Sunday night I retired to a couch in the corner of the downstairs dorm
study area with a pizza.
"If he doesn't show, I'm eating it all," I promised myself.
Fortunately for my health I didn't have to wait too long. Before I could eat my first piece Damien was throwing himself down on the other end of the couch. He yawned and ran a hand through his hair in a vain attempt to bring it to some order. Seeming to realize that it was useless, he reached for the pizza.
"I didn't sleep last night and I haven't eaten since this morning," he muttered as he chewed.
"And who's fault is that?" I said as I watched him wolf down the food, "I bet you haven't taken a shower either."
"No, I haven't" he said with a roguish grin, "that's what cologne is for."
I rolled my eyes.
"So what was important enough to make you give up hygiene?" I asked.
"Going through old case files at the station and back issues of the newspaper in the library."
Somehow that answer didn't surprise me in the slightest.
"And?"
"And I found out a good deal about Mr. Goodland," Sherlock said, "seems he was in a gang, the Scorpions. Not a pacifist group by any means either. They were territory rivals with the Westenders and the White Knights. The White Knights were neo-Nazis."
"Gang hit?" I said, "that would explain the German."
Sherlock shook his head.
"First, I don't think a rival gang could have gotten Mr. Goodland to voluntarily blow his head off and secondly all active members of the gang are either behind bars or dead. They were basically wiped out by the police and rival gangs."
"So the German was a set up," I commented.
"Looks like it," Sherlock said.
"So we still have nothing," I said sadly.
"We're getting there," he said, "now about that calculus."
Two hours later I had a slight grasp on my test material while Sherlock looked like he was about to give way to exhaustion.
"I'm sorry," I said, "you really did help me though. That used to be my father's job."
"Stealing his work am I?"
"He died a few months ago," I said with a slight catch in my throat.
Sherlock jerked his head up.
"I'm sorry," he said, genuinely sounding so, "I didn't know."
"It's all right. I'm sort of coping," I said, "it was a car wreck. I had no regrets about stuff with us when he was alive so that helps you know? I have nothing I'd want to do over."
Sherlock became very quite. I figured I had made him uncomfortable.
"I don't know where my real father is," he said suddenly, "I don't want to know. He wasn't a good person."
I got the feeling he didn't want to stop there so I waited.
"He treated my Mum…" he trailed off, trying to keep his face impassive, "that's why we left."
I impulsively put my hand on his wrist. What he wasn't saying was how his father had treated him. I imagined the worst.
"Anyone who touches a woman like that doesn't deserve to be in society," he said with bitter intensity, "it's only a coward who knocks around a woman who can't defend herself and never did anything. And I didn't do anything about it."
"It wasn't your fault."
"It felt like it. I should have been able to stop it."
That's when I realized Damien Holmes' less than cordial personality was just an attempt of a little boy to protect himself and make up for guilt over something he had no control over.
"We came to the US and she got remarried eventually," he went on, "my stepfather is pretty well off, so I think Mum always tried to make up for what happened by giving me everything she could. She never understood. My stepfather didn't understand. My stepbrother never understood."
He looked at me and snapped back to the present.
"I shouldn't have gotten into that," he said, "I'm sorry."
"Don't be, I'm not telling anyone, and you need to talk, I do too."
He smiled and we suddenly both jerked when his cell phone went off at that minute.
"Hullo," he said and after a moment, "we'll be there tomorrow."
He turned off the phone and looked up at me.
"There was another murder with another 'RACHE'. And this one didn't shoot himself."
"If he doesn't show, I'm eating it all," I promised myself.
Fortunately for my health I didn't have to wait too long. Before I could eat my first piece Damien was throwing himself down on the other end of the couch. He yawned and ran a hand through his hair in a vain attempt to bring it to some order. Seeming to realize that it was useless, he reached for the pizza.
"I didn't sleep last night and I haven't eaten since this morning," he muttered as he chewed.
"And who's fault is that?" I said as I watched him wolf down the food, "I bet you haven't taken a shower either."
"No, I haven't" he said with a roguish grin, "that's what cologne is for."
I rolled my eyes.
"So what was important enough to make you give up hygiene?" I asked.
"Going through old case files at the station and back issues of the newspaper in the library."
Somehow that answer didn't surprise me in the slightest.
"And?"
"And I found out a good deal about Mr. Goodland," Sherlock said, "seems he was in a gang, the Scorpions. Not a pacifist group by any means either. They were territory rivals with the Westenders and the White Knights. The White Knights were neo-Nazis."
"Gang hit?" I said, "that would explain the German."
Sherlock shook his head.
"First, I don't think a rival gang could have gotten Mr. Goodland to voluntarily blow his head off and secondly all active members of the gang are either behind bars or dead. They were basically wiped out by the police and rival gangs."
"So the German was a set up," I commented.
"Looks like it," Sherlock said.
"So we still have nothing," I said sadly.
"We're getting there," he said, "now about that calculus."
Two hours later I had a slight grasp on my test material while Sherlock looked like he was about to give way to exhaustion.
"I'm sorry," I said, "you really did help me though. That used to be my father's job."
"Stealing his work am I?"
"He died a few months ago," I said with a slight catch in my throat.
Sherlock jerked his head up.
"I'm sorry," he said, genuinely sounding so, "I didn't know."
"It's all right. I'm sort of coping," I said, "it was a car wreck. I had no regrets about stuff with us when he was alive so that helps you know? I have nothing I'd want to do over."
Sherlock became very quite. I figured I had made him uncomfortable.
"I don't know where my real father is," he said suddenly, "I don't want to know. He wasn't a good person."
I got the feeling he didn't want to stop there so I waited.
"He treated my Mum…" he trailed off, trying to keep his face impassive, "that's why we left."
I impulsively put my hand on his wrist. What he wasn't saying was how his father had treated him. I imagined the worst.
"Anyone who touches a woman like that doesn't deserve to be in society," he said with bitter intensity, "it's only a coward who knocks around a woman who can't defend herself and never did anything. And I didn't do anything about it."
"It wasn't your fault."
"It felt like it. I should have been able to stop it."
That's when I realized Damien Holmes' less than cordial personality was just an attempt of a little boy to protect himself and make up for guilt over something he had no control over.
"We came to the US and she got remarried eventually," he went on, "my stepfather is pretty well off, so I think Mum always tried to make up for what happened by giving me everything she could. She never understood. My stepfather didn't understand. My stepbrother never understood."
He looked at me and snapped back to the present.
"I shouldn't have gotten into that," he said, "I'm sorry."
"Don't be, I'm not telling anyone, and you need to talk, I do too."
He smiled and we suddenly both jerked when his cell phone went off at that minute.
"Hullo," he said and after a moment, "we'll be there tomorrow."
He turned off the phone and looked up at me.
"There was another murder with another 'RACHE'. And this one didn't shoot himself."