Chapter 8

"The moment there is suspicion about a person's motives, everything he does becomes tainted."

- Mahatma Gandhi


"Mr. Holmes...come in. Sit down."

Sherlock and John entered Greene's office. Unlike their last visit, there were stacks of papers piled on his desk, all askew, precariously balanced among one another.

"I know you didn't want to check out the boat, but I went ahead and did it myself. We didn't find much, but…" Greene trailed off as he reached for a bag in one of the drawers, "...we got this."

Inside the plastic evidence bag was a brown, leather wallet.

Sherlock picked it up and examined through its transparent container.

Regularly used, but empty...travelling?

"Owner?"

"No ID."

"Fingerprints?"

"Still working on that."

"Probably just the victim's." John said. "It was his boat."

"But why would it have been necessary to bring a wallet at all? If he had, then it would have stayed in his pocket, unless he had a reason to take it out, which he wouldn't have."

"So you think it belongs to a second party?"

Sherlock paused before answering, "No need to jump to conclusions, Detective."

An officer opened the door behind them and peered in. "Sir...it's another one."

Greene stood immediately, "Where?"

"21st street...that architect place."

"On our way."


It was Boulder Associates Architects, a high-end company specializing in modern architecture. Despite their reputability, the building they worked from was a small, brick building, with nothing particularly architectural. It was out-of-the-way, with a small bus stop and a few trees outside.

Inside, it was certainly more stylized, but no one paid much attention to the building. Sherlock scanned the first room for a body, but didn't find one. He pushed through the crowd of officers and paramedics, and soon, John followed behind him. Greene called to them, "He's still alive!"

When his words registered, Sherlock came upon a group of paramedics huddled around a gurney. As they wheeled it away, Sherlock caught a glimpse of the victim: a boy, no older than ten, with blood-soaked hair and a lifeless body. His chest would rise and lower rhythmically, indicating that he was still breathing.

John sighed with relief. "He made it."

Sherlock smirked. "The killer's first mistake…they always make one."

"Sherlock…"

"He left a victim alive."

"Yes. Now this kid gets to live. Why don't we celebrate for a change?"

Greene stepped towards them, "They think he'll survive," he said, grinning. "He's going to the hospital...he's in no condition for questioning. I'll show you where he was found," he motioned for them to follow him into a short corridor. They were handed gloves before they entered a small office.

There was a blood stain on the carpet, marking where the victim landed when he was-

"Attempted cause of death?" Sherlock asked.

"Tried to smash his head in. With what, we don't know."

The blood stain marked where the victim landed when he was hit, but it wasn't enough to kill him.

Why didn't he strike again?

On the floor, an arm's-length away from the blood, was a piece of vellum. It read '181'.

He saw one of the investigators pick up a pair of glasses from the floor and carefully place them in a plastic bag. At his feet, he could see small shards of glass-the glasses were broken. He assumed that they fell off when the victim was knocked over, and in the struggle, were stepped on.

"Whose office is this?"

"The victim's father's. He works here."

"And he found his son?"

"Yep. He went to the hospital with him. I think we should give them some space for a while."

"Name?"

"James Harper is the father, and his son is Aaron Harper. And guess what?"

Sherlock turned his head to Greene, with a look of mock curiosity.

"They're from across the pond, too!" he said, failing to successfully mimic and English accent.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John pulled Sherlock to the other side of the room, out of earshot. "Don't you think that there's something-"

"John, we don't have time for speculation."

"No, just-listen. These scenes...the murders...there's something...I dunno...surreal about them, don't you think?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Like...it's like this weird feeling of deja vu."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "John…have you-"

But before Sherlock could finish his sentence, his eyes flicked to the window, which looked out to the front of the building: the bus stop. A bus had pulled up, and when the doors opened, he saw Caraway step out and onto the pavement.

Sherlock quickly asked Greene for the wallet he had found in the boat and ran off with it. Greene called after him, but Sherlock was nearly out the door. He stopped abruptly, calmly exiting the building and headed towards Caraway.

When he saw Sherlock, his eyes widened again, "Mr. Holmes?"

"Mr. Caraway...could I ask what you were doing on the bus?"

"I was...just coming back from the funeral. My car is still in the shop. Wh-What are you doing here?"

"Is this your wallet?" he asked as he held it up.

"Oh my God...yes, uh, where was it? I've been looking for it since yesterday," he took it from Sherlock's hands.

"Yesterday?"

"Yeah...uh...where's all of my stuff?"

"It was empty when we found it."

"'We'?"

"It was found in a fishing boat."

"Well...I don't fish-"

"The boat of a murder victim, Mr. Caraway," Sherlock said simply.

Caraway didn't react at first. He slowly slipped the wallet into his pocket and glared at Sherlock.

"I was in England, Mr. Holmes. You saw me. This has been missing since yesterday. How could my wallet have been in America while I was in England?"

"I never said I suspected you."

"But you do suspect me, don't you."

"...Yes."

Caraway groaned. "I've had enough of your-"

"Sherlock?" John interrupted from the front entrance, "Seashell...there's a seashell in the office."

"Wh-John, I'm in the middle of an interrogation."

"Seashell. In the office. Huge."

"So?"

"Fingerprints."

"John, if you would speak in complete sentences, that would be immensely helpful. Whose fingerprints?"

John held up his finger and pointed at Caraway.