Chapter Eleven- 2003 Cold Turkey Cases Part Three


Sunday was worse. When Greg emerged from his bedroom, he found Sherlock wrapped up in the blanket sitting up on the sofa, but staring blankly into the room. He looked awful.

"Can you eat?"

Sherlock gave one tiny shake of his head, but avoided eye contact completely. Greg went to the corner shop and brought a paper back. He wasn't even sure that Sherlock had realised he was gone. The mug of black coffee he'd left behind had gone cold, untouched.

Greg sighed. An hour later, and the young man was still a picture of misery. It made Greg feel helpless. He just asked quietly, "what can I do to make this any easier on you?" Sherlock didn't look up. "Find me a case, Detective Inspector, or I think I shall go mad."

"Why does thinking about crime help? I don't get that. Explain it to me."

Sherlock looked for a moment as if he'd forgotten how to speak. His brow furrowed and he grimaced. "I don't know why; it just is. Ever since I was a child, it was always the puzzle that kept my interest. It's what I do. I figure things out, the relationship between the bits of data, the facts, what I see, smell, hear. I put it together with what I know, and can deduce and then, suddenly, the solution is clear. Working on it means I can shove aside all the other stuff coming in; I get excited, it helps me focus, and I think it must have a biochemical basis- release of adrenaline and endorphins or something. It's the only true pleasure I get. And if I'm thinking about a case, I don't think about anything else- how sick I feel, or hungry or in pain in some way. It's the only time I can actually ignore what I am feeling. I can't explain the sheer bliss of being able to focus." He sighed.

"So, if I were to bring you a pile of cold cases- ones that were never solved, could that work?"

That made Sherlock look up at him, for the first time all day. "Oh, yes, please."

So, Lestrade took the bike out again and drove into New Scotland Yard, pulled a dozen files from the cold case drawers and came home with them. Sherlock was dressed and pacing by the time he got home, and virtually threw himself onto the files. He scanned all twelve first, saying nothing. When Greg tried to say something, he just got a terse "shut up."

Within ten minutes Sherlock had separated them into four piles. Greg watched, with a puzzled look. He made himself a cup of tea, and then put one down on the coffee table beside Sherlock, who picked it up absently and drank it down without even shifting his focus from the first file that he was now reading in depth.

"What's with the piles?"

This time, Sherlock explained quickly, as if begrudging any time not focussing on the material in the file. "The first pile over there", he gestured at the files at the far left, "are so easy as to be idiotic, and not really worth the time to read them through."

Greg was scandalised. "Sherlock, repeated police investigations have failed to turn something up; you can't just dismiss them as 'too easy'. Gimme an idea what you think is involved."

"Later- when I get bored. Right now, I want to concentrate on the four cases here that are actually interesting. Once I've figured them out, in desperation, I will look at the others but only in ascending order of idiocy." He started to pull out the crime scene photos of the first file. He looked up for a moment. "Have you got some tape, or blu-tack? I need to put these up on a wall."

Greg looked scandalised. "Not on these walls you won't. Louise will kill me if you damage the paintwork. This is a customised paint blend that took her ages to get right."

"Oh, really, Lestrade. What's important here? Solving a crime or leaving a few marks on a wall?" His indignation was clear. So, too, was the fact that he seemed to have ten times as much energy now as he had before when he was sitting listlessly on the sofa wrapped up in the blanket feeling sorry for himself.

In the end, Sherlock did it on the tiled walls of the bathroom, and the glass shower door. A little cramped when it came to an evidence board, but Greg had to admit that it worked. He finished the first case before lunch. Greg stood in the doorway of the bathroom as Sherlock explained.

"The forensic team should be shot, Detective. It really is beyond belief that they could have missed the void in the blood spatter. I mean just look at it!" He gestured to the photograph.

"There was a man standing there against the wall- approximately 5 foot 8 inches, and a little overweight, too, given the space. The chief suspect, Robert Jones, was identified by DI Gregson, who by the way must be way overdue for retirement, given the egregious mistakes he made in the case, was clearly not the only culprit- he was over six foot and thin, given his sessions down at the gym. No, Lestrade, the obvious fact is that the murderer had an accomplice- the car valet from the hotel."

Greg looked utterly confused. "What hotel? I thought the crime took place at the victim's home?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, do try to keep on the same page, Lestrade, really! The wife's statement makes it clear that her husband was trying to lose weight and tone up after a lifetime at a desk job. What he didn't realise at the time was that she was cheating on him with a gym instructor. So, when she bought him the leisure club membership at the hotel, the two lovers were hoping that he'd overdo it and have a heart attack. Every time he was at the gym, they were back home doing a different kind of gymnastics. The car valet was their lookout- he'd phone when the husband left the club, to give the lovers time to go their separate ways. A simple check of the phone records proves that much. But, the valet must have been greedy- probably tried to blackmail the instructor and/or the wife, but got in way over his head, so the trainer decided to take things in his own hands- literally, but he made sure that the car valet was there, too. The medical examiner got causes of death right- strangulation, after a stab to the throat."

Sherlock just laughed at this point, bringing his hands under his chin as if in prayer. "What your lot couldn't prove was that he did it when the wife and he both had an alibi. His was obviously false."

"How can you say that? It was checked and double-checked at the time. Surely, the team wouldn't have made such a mistake?"

"Of course they did. Police make mistakes all the time, Lestrade; they're idiots."

