Behind Closed Doors
CHAPTER 2.
Jackson Rattiger is all over the news the next day. The press has not wasted any time putting two and two together and they are already hinting at a possible serial killer roaming the streets in West London.
Lestrade phones a little later to know if they have any leads. They don't. He speaks with Sherlock, and the conversation is very short. The DI recounts his recent interview of Rattiger's little sister and next of kin and the consulting detective deems it all uninteresting. Knowing of the deceased passions and joys in life is not going to help him find the killer and he tells the Yarder as much. Sherlock is all but ready to hang up, when Lestrade quickly lets him know he has one more thing for him and that this one will interest him.
"Rattiger worked as a teacher for The William Hogarth School last year," he says quickly. "That's the same school Karl Millagan went to."
"So they knew each other," Sherlock says in the receiver, with interest.
"Quite possibly. Rattiger only worked there three months and I don't know yet if he had Millagan in one of his classes, but it's something to go on."
"Very interesting indeed, Lestrade," Sherlock says. "Got to go."
"John?" he calls up, louder, once he has pocketed his phone. His flatmate's head peers in living room seconds later.
"New lead?" he asks.
"Rattiger worked at Millagan's school. Get ready, we're going there."
o0o
The headmaster of William Hogarth doesn't seem very pleased to talk with police consultants. She waves them in their office with a lean and rigid hand, the motion sharp as a slap. She sits at her desk and looks at them over the rim of thick spectacles with tight hawk-like eyes that make John uneasy.
"What do you want to know?" she asks without preamble.
"Karl Millagan and Jackson Rattiger were both murdered recently and the only connection between the two is this school." Sherlock dives in with his usual subtlety.
"If you're suggesting we're implicated in some way, you've lost your mind, young man," she says tersely in reply as if she was scolding one of her pupils. "Mr Rattiger was a part of our staff for only a short period of time last year. We had to let him go when we realized he wasn't what we were looking for."
"Millagan was in his class," the detective states, with the same cutting tone. Match made in Heaven, John sarcastically thinks. He estimates they have another three minutes before they're thrown out of the school.
"I didn't say that," the headmaster counters coldly and Sherlock sniggers.
"This whole thing puts you in a rather dire situation, doesn't it? What with the impending inspection from the Ofsted," he trails on as if he hadn't been interrupted. "You're afraid to lose some of your local donators and that would impend the upcoming renovations you've planned for the school. So you're hoping to get rid of us as quickly as you can, to make a few of those reassuring phone calls you're so desperate to do and also possibly to get that long awaited drink from that bottle of sherry you're trying hard not to think about."
The headmaster clearly pales at his words. Her lips become a fine red line and John can hear her teeth grinding from the pressure of her set jaw.
"I never said Millagan was in Rattiger's class," she says again through still tight lips.
"You didn't have to," Sherlock replies. "The report is still on the left of your desk." With that final blow, he gets up and motions for John to do the same. "If you've forgotten it already-" he adds as parting words "-then you're the one who has lost your mind."
They're escorted outside the school perimeter instants later with specific instructions never to return.
"Well, that went well." the former soldier says as they stroll down the street.
"Oh, don't give me that look," Sherlock says, turning the lapels of his coat up again. "She's more interested in the reputation of her precious school than the murder of one of her pupils," the venom is evident in his voice and that has John smiling.
"And she dared insult that wonderful mind of yours... clearly she had it coming," he says with mirth.
The detective tries to appear unaffected by the joke, but he can't quite stop the right corner of his mouth to turn up in half a smile.
"What now?" John asks more seriously. "We know the two victims knew each other. Could still be a coincidence, but seems unlikely."
"I need to see the park again," Sherlock replies as he hails a cab.
o0o
"What do you see?" the detective asks, standing exactly where the corpse of Rattiger was found.
"Grass, trees, bushes, rocks," the doctor rattles off. "It's a park, Sherlock, like any other park."
The taller man regards him with his my-god-what-must-it-be-like-in-your-head look again.
"The boy came to the park to spend time at the pond, but it is a good five minute walk away from where we are," he starts explaining, right hand waving around to indicate the direction. "The path, which a runner might want to take to exercise, is a good thirty feet away in that direction." Another wave of his hand. "There's a CCTV camera at the entrance of the park but it's not covering this area, and with these bushes." A third wave of lean fingers. "Passers-by couldn't have seen what was going on here."
"Okay," John says. "So not a random location. The victims were killed here because it was a convenient place."
Sherlock gives him the look again and the doctor braces himself for another list of things he must have missed.
