Tinderbox
Chapter 2: Tonight When We Chase the Severed Thumb
It's my life and it's my wife
-Lou Reed
Group was the same dreary crap it always was: Old clothes, stubble, moaning. They sat in their circled chairs with their Styrofoam cups of coffee; tired looking social worker nodding at them, so calm and supportive: An airline hostess. A funeral director. A-
"How about you, John?"
"Yes?"
"How are things?"
Things. How were things? "Well," Things. "It's been two nights without nightmares; probably just the new meds, but it's nice to get some sleep." The boys nodded. They knew, of course.
"And how are things with Harry?"
"Well, she's- She's still sober, as far as I know. I haven't started drinking, so I guess that's good. I suppose if she's not going to drink living with me these past six weeks, she's in it for the long haul. Oh-!" Suddenly, there were better things. "Here's a bit of a bright spot. Unexpected, actually. I've been offered a job."
"Ah! A job! Tell us about it."
"Well, they rang me yesterday, out of the blue. I wasn't looking for anything. It's part time, very part time: An emergency room physician. The director or someone had followed my blog. He knew I was credentialed and now that I seemed to be-" Things again "-available…"
One of the boys piped up, "Are you sure it's a good idea?"
Bastard. "Well- Well, one thing I learned with my- my friend, the one who-" Yes. They bloody well knew which one. John took a deep breath and continued, "I tend to do better in- in tight situations." His heart started racing as he remembered his last tight situation: Sherlock falling, Sherlock- John stopped himself. Bright side. Bright things-"Anyway, I could use the money."
Then they all dove in like sharks in a frenzy: "Isn't it a lot like combat? Don't want to re-traumatize yourself. Stressful places, emergency rooms; anything could happen."
Shut up, shut up! "Maybe, maybe-" Another deep breath and gritted teeth "-I'm rather useless now." Black, cold, sinking-Dammit, dammit-Chin up, shoulders back- Pull it together, Watson! "I could use the money." Bastards.
XXXXX
The grey thumb's cut end had been gnawed by rodents. Sherlock turned it with forceps, peering through the magnifying glass. He glanced at Molly standing with pen and notepad ready. "Twenty-four hours."
"Yes." She flipped through the documentation. "Severed approximately twenty-four hours ago; found less than twelve hours after dismemberment."
"Okay. You are looking for a right handed small appliance repairman or electrician, male between thirty and fifty. Medium to large build. This is a left thumb, you can see no callus on the interior where he would hold his pen; that says right handed; however, there are calluses elsewhere. It's not broad or thickly callused enough to be a laborer, but this is a man who uses manual tools, not an office worker. Could be an auto mechanic, but there is neither oil nor grease under the nail nor in the ridges. Here-" Sherlock indicated the tip "-note the indentation, the heavy callus down the middle. It's from holding wires as he works. This is a small appliance repairman or electrician." Sherlock peered closer. "What was under his nail?"
Consulting her chart, "Wood splinters, polyurethane and ash."
"Wood splinters, polyurethane and…ash."
"The polyurethane was the type used in spray foam insulation. And not wood ash. Some other material."
Sherlock reflected for a few moments then threw down the forceps and pulled off his gloves. "Where was this found?"
XXXXX
Not forty minutes later, Sherlock and Molly, carrying her newly approved, rather bulky evidence case, were on the corner of a littered street: Single family homes built eighty to one hundred years ago. At one time, it may have been genteel; some of the houses were well proportioned with elegant structural touches. Now, however, the pavement was cracked and weeds abundant. On the corner opposite, a few young men loitered, smoking and drinking in the waning light. Molly eyed them warily: They were edgy, tough looking. While she had heard that Sherlock could handle himself-A boxer-she didn't quite believe it. How could someone who didn't eat fight properly? "They checked all the houses right around here. No reports of disturbances."
Sherlock snorted. "I'm sure a police investigation would have been well received around here." He stared down the street. "Someone's away." Molly followed his gaze: Along the pavement, all the houses had their bins out for collection save one, halfway down the block. Sherlock started toward it, and Molly trailed after him, the evidence case thumping at her side.
The house they were approaching looked lonely and sad. Smaller than the others, it was a peeling, sagging, unadorned two story rectangle, the narrow end facing the street. At one point, it was white, but age and London fog had turned it grey: Old before its time. Poor thing. There were steps leading to the front door; on the side, a set of slanting basement doors were secured with a large padlock. Sherlock led them to the other side, where the bin was knocked over on a pile of colorful rubbish. Molly was intrigued by the rubbish, a bit of brightness in the gloom, but after a brief glance, Sherlock turned back to the house, staring at the window set in the middle of the side, a giant eye, the bottom edge slightly over his head. As Molly watched, he seized the bin, upended it and climbed on top, examining and smelling-Smelling?-the windowsill. "This is it." he muttered.
"This is what?"
Sherlock glanced down. "This is it. This is where he lost his thumb. Not even you clean the outsides of your windowsills." He tapped: The center of the windowsill edge was far cleaner than the ends.
Molly sighed. How could she have missed- "How? How did it happen?"