"Watch it, sunshine. Those are my colleagues you're talking about."

Sherlock snorted. "Well, if you are looking at me to say you're the exception that proves the rule, I can only attest to that on the cases where you've been smart enough to involve me."

"All right, smartass, I'll bite, why do you think the gym instructor's alibi is wrong? I mean that photo right there has him not at the house at the time of the murder. That's him at the gym at the time of the murder, which is clearly indicated on the gym CCTV. They had it installed after some thefts in the locker room. The instructor is leaving the locker room for his Thai kick-boxing class."

The tall youth just looked up into the bathroom mirror and caught Greg's eye, with a big smirk. "Well, beyond the obvious fact that the hotel car valet was the person to verify his presence at the gym, it's wrong because the gym instructor is right-handed, which is clear from the leisure centre staff photo over here. Just look- his watch on the left wrist, cuff worn on the right from writing – see the biro stain?- and, for God's sake, look at the musculature. This is a tennis player, and the shoulder muscles are huge on the right side compared to the left, after all those smashes and serves."

Greg still looked perplexed. "I don't get what his handedness has to do with disproving an alibi."

This made the young man lower his head into his hands for a moment. "In this case, you have not one but TWO pieces of evidence that not only the team investigating but now you, too, have overlooked. For God's sake, look at the CCTV picture!"

Greg looked blankly at the photo.

Sherlock sighed. "You observe but you do not see….The person in that photo is clearly LEFT handed- look at the way he is opening the door! Yes, the instructor teaches the boxing class regularly at that gym, but under all that kit- the white jacket, the gloves, the padded helmet, the boots on his feet, can you really identify him conclusively as the suspect? Or might it just have been another man with the same basic body shape and colouring?"

Greg took a closer look. "Now that you mention it…."

"So, go back and check the car valet's work records. You will find that he wasn't actually on duty at the time when he is supposed to have been there to verify the gym instructor's presence. And, he's probably the one who has the murder weapon. If you do it right, you'll probably get him to confess to being a blackmailer and to false testimony, rather than face a murder charge. And, you can even offer him immunity in exchange for providing the evidence that the gym instructor was the murderer."

Greg just looked at Sherlock; really looked, in amazement. Then he drew a deep breath. "It all sounds plausible. We'll check it out."

"Plausible? Is that the best you can do?" Sherlock looked affronted, if not outright insulted. He snarled, "Take this lot down and let me get going on the next one."

Greg did as he was told, but then decided to get something underway in terms of lunch. He pre-heated the oven and pulled the pizza from the freezer. He'd planned his weekend meals carefully to indulge each one of his favourite foods that he was never allowed to eat by his wife, who argued that they were 'unhealthy, unappetising, and downright common'. When it was ready, he brought a plate back into Sherlock who was head-down over the next file, with photos strewn across the coffee table. Without a word, he picked up the slice and bit off a big mouthful, his eyes still focused on the incident report.

He therefore didn't see the smirk on Greg's face. Clearly, if the young man's attention was elsewhere focused, he would eat. Make it a confrontation and he wouldn't. Sam was like that, too; he didn't like the social aspects of eating. He hoped that the drug withdrawal would not mean he'd lose this meal as he had last night's supper.

The first half of the afternoon passed quietly. Sherlock moved into the bathroom after about an hour of looking at the second file, and twenty minutes later, he called Greg in for an explanation. This one was even better than the gym instructor and the car valet. It involved a series of linked rapes on Clapham and Blackheath Commons, which escalated in brutality until the fifth one was killed. The police never managed to come up with a viable suspect. There was DNA evidence linking them but wasn't on file anywhere. Sherlock mapped the interval between the rapes, plotted the timetables and deduced that the perpetrator was in fact a janitor at a local comprehensive school; midterm breaks, early closing days, and snow closures linked up with the physical evidence on the crime scenes- same boot patterns and clothing fibre traces, which the original investigating team had said were 'common as dirt' in fact turned out to be exclusive to the contract company that supplied the janitorial staff.

Lestrade had a physical description (He's five eleven and about 180 lbs; probably has a back injury, because the footprint patterns show he's in pain) and a choice of two comprehensive schools to consider- and was delighted.

By the time four o'clock rolled around, Sherlock had solved the other two files in the first pile. He seemed undaunted by the task of continuing on to the next pile. "These are easier- I'll be done with these four by six or seven at the latest."

Greg was still in a bit of shock. His brain was buzzing with trying to follow all the mental gymnastics required to keep up with Sherlock's deductions. He decided he needed a bit of air. "Want to come with me? Getting out of here might help."

Sherlock just waved him away. "No, no, no- might show up on CCTV and Mycroft will get excited. I'm happy to carry on." He raised his eyes briefly from the file he was engrossed in, "Do save me a cigarette or two from the pack you are going out to buy. I might have a smoke up on the roof later, when I want a break."

Greg gave a wry smile. That was exactly what he was planning to do, just didn't want to admit it. The nicotine patch on his arm itched. It had been there for nearly 24 hours, and he had promised himself on his "boy's weekend in" that he would eat, smoke and sleep in a way he didn't around his wife. Of course, at the time Louise had told him she would be away, he had no idea that he's be sharing the flat with a lanky genius coming down from cocaine but staving off withdrawal by fixating on cold cases. It was a strange old world, Lestrade mused as he walked to the nearest newsagent to buy his cigarettes.