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Sherlock had been to hundreds of crime scenes in his life, but the moment he arrived, he knew this one was special. The body count alone made it stand out, and the condition of the bodies was likewise unique. No, Sherlock amended, he had seen people killed in each of the manners displayed. Just never all dumped together like this.
"No, Sherlock, no. I am putting my foot down here. He can't see this," Lestrade said.
"He's seen the aftermath of guns, acid and suicide bombings," Sherlock replied.
Lestrade somehow went even paler. "You've got to be breaking some laws, showing him that!"
"I only showed him the first two. He found the last one on Google by himself."
"But this is real life, not something online. It could scar him," Lestrade protested.
"No, it really can't," Sherlock replied.
There was no arguing with Sherlock. As much as he didn't want to, Lestrade had no recourse but to let Archie onto the scene. It was that, or risk losing Sherlock's help. And they sorely needed help with this one. There was not an officer on the force who would argue otherwise.
"Alright, Sherlock. Just tell us what happened here. You, not him. He's an observer only. And don't observe too closely!"
Archie had been crouching down to examine a severed hand. He quickly straightened up.
"First off, you have six bodies," Sherlock said.
"You're sure?" Lestrade asked.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and pointed at the hand Archie had been looking at. "That's a left hand. The right is over there, next to the sniper victim. Two hands, one body. Sniper lady, that's two."
"That is not an official designation of the victim! Do not refer to her in any reports as 'sniper lady'!" Lestrade said to his officers.
Sherlock continued, "Third body, it's...basically everywhere. Bomb victim. Improvised device, lots of shrapnel. Not detonated here or anywhere in the vicinity, as none of the other bodies are full of ball bearings and nails. Fourth body, beheaded. Fifth body, the only one not visibly marked. Except for that drop of blood on his collar. He was injected with poison. Sixth body, garroted, a classic and one of my favorite."
"And you're sure that mess is two people? Not one, not three, two?" Lestrade asked.
"Explain it to him, Archie," Sherlock said.
Archie hopped to attention. "They were killed in really different ways. See the hands and these other bigger bits? They're clean cuts. Yeah, there's lots of pieces, but they're uniform. Cut at the joints, places that make sense. The bombed guy, he's chunks. And I don't think he's all here. There really isn't enough for one person, never mind two."
An officer clamped a hand over her mouth and bolted from the crime scene. Lestrade, defying the laws of nature, managed to drop to an even more pallid level.
"I am very, very concerned about you," Lestrade said. "I think you should talk to someone."
"He's fine! There's nothing wrong with him!" Sherlock barked.
"You, too, Sherlock. We've got people in the department who-"
The glare Sherlock gave Lestrade could have melted glass. The inspector dropped the issue and then punted it for good measure.
"Right, not important just now. Bigger fish to fry. Why are six people killed in six different ways all piled up here?"
"I have good news and bad news about that," Sherlock said.
"Bad news first," Lestrade said. A few of his fellow officers mumbled disagreement, but he was the boss.
"It's not a serial killer," Sherlock said.
"How is that possibly bad news?"
"Because it's six serial killers."
Lestrade swore he felt his heart stop for a moment. He'd read about such things happening in novels, but he'd never really experienced it firsthand until right then. It did indeed seem like his heart was wrestling with Sherlock's words and was deciding whether or not to keep beating.
"The good news?" Lestrade finally wheezed, a hand on his chest.
"They aren't doing this for fun. You haven't got Jack the Ripper on your hands. These corpses are resumes."
"Resumes? Like for a job application?" one of the cops asked.
"Exactly."
"But who would hire six killers?"
"Moriarty!" Archie exclaimed.
"No," Sherlock said.
"No?"
"No. He isn't hiring six. He's hiring one. These are try-outs. Best killer wins, gets to join Moriarty's team."
"Any idea who's in the lead?" Lestrade asked.
"Not the sniper. That's a rubbish shot. He was either going for right between the eyes or dead-center of the forehead, and ended up almost in her hair."
