Chapter Four: The Mission
Disclaimer: I make no money from borrowing these characters and playing with them.
"Where are we going?" Joan calls out as she grabs her jacket from the coat tree in the hall. Sherlock is already ten paces up the street by the time she catches up.
"How well do you know Marcus Lattimore?" he says, and Joan blinks in surprise.
"Marcus? Not that well. He was in the band only during marching season. Once basketball started, he left to join the team. I think he played point guard. Why?"
"And you haven't been in communication since your days in secondary school together? I just heard from Detective Bell. Apparently your Marcus Lattimore served a short stint in prison after graduation for a burglary conviction. It wasn't the first dark mark on his record, either. Earlier he vandalized a teacher's car and did community service for penance."
Joan feels the hair on the back of her neck rise.
"Mrs. Jefferson," she says, and Sherlock nods.
"He admitted damaging the paint on her car in a fit of anger," he says, "after failing her English class. His college athletic scholarship was revoked and he spent the summer making up his academic credit, receiving his diploma three months after everyone else in the class of 1993. A motive, Watson, something we've been looking for."
"You mean you think he might have killed Mrs. Jefferson because he blamed her? But that happened 20 years ago. Why wait and get revenge now?"
Sherlock purses his lips and waves his hand like a poker player exposing his cards.
"I've no idea. But consider this. Marcus Lattimore was the head of the reunion committee, perhaps even the person who suggested that Mrs. Jefferson receive the award. That guaranteed her attendance at the reunion where he had close access to the teacher who—in his mind—ruined his chances for a better life. As for why now after twenty years? Perhaps like so many people he has been in denial about how much time was passing. The reunion brought into sharp relief what he is missing, how his classmates have moved onward and upward while he has not. You yourself felt the same thing, Watson. As I recall, you were quite ambivalent about attending."
Joan's face flushes, as much from the fast pace Sherlock is setting as from her remembered embarrassment.
"How do you know he hasn't moved onward and upward?"
They reach an intersection and Holmes heads to the right, pressing past a knot of workmen carrying a ladder and utility boxes. A few steps further and he points to a low building in the middle of the block. Surrounded by a chain link fence topped with razor wire, it is flanked by an asphalt basketball court where a group of teenagers and young men are engaged in a game so fast and frenetic that Joan winces. She's repaired plenty of ACL's torn in just that kind of pickup game.
"Would someone who has made a successful life for himself be living at a homeless shelter? Marcus Lattimore lists his address as here—the 6th Street Mission."
Squinting, Joan says, "There he is. With the whistle."
Right on cue she hears the whistle blow and the action on the court grinds to a halt. As she and Sherlock reach the open gate, she hears Marcus say, "Traveling!" A few groans, one loud protest, and some obvious jeers meet his pronouncement.
"That's my call," he says. "Now deal with it."
At that moment he looks up and sees her.
"Joanie Watson?"
The basketball players turn and react as well, a swell of murmurs rising up over the traffic noise.
"Umm, mama," a tall man with a red bandana draped around his neck says as she makes her way across the court toward Marcus. At her side she feels Sherlock stiffen.
"Marcus," she says, extending her hand. "This is Sherlock Holmes. We're working with the NYPD investigating the death of Mrs. Jefferson. Can we talk somewhere for a few minutes?"
Looking around quickly at the players, Marcus says, "Sure. Back in a few, guys."
The appreciative murmurs and wolf whistles increase as Joan and Sherlock follow Marcus inside the building.
"You'll have to excuse the guys," Marcus says. "A bunch of young knuckleheads, like I was once."
"Yes," Sherlock says abruptly, his voice echoing loudly in the dark hallway. "It's about that time of your life that we wish to speak."
Marcus pulls a key ring from his pocket and unlocks the door of a small office, waving Joan and Sherlock inside after flipping on the light. Making her way to one of the plastic chairs facing a metal desk on the far side of the room, Joan practices her observational skills.
First, Marcus himself. Dressed in old sweats and inexpensive sneakers, he looks much as Joan remembers him from high school—tall, dark, his hair clipped close to his skull. He weighs more than he did then—15 pounds at least. No, more. Twenty? Thirty, maybe. She makes a mental note to ask Sherlock later about how to estimate someone's weight.
