The taxi pulled up to the curb and John paid. The duo was met with Lestrade who was waiting for them on a pathway. "Ah, good, this one's up your alley," Lestrade said to them as they joined him. Sherlock nodded.

"Who found him?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade fumbled with his notepad before he answered."Some joggers out for a walk, found him hanging off the side the fountain," he gestured.

Lestrade led them to where Donovan and the others were. The area was tapped off and there was the body with an arm in the fountain. Putting gloves on, the duo approached the body. John looked at the head. It was bloodied; the man was bludgeoned from an object. It appeared he took several punches to the face beforehand, a black eye in his right. From a medical standpoint, he was bludgeoned long enough to cause his brain catastrophic damage, causing it to bleed. If he didn't die from the blood loss caused by the bludgeoning, the brain bleeding did. And looking at his feet, John noticed he lived long enough to push himself toward the fountain, likely to get away from the murderer.

"He bled to death internally around midnight," John summed.

Sherlock went through the body's pockets. He found the wallet and proceeded to check it. Inside was the ID for a Wallace Braham, aged 50. He was head administrator for none other than Sinclair Riverside. How interesting, this case has become.

"John," Sherlock showed him. John looked at it and winced. "Could've been Alice?" John questioned. Sherlock looked at the body. No, it couldn't. Sherlock doubted Alice would kill anyone. Someone else killed Wallace Braham, why is anyone's guess."John, what if someone wanted to pin it on Alice?" Sherlock suggested. Who else besides Wallace would know what Alice's triggers were, but those who worked to care for him?

"Suppose you're right, what would Wallace be killed for?" John shrugged. Being a head administrator, Wallace would've had far more control over Sinclair Riverside than anyone else. Suppose it was power play, someone wanted Wallace's spot and had the notions to kill for it. However, switching in a different head administrator so soon would be suspicious as it is. So, what else could've made someone kill Wallace?

"If not power play, what else?" Sherlock mused. John blinked and thought about it. His theory included drugs. A mental institution would've had plenty. Suppose whoever killed Wallace wanted drugs and Wallace wasn't having it. Or, as John thought more about it, Wallace was killed over a drugs sale gone wrong. Either he or his murderer wanted more, money or drugs, and fought. The murderer had the upper hand and brutally killed Wallace, taking the drugs and money with them. Similar happened before, likely it's happened again.

"Suppose Wallace was selling drugs under the table?" John suggested. Sherlock mulled over it and made it one of his theories. "Makes sense, but how does Alice play into it?" Sherlock wondered.

John pondered before he said, "Because he witnessed the murder. It makes sense now. He saw the killer, became spooked, and ran off."

"How did he get American bills, though?" Sherlock looked at him.

John chewed on his lips. "Perhaps they were given to him, to make him the suspect, a cover up," he suggested. It made sense.

Sherlock looked over to Lestrade. He asked, "Who witnessed the murder?"

"Ah, a mental patient," Lestrade thumbed through his notepad. He stopped when he got to the page. "One of the mental patients from Sinclair Riverside was said to have "seen him looming over Wallace". As part of his rehabilitation program, he worked as a clerk for the nearby library. He called us actually, but claimed we "wouldn't believe him". We tried to find him, but he's been missing since last night. Sinclair Riverside called me and confirmed that an Alice Walker had went missing after getting off his shift last night," Lestrade summed his notes for them. Sherlock and John exchanged looks.

"Sir, how did he witness the murder?" John asked.

Lestrade answered. "He was supposed to be walking through here to get to the bus scheduled for Sinclair Riverside around the time the murder happened," he said.

Sherlock then asked his question. "How did he contact you?" he asked.

Lestrade continued. "He used a business's phone. He never told us anything more than the murder. We tried to find him, but the business wasn't much help," Lestrade sighed.

Sherlock wrote it all down in his head before asking the question, "Did Sinclair Riverside say anything about Wallace Braham?"

"Only that it he was supposed to been at a dinner party last night with other administrators at a fancy restaurant, what they were discussing at the dinner party I couldn't get right then, but when we checked to confirm, there was no dinner party scheduled for last night nor the administrators know about it," Lestrade summed.

"So, what does it mean?" John asked Sherlock. Sherlock studied the body. There had been to a reason for why Wallace was out here. Why, Sherlock aimed to find out.

Sherlock finally answered John. "It means we go to Sinclair Riverside," he said. He then glanced over to Lestrade, "Send him forthwith."

"Right, one corpse to Oxford," Lestrade nodded. He began to bark orders toward those coming toward the scene with the gurney.

John glanced around. He stopped when he noticed a peculiar raven on the sign for a sweets shop. It was a large black raven and from afar it looked like any other. But as it was cleaning its feathers, John noticed its beak was shining. Birds' beaks don't shine, do they?

"John," Sherlock waved a hand in front of his face. John blinked before looking at Sherlock. "Sherlock, don't you see the raven?"

"What raven?" Sherlock glanced around. John pointed. "It was sitting on the sweets shop's sign," he said. Sherlock glanced at the sign and found no bird there. "I don't see it, John," he shook his head.

John was miffed. "It was there, I know it was there, I saw it," he insisted. Sherlock checked around again, the bird wasn't there. John looked to where he had seen the raven. Like Sherlock, he didn't see it.

Sherlock looked at him. "Are you alright?" he asked.

John sighed and nodded. "I guess I let my imagination run off on me," he muttered.