The Private Journal of Sherlock Holmes

April 11

Called Lestrade at midnight. He must have been asleep because he wasn't answering texts. He thankfully does not pitch a fit when I call him late, and usually shows up in good time when I need him to. I needed him to let me into the police gun range. I'd have broken in, as I often do with the morgue and the forensic laboratory, but the drawback to live fire is that the night watchman tends to notice.

I told Lestrade to bring me a .12 gauge pump-action shotgun, some buckshot, and a Desert Eagle with .50 AE rounds. "What?" He squawked. "Where the hell am I going to get-"

"Don't play games," I said. "I know you have an entire arsenal locked in evidence. And let's not forget your own personal collection."

"How do you know about that?" he asked, clearly floored. I decided it would be better to not tell him I'd pick-pocketed his keys, made copies and searched his flat when we'd first met. I'd suspected him of taking graft. Fortunately, when confronted, he explained that he had been under cover.

"Meet me at the range in an hour," I said, and pressed the end key on my mobile.

An hour and ten minutes later, Lestrade got out of his sedan, a large black gym bag in one hand.

"You're late," I said.

He handed me the bag and growled, "Yes, well, it took me a little while to get my hands on your bloody anti-aircraft guns."

"Cheers," I said. He heaved a sigh, and went to unlock the doors.

We signed in with the night watchman, and went into the sound-proofed shooting gallery. I unzipped the bag, and looked at Lestrade. "Shotgun or pistol?"

He eyed the guns, then bent down and picked up the shotgun. "What exactly are we meant to accomplish here?"

"Come now, you aren't that dim."

"Sherlock."

"We're shooting off high-powered firearms. What did you think?"

"That did occur to me, but why?"

"Patience, Detective Inspector. All shall be revealed."

I balanced the Desert Eagle in one hand, then took a stall. Lestrade followed my lead, and took the stall next to me. I pulled a little digital recorder out of my pocket and set it on the ledge. "When I count to three, I want you to wait a second, then fire three times."

"Okay."

"One...two...three!" I hit the record button on the digital recorder, then raised the pistol in both hands, braced myself and squeezed off two rounds, perfectly in time with the blasts erupting next to me.

I halted the recording. "Good. Now, I want you to fire three blasts. I'll fire two shots after you. Then the reverse, two shots, a beat, and three blasts. Got it?"

"Got it."

I pressed the record button again, and we fired in the first sequence, then the second. To Lestrade's credit, he had perfect timing. I popped the clip out of the handgun and handed it to him. He looked at me, frowning.

"What was the point of that? Why the spaces between? We know the the weapons in the car were never discharged; they had to have been killed simultaneously."

"Oh, use your head, Lestrade. How long does it take to shoot through bullet-resistant glass with a weapon like that?" I indicated the shotgun in his hand.

Now he was visibly confused. "What are you getting at? Are you saying they were killed one after the other? How is that possible?"

"You're getting warmer. Find the driver's body, and you'll get a clearer idea." I held up the little recorder. "I have to get back to Baker Street. I have to interview a witness tomorrow."

"What witness?" Lestrade demanded. "We don't have a witness."

"Not yet. I've got work to do." I turned away and walked away. "Au revior."

Back at the flat, I sat down in front of my glowing computer screen. I loaded the recording into an editing program, and cut up the file into manageable pieces. Then I signed off, and wandered into my bedroom. I spent the next six hours staring up at my ceiling, trying to turn my mind off, with no success.

I must have fallen into a doze, because I was awoken by knocking at my door. I checked the clock: 8:34. I pulled myself up and shrugged into my bathrobe. Mrs. Hudson was hovering a few feet back from the door, as if I might charge out with a tyre iron in hand. I yawned. "What?"

"There's, um...someone to see you. Downstairs."

"A disenfranchised individual?"

She looked slightly relieved at being supplied with a politically correct term. "Yes. She says you want to see her."

"Send her up. John!" I called up the stairs. I could hear his snoring through his door. I took the stairs three steps at a time, and pounded on his door. "Wake up."

A moment later, he'd ambled down in running sweats and a Van Halen shirt. He jumped as he saw my guest. "Jesus."

