Chapter 2
When they got there, the entire building as well as the surrounding area had already been roped off by the police.
"Great," Sherlock said, exasperated.
"What? You're looking like you're in one of those moods again," Abigail told him.
"It's just… Anderson."
"Yeah, he doesn't really get on too well with Anderson," John tried explaining.
"And neither do I. You think I've never worked with the police before?" Abigail said rather condescendingly.
"No, no, I mean… of course… erm… you know far more than I do…" John mumbled, trying to deflect attention from himself.
Sure enough, as they went up to the door of the building, Anderson was there to greet them.
"Wow, Sherlock, you have an even bigger group every time I see you," he sneered.
"He's finally found some fellow freaks, that's all," Sgt Donovan said as she passed by.
Abigail seemed completely unaffected by any of these remarks as she showed her identification to Anderson. "You understand that my rank allows me to freely traverse the crime scene with my associates. That means Sherlock and Dr Watson are free to investigate," she told him.
"I suppose that's the case… I don't even have any idea how a girl like you ended up with those credentials," Anderson said, being incredibly obnoxious.
For what seemed like the longest time, Abigail just stood and stared at Anderson with an icy glare. "Come along, Sherlock," she finally spat out, clearly infuriated.
They entered the foyer of the building to find investigators bustling about, inspecting and photographing possible evidence.
"I was really quite frightened back there," John whispered to Abigail. "You looked like you were about to cause another crime scene."
"Don't worry… there will be a swift, terrible revenge eventually. But Anderson thinks I'm a pushover right now… all the better, because then he won't be expecting what's to come."
John shuddered at the thought of what Abigail could possibly have in mind.
"Oh, come on. It's not going to be that bad. I'll just add vinegar to his drink or something. I wouldn't dare do anything that would be detrimental to our police force," Abigail said, laughing. "Anderson certainly has that department covered already!"
John chuckled nervously, already regretting his need to be involved with another one of Sherlock's acquaintances. Were all of them this dangerous and unpredictable? Furthermore, Abigail was treating Sherlock like an inferior. Was she smarter than him? Or was she simply older and/or held a higher authority? This woman was such an enigma.
The corpse was fairly easy to find. The woman was sprawled on the ground, surrounded by shards of broken glass. At first glance, it looked like she had jumped through a window, especially because the main architectural feature of the foyer, an indoor balcony with a (currently shattered) glass window, was located right above the woman.
"Go ahead, John. You first," Sherlock said.
"Um… ok. You want me to tell you the cause of death?" John asked.
"And whatever else you find. The usual process."
"Right, of course, how could I possibly forget?" John stammered as he immediately started examining the body.
"Don't mind him; he's a little out of his element right now," Sherlock told Abigail.
"Hey! I heard that!"
Abigail just laughed to herself, amused at John's flustered manner.
"Anyway, cause of death seems to be… not from the fall. Marks on the neck suggest she was asphyxiated. Then, I would assume, thrown through this window to try and cover up the real cause," John said.
"If someone attempted, and furthermore, actually committed, a murder in this building, they most certainly did not expect to 'cover up' anything except their identity. That means they would be concerned with self-incriminating evidence only. Therefore, there has to be another reason why they would throw her through the window," Abigail reasoned.
John realised that not once so far did Abigail even give a thought to who the victim was. Obviously this woman must have been part of the club, so was Abigail emotionally immune to seeing one of her co-workers killed?
"Sherlock, why don't you have a go? It'll save us all the time and effort we would have wasted by not thinking, anyway," John said, gesturing towards the body.
"What do you mean, we?" Abigail said, frowning at John. He recoiled slightly, at which point her frown eased into a smile and then a wink. "Please, don't take me so seriously, darling."
She had such strange habits. Perhaps she was just a strange person. John knew how Sherlock could get at times, so he expected that Sherlock's friends were fairly similar in eccentricities.
"Anyway, Sherlock, please do enlighten us. There's a reason why I invited you to our meeting this morning, after all. Let's see the genius in action!" Abigail said.
"You're too kind…" Sherlock trailed off, already deep in thought as he circled around the body. He poked and prodded and measured and searched every single pocket or suspicious area. Then he stepped back and looked up at the window.
"Have you figured it out yet?" John asked.