"How do you know that wasn't the intention?"
"Because there's no theatricality to that. These people are trying to impress James Moriarty! Do you think he'd be satisfied with anything except a perfect trick shot?"
"Probably not, but I've never met the man. Alright, if not the sniper, who? The bomb's...impressive."
Sherlock looked at the scattered bomb victim. "Big fish in a big pond."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It's painfully easy to build a bomb. Even a bomb this destructive. Moriarty could have dozens, possibly hundreds, of terrorists do the same thing. It's generic. He'd want someone unique, someone with a singular skill set," Sherlock explained.
"Dear Lord. So snipers and terrorists aren't good enough for Moriarty. Sherlock-" At this point, Lestrade leaned in close, so only Sherlock could hear him "-we're out of our depth here. If it was one nutter with a vendetta we could manage, put out alerts, but for this, for anything dealing with him, we need you."
Sherlock nodded. "Yes, you certainly do. And unless you've got another body hiding around here, Archie and I should be off trying to find him before round two starts."
"No, that's all of them. And I certainly wouldn't want anymore, thank you very- What do you mean by round two?"
"You are the weakest link. Good-bye," Archie said.
"Exactly. They've put their talents on display with civilian targets. Now the game gets serious. They'll turn on each other, and the last man standing gets the prize," Sherlock elaborated.
"They're going to turn the city into a war zone! Sherlock, what are you standing around here for? Go!" Lestrade cried.
One Hour Later
For the low, low price of ten quid and a sandwich, Sherlock and Archie were escorted to a dead man in a bell tower. The member of Sherlock's homeless network, after receiving her payment and pointing up the stairs, was quick to be off.
"Something's got her knickers in a twist," Archie said.
"Probably the state of whoever's up there," Sherlock replied.
The pair ascended the creaking stairs, with Sherlock in the lead.
"We should have guns," Archie said. "We're hunting bombers and snipers."
"John doesn't like it when guns and I mix."
"'Cause of that guy you shot, the blackmailer?"
"Exactly. Though what John doesn't know won't hurt him. At least in regards to this. John not knowing a gang of Chinese criminals wanted to capture me did almost kill him." Sherlock pulled a gun from his coat.
"You haven't got a spare for me, have you?"
"Nope."
"And I should take it as the end of the conversation, right?"
"Yep. Oh, look, it's the sniper. And there's his head on the window sill."
Just as the homeless woman had said, a body, a huge pool of blood, and a rifle rested at the top of the stairs. The head, however, rested just a little higher. The head was turned outward, as though it was looking over the city.
"One down," Archie said.
Sherlock grunted in reply and knelt down by the corpse. He could tell with only a cursory glance that whoever had beheaded the body at the earlier crime scene had also beheaded the sniper. The repeated hacking evident on the neck suggested nothing as sharp or polished as a sword, but a heavier weapon like a machete.
"Cartel," Sherlock said.
"Like with drugs?"
Sherlock nodded. "My first guess would be out of Juarez, in Mexico. The cartels there have a nasty habit of cutting off the heads of law enforcement, rivals, anyone who stands in their way. Whoever is responsible for this mess is probably a top enforcer looking to move up even higher in the world."
"And the sniper didn't hear him coming?"
"You know better. Look at the evidence," Sherlock replied.
Archie did just that. He took in the body, the gun, the blood splatter. Together they told him the story. There was a single defensive wound on the body, a deep cut that bit halfway through the wrist. The rifle was far out of the corpse's reach, and the barrel had been gouged. It had obviously been knocked away with a heavy swing of a bladed weapon.
"He did hear the killer, just too late."
"Though considering how arthritic those stairs are, we should assume the killer does possess some stealth."
Archie agreed. The stairs did creak like old people's joints, and anyone who wasn't totally deaf would have heard them. Besides, it added to the narrative and explained how a cartel hitman armed with a machete could compete with terrorists.
"What should we do now?" Archie asked.