The woman was looking at both of us warily. Homelessness had not been kind to her. Her face was deeply lined, and grimy. What little of her hair I could see under her hood had gone to dreadlocks from lack of washing. She might have been forty or seventy. She had the faint smell of schizophrenia on her, but she seemed alert as she took a cautious step towards John and said in a raspy voice, "Mr. Holmes?" She emphasized the "h", clearly trying not to drop it.

"No, he's-" he paused, recovered quickly. "My name is John. It's nice to meet you."

"I'm Sadie," she said, looking uncertainly at me.

"Sadie...?" I waited for her to supply a last name, but was unsurprised by her reticence. I offered my hand, hoping to put her at ease.

She looked at it for a moment, then shook it by two fingers. "Just Sadie."

"Okay, Just Sadie. Did you get my note?"

She handed me a dirty piece of notepaper with my handwriting on it: Information re: April 10. Apply at 21 B Baker Street, ask for Sherlock Holmes- £100. I took the note, then crumpled it up and tossed it in the fire grate. "Have a seat."

She sat down on the sofa. I took my laptop and set it on the coffee table, then plugged my speakers into the headphone jack. "Sadie, I want to ask you what happened the night before last. At the building site. Would you be willing to record your answers for me?"

"S'long as no one at the camp's bothered."

"You have my word." I said. "Tell me, were you at the camp all night?"

"Yeah. Few of my mates, too. It were cold."

"Did you hear something during the night?"

She nodded. "Shooters. Lots of 'em. Loud, like. I looked outside but there were a big dirt pile in the way. We cleared out when we heard the sirens."

"I'm going to play some recordings for you. I want you to tell me if any of them are close to what you heard."

"'Kay."

I pushed the space bar, and the first file played. The sound was a cacophony of gunfire. It was difficult to identify the pistol shots from the shotgun blasts. It stopped after about ten seconds.

Sadie shook her head. "No, it weren't like that. Not all at once, like."

I played the next file for her, three blasts, and two shots. She shook her head again. "No, it were more like-"

I held up a hand and she fell quiet. I tapped the space bar one more time, and the last sequence played. "Well?"

"Yeah, it were more like that," she said confidently. "But there were more space between the bangs and the booms."

Satisfied, I leaned back in my chair and put my fingers together.

"It were still wrong, though," Sadie broke in. "There were only one bang. One bang, then three booms."

"One shot?" I demanded, my attention seized. " Are you certain?"

"I know what I heard, Mr. Holmes," she said stubbornly. "Are you still gonna pay me?"

I focused all my intensity on her. "Would you be willing to testify to that at Scotland Yard?"

She hesitated. I scooted my chair forward and looked her in the eyes. "You wouldn't have to sit in the courtroom. Just sign a statement that what you've told me here is accurate."

"Would I get another reward?" she asked optimistically.

I looked over at John, who gave a tiny shrug, then pressed the stop button on my recorder. "That can be arranged."

"Okay."

I got up out of my chair and went over to my desk. I pulled out a roll of notes, and peeled off two fifties. I held them out to her. "When you go to Scotland Yard, ask for Detective Inspector Lestrade, and tell him I sent you."

"I'll do that. I'd best be going, Mr. Holmes."

"One more thing, Sadie. You need to see a doctor soon, today if you can. There's a good clinic in Lambeth. I can order a taxi, if you'd like."

She expressed no surprise, but appraised me with cool eyes. She squirreled her cash into an inside pocket of her long coat and turned away. "I can take the bus."

Both John and I watched her retreating back as she walked down the stairs. I went to a kitchen cupboard, pulled out a can of Lysol and a bottle of hand sanitizer. I tossed the can to John, who caught it and held it, watching me.

"How did you know?"

I pumped some sanitizer out and rubbed it into my skin. "I saw the rash on her wrist when she shook my hand. Didn't you see how gingerly she was walked? Sores on her feet."

John started to spray some of the Lysol on the sofa. "It must be pretty far along. Doctor might not be able to do much at this stage."

"Just as long as she gives her statement before she bites the big one. Never underestimate the healing power of Rivatril and Oxycontin."

John stopped and looked hard at me for a full minute. "You're really sick, you know that?"

"I am aware of the fact, doctor," I deadpanned. "Trust me when I say there is no cure."

He looked at me for another moment, apparently trying to find some admonishment, but gave up. "I'm going to Sarah's."

"Physician, heal thyself," I said softly, but he was already up the stairs.