"Patience," Sherlock responded. He turned to face John. "Have you always been like this, or is this new? The whole interrupting to try and look impressive part, I mean."
"I could ask you the same thing," John retorted, blushing.
"But you know what the answer would be to that question, so that would be entirely pointless," Sherlock said nonchalantly. "Anyway. The case at hand is all that matters. I need to ask you something, Abby."
"Yes?" Abigail said, clearly intrigued by the whole thing.
"This woman… who was she? What was her position? At least as far as you can divulge without breaking confidentiality. Most importantly, was she foreign?"
"Well, yes, she did happen to be foreign. If you count American to be enough of a foreigner for you. On loan from the CIA. Her name was Patricia Mantle," Abigail explained.
"How long had she been here?" Sherlock asked.
"Not very long. Maybe two weeks at most; I hardly knew her. That makes it much harder to determine any motives… I can only assume it had something to do with her work in the CIA."
"But we don't assume. We deduce. Nothing is for certain until we find evidence. Don't jump to conclusions; you might send the police down the wrong trail," Sherlock said.
"They're already headed there, anyway, due to Anderson's focus on the investigation of the surrounding blocks. Normally, there would be nothing wrong with that. But this time, it's quite obvious that the entire thing took place inside this building," Abigail stated.
"I was just about to ask why we weren't looking outside for evidence," John said. "After all, look! She has her sunglasses in her pocket. And it looks like they were stuffed there hastily. Here's how I think it must have happened. She was outside, headed to her next appointment. She had on her sunglasses because today the sun has been shining brightly. But then she heard something behind her. The killer, obviously. So she quickly took off her sunglasses to get a closer look at what she heard. And then, the killer… killed her. Or something like that."
"I liked it better when you didn't try to come up with theories, John. Now Anderson has some competition for the title of 'biggest distraction'," Sherlock complained. "Abby just said that it was obvious that the murder took place here. Why did you think it would be a good idea to disprove her?"
"Oh, now you're on her side all the time! I see how it is," John yelled, turning away from Sherlock and crossing his arms.
"Could the both of you stop being so stupid and childish and just listen? John, if you don't see why the murder took place here, I'd be glad to explain. You gave it a valiant effort," Abigail said, trying to console him.
"I don't need your sympathy," John muttered. "But continue, please."
"He's so cute when he's angry! But don't tell him I said that," Abigail whispered to Sherlock. Sherlock almost lost his composure for a second after hearing her comment, but quickly recovered.
"Yes," she continued aloud. "She does happen to have sunglasses in her pocket. But that means nothing. Look carefully at the scene and the only thing that seems amiss is the surprisingly good condition of one item: the sunglasses. Note that they are not broken at all, despite the fact that she was apparently thrown from the window above. That would imply that the sunglasses were placed in her pocket after the deed had been done."
"I see," John said.
"But it still doesn't make sense. If the murderer was on that floor and threw the victim down to this floor, there would be no reason to come all the way down here just to place the glasses in her pocket. I'd personally have been more concerned with getting the hell out of here," Abigail concluded.
"You made a few errors," Sherlock said. "You immediately assumed the murderer was the one who placed the glasses there. Also, you said the glasses were in good condition. It's true that they're not shattered, but they are most certainly dented. And, most importantly, they don't belong to the victim."
Abigail just looked at Sherlock in stunned silence.
Sherlock checked his watch. "Right, John, remember earlier today I told you about that appointment? Well, the reservations are scheduled for 15 minutes from now, so you'd better head out. It's at that one place… with the candle. You remember."
John glanced over at Abigail, who seemed to know exactly what was going on. "I, uh- are you ready to go?" John asked her.
"Whenever you are," she said with a cheerful smile that indicated this was to be a platonic date. Purely platonic. That's how everything appears at first, though, John thought, thinking back to one day when Sherlock had used the phrase "purely platonic," and how different things were ending up now.
"Good luck," Abigail told Sherlock. She and John left together, trying to avoid Anderson's glare on the way out.
Sherlock looked back at the crime scene. He still needed to gather a few more clues, but at least now he was on the right track. He was certain his conclusions about the sunglasses had been correct. Could neither Abigail nor John see that it had been a pair of men's sunglasses? Honestly.