"Call Lestrade. Let him get that head picked up before a gust blows it out the window," Sherlock replied.
Archie pulled out his mobile and dialed the inspector's number. By the time the police arrived, Sherlock and Archie were long gone.
The Next Morning
The police had found the garroter. Someone, presumably the bomber, had blown up him and his car, and then dropped a garage on him. His neighbors weren't happy to be woken up at the crack of dawn by an explosion, and they were even less pleased to discover a man they'd all generally liked had been a freelance serial killer.
"He was in my kitchen just last week! Jesus Christ, I baked him a pie!"
"But he seemed so...normal. Not like he had a dungeon or anything like that."
"That's because he didn't have a dungeon. Who said anything about a dungeon? There was no dungeon found on the premises," Lestrade protested to the crowd. "Once again, no dungeon!"
"I bet he killed them in his shed, then. Awfully big shed for such a little garden."
Lestrade wished he could transport the crowd of neighbors to the moon. Things were already going to be difficult enough to explain—a suspected serial killer dying in a car bomb was sensational enough—without having to add any more vulgar or sordid details like torture dungeons to the equation.
Sherlock chose just that moment to pop out of the shed and proclaim, "This is where he murdered her." He was holding a length of rope and two black gloves. Lestrade wanted to shoot him.
"Sherlock, inside, now!" Lestrade barked.
The only place Lestrade could have it out with Sherlock without every cop and civilian seeing was inside the late garroter's house. His garage, mercifully, hadn't been connected to the house, so the explosion hadn't done more than singe the paint on the side of the house nearest the explosion.
The consulting detective was relieved of his evidence by two police officers and their evidence bags before he followed Lestrade into the house.
Lestrade found a room not currently swarmed by forensics, and ushered Sherlock inside. He then closed the door. Sherlock immediately began to search the room.
"Sherlock-"
"This drawer has a false bottom."
"That's very nice, but it's going to wait. You need to be more careful-"
Sherlock pulled the drawer from the dresser, tipped it upside down, and rained the dead serial killer's socks all over the place. He fiddled with the drawer until the false bottom sprang open. Then a rain of documents fell atop the sock pile.
"I can't properly shout at you if you're solving this," Lestrade said. "What do we have here?"
"Passports, drivers licenses from three different countries, oh, and currency from the same countries. Someone's been on a hell of a holiday." Sherlock held up Norwegian 500 kroner note and a French drivers license.
"Do you suppose- Of course he has. A tourist serial killer. Interpol's going to need to hear about this. I've got some good mates in France, might call them directly and ask if anyone's been garroted lately," Lestrade said.
"Best of luck with that. Archie and I will see if we can't trace the bomb."
"Oh, good, that would be an enormous... Wait, Archie's here somewhere?"
"Left him in the shed."
Lestrade wanted to cry.
Five Hours Later
Bombs were like fingerprints, in that no two terrorists had quite the same technique. And while the differences between bombers could be subtle, for someone who knew what to look for (like Sherlock Holmes, for instance), there was always a signature to find.
In this case, after going over the ruined garage, charred car, and obliterated garroter, Sherlock had pieced together both the scenario and the materials used to make the bomb. The bomber hadn't actually planted the explosive on the car; the garage had instead been rigged. The bomb had been wired into the automatic garage door opener. When the garroter had activated the door opener with his remote, he had also activated the bomb's first switch, priming it to explode. Once he was parked inside the garage, he had used the remote again, this time to close the door.
And inadvertently blow himself into oblivion.
It was ingenious.
And it gave Sherlock a lot to consider. The bomber, whoever they were, was one clever, brave bastard. They had somehow discovered the garroter's home residence, perhaps by following him, and had, while the garroter was out doing whatever all night (Sherlock fully intended to figure out that "whatever") crept into his garage, wired it to explode, and then snuck out again. All with the possibility of being caught in the act dangling over their head like an Acme anvil.
Maybe Sherlock had written off the bomber too quickly. Big fish in a big pond might not have covered it. Great White Shark in a big pond was more accurate.
