Chapter 3
"There's a dead man there"
Holmes never drove his own car. We had to take mine. No, not the beat up Chevrolet, but the used one I had shared with and eventually stole from my ex. It was a 2003 Toyota Camry, a somewhat simple horseless carriage, but all the same, it drove.
We pulled up to the address Holmes had neglected to write down (or meant not to, rather, since his photographic memory was all the writing he needed). Inside was a bloody and brutal murder.
Upon the floor lay a man who looked no more harmful than a fly, a man who couldn't possibly have hurt a soul. Of course, he might not have, seeing as he was the dead one. Holmes walked in, greeted Det. Lestrade and Gregson, and surmised the scene.
"There's a dead man there," I said rather stupidly. While Lestrade gave me a look akin to how one might look at a bird that had just flown into an exceptionally cleaned window. "Very observant, Watson," Holmes said in stride. "Often the most obvious goes overlooked. Think of it."
"Don't touch anything, Holmes," Lestrade said, a caution in his voice. "CSI hasn't gotten here yet. Speaking of that, get them on the radio, find out an ETA."
One of the surrounding officers ran off, carrying out the orders. Lestrade moved towards Holmes. Now while I'm no great shakes at observation and deduction like my new friend, by their movements together, I surmised they had been consulting on cases together for a while, something I intended to find out if I was right about.
"The name is Eli Drew According to his birth certificate, he's 34 years old and from Detroit. Now the weird part is, from what we can tell, there're no bruising or stab wounds, certainly no gunshot wounds. Smart money's on poisoning, but hell if I know."
"Yes, hell if you know anything, Lestrade. Look here," Holmes gestured to the floor directly beside the deceased. "There's dust everywhere else, but for this thin strip that carries on but is stopped right by the body."
While Sherlock Holmes examined the body and wowed the surrounding officers with his powers of observation, I did some observing of my own. The house was poorly lit, just another urban slum of East Los Angeles. The only furniture was a blue bean bag chair facing the television, and six fold-ups encircling the dining room table, which was a camping table in poor shape.
"Over here," Lestrade called. While I had been looking round the room, he had moved along to the kitchen, or just near it, for he had been stopped by something on the wall. Eerily placed along the wall in blood red letters were the words 'Crib Death' scrawled out in tagging letters very much like the graffiti all over the city. "Looks like gang mark-ups. Well what a surprise! Los Angeles has yet another gang-related homicide."
"No," Holmes said, moving towards the wall with magnifier in hand. "I've never known a gang to publicize a murder, nor would they mark it such as it is." He spent five minutes at the least examining the written words then turned back.
"Holmes, CSI's going to be here soon, at which point we'll have forensics and ballistics on all this. You're little magnifying glass isn't going to tell us anything we won't know soon enough."
"There is something to be said for old-school detecting. The man you're looking for is six feet tall, maybe six-one. The rest, I'll let forensics figure out for you. See who comes up shorter in the end. I'll see you. Come Watson."
On the way home, I asked Holmes what he thought had happened. "I'm not going to guess, Watson! Never make guesses, they cloud your judgment later on. It comes from mankind's desperate need to be right about everything.
It was weird, to hear Sherlock Holmes talk disapprovingly of people wanting to be right as he almost always was.