"Look at the grass, John," the detective says instead as if all the answers were at their feet. The blogger lowers his gaze again and really looks, trying to see the world the way his friend does.
"Grass not mowed recently. Not of very good quality like you would find in a golf club or a really well tended to garden," the blonde adds hesitantly, thinking how strange it was to be describing grass out loud. "Several imprints of shoes here and there," he continues. If he looks closely enough, he can see his own footprints and Sherlock's. "Ours and quite possibly those of half of Scotland Yard." He gazes up briefly at his flatmate to see if he was doing this right, the younger man nods at him to continue.
He doesn't really know what to observe anymore and he's about to tell Sherlock as much when a sudden thought interrupts him; he remembers their latest case in a flash and looks at the ground and their surroundings once more.
"No mud from the recent rain," he says a little bit proud at himself for getting it this time. "The large trees prevented the water from hitting this part of the park," Sherlock gives him what he thinks is a praising smile at that. It's a definite sign that he is on the right track; except his thoughts have hit a dead-end.
"Look at the grass, John" Sherlock advises again feeling his friend is at a standstill.
The blogger does, but he only sees green and brown. There's no friendly clue jumping up at him, waving its hand and calling out to him notice me, notice me. He only sees strands of herb, dead leaves and the occasional pine needle. "It's just grass," the blonde says again. There's nothing out of the ordinary about it; it doesn't look like two people were murdered here recently.
"Oh," he says suddenly, realizing it really doesn't look like two people were murdered here. "Oh," he repeats peering up at the brunette, with a somewhat comical surprised expression on his face. "They weren't killed here," he rushes out the thought and Sherlock smiles brightly.
John gazes back down, amazed. It has taken him about fifteen minutes to see it and he probably never would have made the connection if his friend hadn't kept telling him to look but he has the absolute certainty that the detective had seen everything mere minutes after their arrival.
"No, they were not. With the amount of beating they took, there should be blood splatter all over the area, but there are only small drops where the bodies were found," Sherlock confirms. "They were killed elsewhere and dumped here."
"This looks less and less like random murders," the sandy-haired man speaks his thoughts aloud once more.
His friend distractedly hums is agreement. He stands tall, turning on himself slowly, and casts his eyes all around him.
"We need to find the path the killer used to come here," he says finally.
"CCTV camera at the entrance," John remembers. He peers to his right and sees bits of the walking path through the bushes. This seems an unlikely venue: too much possible witnesses. On his left though, are the sturdy trees that kept the rain at bay.
"Through the trees?" John offers, thinking it was easy to go back to the A402 through them. There was a small iron barrier on the border of the park, but it was only 3 feet tall.
"Most likely," Sherlock agrees, walking off in that direction. "Keep your eyes peeled," the detective advises, as they stalk off in the dense vegetation.
o0o
Once they reach the fence they discover that their assumption is correct. There are some more droplets of blood near the iron bars. Most likely at the place where the killer lifted the corpses over the rim before escalading the barrier himself.
The detective finds some strands of a dark synthetic fibre on one of the iron bars, which he pockets immediately.
"The Millagans live on Stamford Brook Road," John comments, peering over the fence. "It's not even five minutes from here."
He gazes left and right at the road. "Residential area; must not have a lot of traffic in the middle of the night."
"Yes," Sherlock agrees. "Easy to park, unload a corpse from the boot of a car and quickly toss it over the fence without being noticed."
The detective takes the strands he found out of his pocket and holds it out to John. "Synthetic. Too rough for clothing."
"Car boot carpet?" John asks, understandingly. "You should give it to Lestrade, they can maybe find the car manufacturer from it."
"Fat lot of good that will do," the dark-haired man replies. "What if it says Ford? Should we go and arrest all the Ford drivers of London."
"It's evidence, Sherlock," John chastises.
"Fine," he says reluctantly. "You go take the evidence to Lestrade." The detective quickly jumps over the fence. "I'm going back to Baker Street."
o0o
Sherlock comes back to the flat with a headache. He shrugs off his coat and leaves it in a heap on his chair with his vest. He's feeling too warm and he goes to open a window. Cool air greets him and he breathes a little easier. His body is trying to tell him something and he curses at its basic needs. He quickly wonders when it was that he last ate anything. He can't remember - which to him is clearly a sign it's time to eat a little bit again - except he's not hungry at all.
Thinking a good smoke would do nicely instead, he walks to the skull in the hopes of finding a pack of fags underneath it. The cigarettes are gone: they've been replaced by a three inches high chocolate bunny holding a very orange marzipan carrot.