If Marcus is upset by Sherlock's allusion to his past troubles, he makes no sign. Instead, he plucks a Styrofoam cup from the top of an overturned stack and gestures toward him.
"Coffee, Mr.—"
"Holmes. Thank you, no. Just the answers to a few questions."
Marcus makes eye contact with Joan and lifts the cup a fraction—an invitation. She shakes her head and he puts the cup back on the stack and sits down behind the desk.
Despite living here at the shelter, Marcus has obviously garnered a measure of responsibility if he has an office—or at least access to someone's office. There isn't a nameplate on the desk or any personal photographs on the walls—just a couple of official-looking framed documents. In one corner of the room is an open cabinet with sports equipment inside: a basketball, a baseball bat, some indeterminate netting of some kind. He's probably the custodian in charge of the equipment, then. That would explain the key ring.
In the past Joan would have missed those kinds of details. Now she gives herself a mental pat on the back.
"I'm still in shock about Mrs. Jefferson," Marcus says, settling into the chair behind the desk. "The detective who called said the police are treating her death as a possible homicide. I just can't believe it. Everyone loved her."
"You didn't," Holmes quips. Joan cuts her eyes quickly to Marcus, but his expression doesn't change. "Because of Mrs. Jefferson, you lost your chance to go to college."
"Because of Mrs. Jefferson, I lost my chance to make a fool of myself. Like lots of teenaged knuckleheads, all I wanted out of college was my ticket to the pros. You know how many average players make it to the NBA?"
Sherlock's gaze is glassy, as if he is consulting some internal data bank. Which, Joan thinks, he probably is.
"The odds, I should think, are infinitesimally small."
"Worse than that," Marcus says. "None. And I was an average player. I wasn't interested in learning anything in college. In lots of ways I wasn't ready to be there."
"You damaged Mrs. Jefferson's car when you failed her class," Joan says, and he turns to her and says, "A stupid mistake. I was angry, and yeah, at the time I blamed her. I fell in with a crowd of even bigger knuckleheads for awhile. Ended up doing a little time for my part in some breaking and entering."
"Surely you are angry about that."
Sherlock says it as a statement of fact, but Joan knows what he's doing—setting a trap for Marcus to agree to a motive for murder.
"That was a long time ago," Marcus says, sounding reasonable and not at all distraught. "When I got out of prison, I went to college. Got my social work degree. That's why I started this mission—for the kind of guys I met in prison, men looking for a hand up but not likely to get it as ex-cons."
Joan is suddenly ashamed of what they are doing here—implying that Marcus is a murder suspect. Sighing, she says, "You started this mission?"
"And now I run it. You know, back in high school, lots of teachers gave the athletes in their classes a pass on the hard work. Not Mrs. J. I didn't do the work and I failed, simple as that. One of those blessing in disguise things, you know? I was never going to be a good enough ball player, and I wasn't ready for college when I left high school. Didn't know what I wanted to do until later. So—if anything, I'm grateful to Mrs. J, not angry. I'm doing work that matters right here."
As he speaks Marcus Lattimore's voice becomes rough-edged with emotion. Without thinking, Joan darts her hand across the desk and places her hand on his for a moment.
For that same moment and then another the room is silent. Risking a glance at Sherlock, Joan jumps. He is watching her closely—no, not really watching her, but using her as the backdrop for his glare, the way he often does when he is lost in thought. With a start, he comes back from wherever his mind has been wandering and says, "Well, yes. Be that as it may, evidence suggests that someone wanted Mrs. Jefferson dead. Who besides yourself wanted her to come to the reunion?"
Marcus frowns slightly and tips his head to the side.
"I don't remember anyone not wanting her to come. Five of us planned the reunion, and we came to a consensus about inviting her and giving her the award. I probably suggested it, actually, and the others agreed."
If Marcus has anything to do with Mrs. Jefferson's death, he doesn't act like a guilty man. To her surprise, Joan is both relieved and disappointed—relieved that Marcus isn't the killer. Disappointed that they still don't know who is.
Joan sees the wheels in Holmes' head spinning in frustration, his fingers drumming a beat on his thighs.
"Was Steve Colby one of the reunion planners? We saw his name on the catering order."
Shaking his head, Marcus says, "Colby? No. He's not a graduate at all. Works for a book company—a textbook company. He offered to pick up the tab for the food for the reunion. Well, not him personally, but the company. That's not unusual. We had lots of sponsors to help pay the expenses of the reunion."