"He was hanging-" Sherlock demonstrated "-on the sill, trying to escape someone inside. Given the length of the gouge, someone with a heavy cleaver." Abruptly, Sherlock jumped down and began to rummage through the pile of rubbish. Several times, Molly opened her mouth to ask, only to close it again. Finally, she lowered the evidence case to the ground and removed the camera: If nothing else, this was an excellent opportunity to practice. Carefully, she climbed onto the bin and took a picture of the gash. From below, Sherlock called, "Smell it. It's been scoured with bleach. Wonderful for destroying blood evidence." She did-Oh! As she stood blinking, Sherlock suddenly ordered, "Molly. Get down."
"What is it?" Molly clambered off.
"Dogs upset bins with raw meat in them." Sherlock turned the bin over and peered inside, using his penlight. "Ah!" A smear of blood on one side. "When the thumb was cut, it landed in here."
Looking over his shoulder, Molly snapped a picture. "That's not much blood."
"There's not much blood in a thumb. Besides, all sorts of vermin have been at this bin." Sherlock stepped to the pavement and began scanning it in small, evenly spaced arcs. Molly stared-Okay-then removed a swab set from her case and returned to the bin. He could look at the ground; she would document. Documenting was important.
Sample taken, Molly faced the jumble of rubbish, camera in hand. Artsy rubbish: Thread, a ripped unstuffed teddy bear doll body, shards of a large vase glazed in slashes of bright color, empty jars of glaze, paper towels with glaze on them, dark brown dirt, ash, household dust, crushed empty bottles of bleach-Six of them!-wax, bits of cork. She shot them all.
"Are you making a scrap book?" Sherlock was glaring, hands on hips. "The flashing is rather annoying."
"I'm collecting evidence!" At this, Sherlock's face grew blank, and he returned to the pavement. Doggedly, Molly turned over a crushed bleach bottle and found-Oh. Hm. Probably nothing. Still; she bent closer and took an extra picture-
"Ah!" Sherlock was squatting, peering at something through his glass.
"What is it?"
"Blood! An elongated drop! He came this way, and quickly." He found another spot; then another!
Oh! Shouldering the evidence case, Molly hurried after him. They approached an intersection, and while Sherlock continued forward, she paused-There to the left! In the middle of the zebra crossing! "Sherlock!" Sherlock, on the next block, raced back. They found another spot across the road on the corner; another a few steps forward; then: Nothing. Halfway down the block: Still nothing; the trail of breadcrumbs, gone. Frowning, Sherlock turned and plodded back to the corner; Molly followed, her case swinging.
At the last drop, they stopped and Molly set her evidence case down. Sherlock scanned the area, saying,"This is where it ends. Why did he come this way? Look. There's a shop that way, he could have gotten help."
Shrugging, "He had been poisoned. Perhaps he was disoriented-?"
"No. A disoriented man would have gone straight, continued his forward momentum. This victim changed his course purposefully: Came here. Why? What was here?" He considered the small block of flats on the corner. Molly joined him, admiring it: Elegant, like a cake. Containing about eight flats, the building was similar in design to the nicer homes in the neighborhood, but was better maintained, cleaner; it had been cared for just a bit more. Suddenly Sherlock moved to the front door. "Look." A smear of blood on the edge of the outer entryway, about the height where a man might rest his hand.
"He went in?"
"Evidently, yet, how? It is unlikely he lived here, and there's no blood on the buttons to buzz him in."
"Sherlock, look." A For Let sign in the window. "A flat went up for let yesterday. Perhaps they were moving out and someone blocked a door open."
"Perhaps. It is a way in." He entered the number into his mobile.
"In?"
"Oh, hi! Are you the agent handling the flat on Carson? … Ah, good. Well, the wife went by today and saw your notice. She's quite interested. We must see it. … Now. Can we see it now? … Saturday? That won't do. She's rather anxious. Here, I shall put her on."
No. No! Shaking her head-Shan't!–but Sherlock pushed the mobile into her hand, and, stiffly, "Yes. … Yes. Quite interested. … Questions. Do I have questions-?" Molly gave Sherlock a panicked glance.
He mouthed, "Rent!"
Right. "What is the rent?... Oh!... That's-that's good. We must see it. Immediately. … Saturday? Nothing sooner? … Well, has there been interest in it? … Oh, good. All right, then. Saturday morning at ten. Thank- Our names-?" She glanced again at Sherlock, who shrugged. "Mark and Heidi Jacobson. … Yes, thank you." Molly ended the call and handed the mobile back. "The previous tenants moved out last night."
"Okay, but that doesn't get us in." Sherlock again peered in the entryway.
"Why must we get in?"
"A man could be bleeding to death in there. Do you have one of those throwaway phones?"
He meant the ones they were to use exclusively for contacting Mycroft in the case of an emergency. Molly took one from her bag and handed it to him. "Are you calling Mycroft?"
"Hardly." He opened the mobile and dialed 999. "Oh God! You've got to help me! It's my brother! He says he's put a bomb in the building on Carson Street! The block of flats on the corner- … Yes, of course I believe him! He was a demolitions expert from Afghanistan! He's so angry! Oh! I have to go!" Ending the call, Sherlock wiped the mobile clean and dropped it down the storm drain; then scooped up the evidence case, handed it to Molly and, taking her by the arm, turned her back down the street. "Let us return to the other house rather quickly."
Stumbling, Molly could manage only, "That-! That-!"
"…will instigate a search that may save a man's life. It won't be the last illegal thing we do tonight."
Oh God.
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