He's puzzled and he turns back to the living to ask John why he keeps finding candies all over the place, only to remember he sent his flatmate to New Scotland Yard. Feeling too tired to search the flat for his cigarettes; he takes the bunny in his hand and bites his head off in protest. He walks back to the sofa and eats the rest of the strange creature but it does little to appease his headache.
He purposefully brushes his body's needs aside and throws all his energy into the case that litters the coffee table. He looks at the list of wounds on the coroner's files and tries to conjure up a mental picture of the assailant. A man, most definitely. Tall and strong to be able to overpower Rattiger. Owns a car, with a boot big enough to stuff a grown man inside. Someone who lives in the area, given his good knowledge of the park. Someone with violent urges and a thirst for blood.
The words in front of him blur and he blinks rapidly to sharpen his vision. It works for a few minutes but then the words blur again and he realises that it isn't food that his body is requesting but sleep. Passing a wary hand through his hair, he curses at his body's weakness.
Between the art-theft case and this one, he has only indulged in small naps here and there for two weeks and it was apparently taking its toll on him. "Sleeping is so dull," he criticizes out loud. "There are so much more interesting things to be doing instead."
His body doesn't seem to agree with his train of thoughts and an unwanted yawn escapes his lips. He gazes at the table to remind himself he has better things to be doing than sleeping. The edges of his vision blur again and he considers taking a short nap. But then he remembers how his last nap has ended and he realizes he really doesn't want to be sleeping again anytime soon.
That's all very well, except his body feels terribly heavy to him now. Even the simplest of movement - like reaching for a photograph of the first crime scene - seems to require an unusual amount of energy. He yawns loudly as he studies the image an instant before dropping it back on the table. It lends next to the Millagan family portrait John has left there. What was it he had called it? A little incentive to make them more determined, he remembers after a second.
He takes the frame in his right hand and peers at it with curiosity; it feels heavy in his grasp. He never really understood the purpose of having family portraits made. Only people with a terribly bad memory needed to have printed reminders of their relatives. He knew he didn't require a resin-coated piece of paper to remember his sibling's features. He couldn't forget what Mycroft looked like even if he wanted to. He had tried to delete his nosy, meddling and insufferable older brother from his mind several times already, to no avail.
He gazes at the offending portrait once more. There's a light uneasiness that creeps over him when he looks at it. It doesn't quite make his skin crawl but it definitely stirs something dark within him. He cannot rationally explain his reaction to the innocent item in his hand and swallows thickly before placing it back on the table. He averts his heavy-lidded gaze and decides to attribute the odd sensation to his sleep-deprived body acting up in protest. Leaning back more comfortably in the sofa he stifles another yawn and without noticing it, falls into a deep slumber.
When he reopens his eyes he finds himself inside a large corridor. He remembers it and realises at once he's dreaming again.
He tries to take a better look at his surroundings this time, but the corridor is still dimly lit and he cannot make out much besides the deep crimson carpet and the dark wooden walls. He walks forward to the room that he knows is at the end of the path, bare feet finally stopping in front of a dark mahogany door. Long and lean porcelain-white fingers tighten around the antique golden door handle and he pushes it open soundlessly.
Bright light assaults him once more and he shields his eyes with his left hand against it. The fear grips him as it did the first time and he stands frozen in the entrance, unable to move forward or even lower his hand. The sharp noise he cannot recognise echoes again on his left and his insides coil. It's a battle of will between his curiosity and his fear and he finally takes two steps inside, lowering his hand a little. The light is still burning his retina and he can only see white through his squinting eyes. He knows he's not alone. He has the absolute certainty there is someone else on his left but he cannot make himself turn his head to look. His gaze constantly shifts to the right.
Through the brightness he can barely make out the bookshelves and the small wooden table. He wants to take a step to the left but his body walks to the right instead and he peers down at the table with the fine crystal decanters and set of matching glasses. A framed photograph is standing next to them. It's the Millagan family portrait and it makes his stomach lurch. The echoes of a voice resound in his ears, it sounds like his name but it's distorted.
He wakes up with a start, eyes shooting open at once.
"Sherlock?" John asks again with a frown. He's standing in the entrance of the kitchen, with his phone clutched in his left hand.
"What?" the young man barks, fighting to appear collected as the last fragment of his dream release the hold they have on his mind.
"You alright?" John's frown deepens as he notices his friend's too rapid breathing and even paler than usual features.
"I'm fine," the young man replies in a terse voice, which is clearly an invitation to drop the subject. "What is it?" he asks again, pointedly looking at the phone in the doctor's hand.
"There's been a third victim," he replies. "Same MO, same location."
TBC.
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