"I'll need the name of the company he works for and any contact information you have," Sherlock says briskly.
"Sure," Marcus says, "but you don't think he's involved in any way, do you? I'm not even sure he knew Mrs. Jefferson."
"I doubt he is a suspect," Sherlock says, "but he might lead us to someone who did know her—at least enough to have a reason to wish her harm."
Across the desk Joan senses Marcus react—a shift in his posture, a tiny shrug of his shoulders. Something unnamed flickers through his expression.
What did Sherlock say the other day? That the human face is like a…penis? With a mind of its own?
She takes a closer look at Marcus' face.
"You know someone who would wish her harm."
She startles herself as well as Marcus when she blurts it out. He sighs heavily and nods. Sherlock leans forward toward the desk.
"I hope I'm wrong," Marcus says, fishing his old-fashioned flip phone from his pants pocket. "But when he didn't show up for her funeral, I started to wonder."
Opening his phone, he taps on several keys before holding it up so that Joan and Sherlock can see the screen.
"Here. Ray Simmons, Mrs. Jefferson's son. I have his number."
As Sherlock whips out his own phone and copies the contact information, Joan says, "I didn't know she had a son. I can't remember her ever mentioning him."
That Mrs. Jefferson has a son is astonishing. Worse is what it says about Joan—that she assumed she knew her teacher when she didn't, that Mrs. Jefferson's personal life wasn't even part of the equation in their friendship.
"I don't know if she ever officially adopted him or not. Ray was one of her students a few years ago. Good kid, but troubled. Lived in lots of foster homes before Mrs. J took him in. I knew him through my work at the county department of social services. He'd hang out here sometimes on the weekend, playing ball or helping with the youth program."
"What makes you think he would kill Mrs. Jefferson?" Sherlock says as he slides Marcus' phone back across the desk.
Shifting in his chair, Marcus says, "Like I said, he's a good kid, mostly. But he kept getting caught back up with a rough crowd, getting busted for possession and ending up in rehab. I'm not saying that he's dangerous, but ex-junkies aren't always reliable."
"I wouldn't know anything about that," Sherlock says, his expression set to neutral. "I assume his past indiscretions do not include violence or you would not have said twice that he is a good kid—"
At his tone—such an accurate mimicry of Marcus' own that it almost sounds like sarcasm—Joan cuts her eyes at him. He catches her look and blinks before continuing.
"However, even good kids can do violence if a sufficient motive presents itself. Money, for instance. Is her son employed?"
"Don't know," Marcus says. "He's had a job in the past, but right now? I can't say."
"You said he was not at Mrs. Jefferson's funeral."
"At first I thought he might have been too upset to come, but I haven't been able to get in touch with him since then, either."
"This address in your phone contacts? This is also where Mrs. Jefferson lived?"
"I think so. I hadn't heard Ray mention living anywhere else."
Sherlock is suddenly on his feet.
"Come on, Watson," he says, starting for the door, and Joan gives Marcus what she hopes is an apologetic smile.
"We'll be in touch," she says, getting up and following Sherlock out.
He stays several paces ahead of her down the hall until they reach the outer door, when he pauses so abruptly that she almost collides with him.
"Watson," he says, pivoting around to face her. Instinctively she takes a step back out of his personal space but he follows her, one pace forward, and she forces herself to stop. They are so close that she catches a whiff of him—his shampoo, or his clothes soap, or perhaps even cologne, though it doesn't seem in character for him to use any. His eyes look fevered, the timbre of his voice so intense that she has a fleeting image of a rubber band pulled dangerously taut.
"What is it?" she says, genuinely alarmed.
"Do you think you could ever do harm to your mother? When she is especially provoking, for instance? Raise your hand against her, perhaps? Or if you had a weapon, something more?"
"Of course not! Why do you ask?"
"Mrs. Jefferson's son. Is he a likely suspect? What are the odds that an addicted son could harbor such resentment and anger that he could kill his own parent? Hmm?"
"I don't know—" Joan falters, but Sherlock is already stepping away, his words cast over his shoulder as he heads outside.
"I do, Watson. The odds are very good indeed."
A/N: This series continues to delight me as a viewer! I hope you are delighted as well as a reader! Thanks for letting me know what you think so far.