone. There are hundreds of people dealing heroin out there." Sherlock stared straight ahead, his face blank. Joan shook her head, and said nothing. The thirty minutes it took for Bell to find McNamara's life insurance policy dripped by like molasses.
"Hey, I think this might be just what you're looking for. All of you I mean. But if it is, we have a much bigger problem on our hands than we thought." Detective Bell surveyed the other three. Everyone was silent. After a few seconds, Sherlock said,
"Let's have it then."
"Carl McNamara's policy was for three hundred thousand dollars, more than the McNamara's could really afford. To make up for that, the policy does not include death via substance abuse. Quote, unquote, 'should the holder die of the abuse of any illegal substance, this policy is invalid.' It's the only policy like this in the state of New York. Instead of less than fifty-thousand, the McNamaras were able to buy three-hundred thousand because of this line. Now to me, this sounds suspicious." Joan looked at Sherlock, then Detective Bell and said.
"So you're saying…"
"There is now one entity with motive. And that's the insurance company. Furthermore, I did a quick search, and three terminally ill cancer patients have died of heroin overdoses in the last year, all covered by this policy. Fortress Inc."
"Oh my God." Joan looked at Gregson. "How could you let this happen?"
Gregson's eyes were wide. "Give me that." He snatched the papers from Bell's hand. His eyes darted back and forth over the lines. He licked his teeth and stared at the office window.
"Get some men out to Fortress now. Arrest the president and CEO."
"Okay." Bell opened the door and was about to go out when the blonde officer rushed into the room.
"A Ms. Lindbar says to tell you she needs help. Someone named Eleanor McNamara has tried to hang herself. An ambulance has already been sent."