"Sherlock. Hey, Sherlock!"
Sherlock was distantly aware of someone tugging on his arm. He blinked, crawled out of his own head, and looked to see who was intruding. It was Archie.
"I was thinking," Sherlock protested.
"Yeah, I noticed, you zombie. But I've got the crime-scene photos. Copies of them, at least. Lestrade's got the originals."
"What took so long? Hasn't Lestrade heard of one-hour photos? At least the copies are in color. They are, aren't they?"
Archie opened the manila envelope that contained the fat stack of copied photographs. "They're in color."
"At least he did that right. Here, spread them out."
"On the dead guy's table?"
"You're right, not enough room. On the floor. Move the table out of the way first."
Archie did as he was told and dragged the table to the far end of the kitchen. Luckily, the garroter was single and for obvious reasons didn't entertain very often, and thus didn't feel the need to own King Arthur's Round Table. One person was able to move his furniture with relative ease.
While Archie rearranged the furniture, Sherlock remained in his chair. He'd dived back inside his head, and was oblivious to the scraping of the table's legs dragging along the floor. He was too busy mentally inventorying and reassembling the bomb to pay attention to ear-gouging noises.
"Happy?" Archie asked. Sherlock was mute and Archie rolled his eyes. He grabbed the manila envelope from Sherlock's lap and spread the photographs out at the great if somewhat infuriating detective's feet. Once he was done, he shook Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock blinked, noted the photo spread, and slipped from his chair to get a closer look.
Archie returned to his chair, an island in a sea of gruesome pictures. This was beyond him. Not counting the first victim, he'd never investigated a bombing before, and while he'd managed to form a loose mental image of the bomb thanks to Sherlock's help, he had nothing else to go on. Everything about the bomb was generic, all the hardware untraceable, and any physical evidence the bomber might have left on the explosive or in the garage had gone up in smoke.
"Remove the bomb from the equation," Sherlock said. He gathered up every picture that featured a fragment of the bomb, or the cataclysmic damage it had wrought.
"But it's the entire equation," Archie replied.
"And it's useless. We aren't dealing with a madman who's going to send us a manifesto and practically catch himself. This is a professional. The bomb's got nothing more to tell us. We need to look elsewhere."
"Elsewhere" consisted of the meager remaining photographs, most of which were of the only tangible evidence, besides the bomb, that the killer had left: a long trail of footprints. The garroter had taken a big risk, living among the sheep, but in doing so, he'd made it more inconvenient for his assassin. Not inconvenient enough, obviously, but the bomber couldn't just park in the garroter's driveway, where the neighbors would all remember a strange car and person arriving in the night. They'd been forced to pull their car off the road, hide it behind a copse of trees, and then sneak the bomb across open ground. They'd managed in the end, but there was no hiding the track-way they'd created.
The police had photographed any footprint they'd found, and these photos Sherlock laid out in consecutive order. Sherlock ran his eyes up and down the line of photos, willing one to jump out at him.
He'd gone over the entire track three times before he froze. He understood now why none of the pictures were leaping out at him. Because they all should have been.
There was something seriously wrong with the footprints. The tread of each shoe was jammed with tiny objects of varying shapes. Stones? No, the shapes were geometric, man-made.
"Beads," Sherlock muttered.
"What?"
"Lestrade? Where the bloody hell is Lestrade?" Sherlock roared.
The inspector hurried into the room. "What... What did you do to the table?"
"That's not important! Did the police raid any street peddlers yesterday, specifically any involving jewelry?"
"That's not really my division," Lestrade replied.
"Find out!"
Lestrade made a few calls and within minutes had a reply.
"No, there were no raids, but there was an altercation involving a vendor and a tourist. The tourist made a mess of the vendor's tables. The vendor sold homemade jewelry. Cheap stuff, you know, nothing worth much."
"And where was this?"
Lestrade provided an address in one of London's sleazier districts.
"That's where we'll find our bomber."
TBC