Chapter Six: Phlürb
Disclaimer: I didn't create these characters, but I'm having lots of fun giving them trouble.
"You're late!"
The secretary sitting behind the desk in the crowded front office of Midwood High School waves her free hand toward a line of students standing behind a computer. Her other hand holds a phone to her ear, her attention divided.
"I'm Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock says, and the secretary nods and points again to the computer.
"Say that again," she says into the phone, darting a warning glance at Sherlock. "I couldn't hear you."
"I think she wants us to sign in," Joan says sotto voce into Sherlock's ear. "Over here."
Leading the way to the computer, she watches the students ahead of her typing in their names. A small boxlike printer contraption hooked up to the computer then spits out a slip of paper. With a sudden insight, Joan knows what it is.
"Tardy excuses, early dismissal permissions, visitor passes," she says as the student at the keyboard takes his paper and steps away. "See? Security since Columbine. You can't just walk into an American school these days."
She moves swiftly to the computer, types in her name, and watches as a bright yellow stick-on badge chugs out of the printer. As she peels off the paper backing and presses the badge to her shirt, Sherlock leans forward and types. Soon he has his own badge and is facing the secretary, still on the phone.
"Prom tickets go on sale next Monday," the secretary says into the phone, her free hand now sifting through papers on the desk in front of her. "No, your daughter will have to wait until they go on sale. No, there's no discount that I know of. You'll have to talk to the faculty sponsor in charge, Mrs. Lenhart. Yes, I'm sure—"
"Sherlock Holmes and Joan Watson to see—"
"Mrs. Lenhart is in class right now but you can leave a message," the secretary says into the phone, raising her eyebrows and glancing from Sherlock to Joan.
Finding the paper she is looking for, the secretary holds it up for Sherlock to take. He does, and with a shrug towards Joan, he walks to the glass doors leading to the hallway. A buzz as the secretary hits the control and the door lock snicks open.
"Where are we going?" Joan says as Sherlock takes off at a fast clip into the crowd of students passing by. "I thought we were here to see the principal."
"We shall," he says over his shoulder. "Eventually. Apparently the secretary mistook us for substitute teachers. This gives us an opportunity to speak more freely to Mrs. Jefferson's colleagues."
He holds up the paper and reads aloud, passing a knot of students burdened with bookbags.
"We are subbing for John Simpson. Or one of us is. Rubbish security system, letting us both through. His first class of the day is college prep physical science. Second block, applied physics. B lunch. Here's the bell schedule. A note about a planned fire drill at 2. Bus duty in the afternoon, though I strongly suspect we will have been ferreted out by then. That is, unless the actual sub never does arrive."
"Sherlock, we can't just walk into a classroom and—"
"Here it is. C hall. We're looking for room 104."
C hall is lined with lockers, though only a few students have them open. The others are making their way through the milling crowd, some with determined looks but most ambling and chatting and listening to music through ubiquitous white earbuds.
"Everything looks so small," Joan says, and Sherlock darts her a look.
"Indeed," he says. "Not an unusual reaction when adults return to the familiar stomping grounds of their youth. Ah, here we are."
A tall boy with a buzz cut stands in the doorway of room 104.
"Is Mr. Simpson out today? You the teacher?" he says, but Sherlock says nothing as he slips past him into the classroom. With an apologetic look, Joan follows.
Already the room is almost full of students sitting or standing around their desks. Running through the checklist she knows Sherlock will quiz her on later, Joan takes a mental snapshot of the room. Six rows of five student desks, gray linoleum tops and metal legs. Around three of the classroom walls are waist-high counters with tall backless stools tucked under the lip, presumably the right height for looking through microscopes or doing simple experiments.
On the fourth wall is a long white dry-erase board, and beside it a large mounted smartboard that allows teachers and students to manipulate projected computer images. Although they are relatively new, Joan has used one before—when she was making presentations in the hospital conference room.
She pushes those memories away and tries to focus.
In one corner of the room is a teacher's larger desk. Sherlock makes his way there now, his eyes roaming over the chaotic mess piled on top.
"Are we having our test today?"
Joan turns and sees a petite girl with bright pink hair like cotton candy standing at her side.
"Um, your regular teacher is out, so I don't think so—"
"Who's that?" the girl says indicating Sherlock with a flick of her head.
"He's the, um, guest speaker," Joan says, trying to catch Sherlock's eye. Instead, he lifts his hands in the air and claps loudly. The students respond immediately.
"What the—"
"Hey, the bell hasn't rung yet!"
Sherlock continues to clap and the noise slowly subsides as students find their seats. As the last one sits, a buzzer sounds for the start of class.
"My name is Sherlock Holmes," he says, walking to the front of the room, "and this is my assistant, Ms. Watson. Before we start, I want to ask you a few questions."
"Where's Mr. Simpson?" someone calls from the back of the room, the tone of voice unmistakably challenging. Joan tries to identify the speaker but can't. Sherlock, on the other hand, takes a step forward and says, "I'll answer your questions after you answer mine. Yes, you, the boy reading the text from the girl sitting two rows over, the one watching you closely as you glance at your phone screen. Her. The young woman wearing Gucci jeans and a faux leather jacket. Not a love note, considering how unhappy she appears. More likely an inquiry about why you were being so attentive to another student—perhaps to the dark-haired girl I saw you chatting with in the hall right before class began."
The boy flushes hard as the other students whoop loudly.
"Oooh!"
"Mr. Holmes—" Joan says, though at that moment she isn't sure what she will say. That he shouldn't embarrass students this way, that being here—in this classroom—serves no purpose?
"Now," Sherlock says when the catcalls die down, "I need to know if any of you were students of Mrs. Ethel Jefferson."
A ripple flutters around the room—whispers and shuffles—and two students raise their hands. A third says, "Why do you want to know?"
"My turn first," Sherlock says. "Then I'll answer your questions, remember? Did you like her class? Did she get along with the other teachers?"
A heavyset boy dressed in hunting camouflage fatigues answers.
"She was cool. She never made us do nothing."
"Including learning the grammatical rules concerning double negatives," Sherlock says. More laughter. "Does someone not interested in making a joke wish to respond?"
"She was nice," a girl on the front row says at last. "It's really sad that she died."
"And the other members of the staff? Did they seem sad as well?"
No one says anything, though Joan sees the students looking at each other. Finally the boy in camouflage says, "You said you'd tell us what this is all about."
Taking a breath and pressing his palms together, Sherlock nods.
"Indeed I did," he says. "The police are investigating Mrs. Jefferson's death as a possible homicide. A murder."
Before he can continue, the students start chattering.
"If you observed—" Sherlock starts and then pauses, waiting for the noise to subside. In a moment it does. "If you observed anything out of the ordinary in the weeks leading up to Mrs. Jefferson's death, you should share that information with the police. Or you can share your thoughts with me or Ms. Watson before we leave."
Burbles of "what's he talking about?" and "did he say the police?" spring up around the room. Joan moves forward to stand by Sherlock.
"I graduated from Midwood twenty years ago," she says, and hearing a new voice, the students fall silent and train their attention on her. "Mrs. Jefferson was my teacher, and if someone did kill her, I want to find out who. If you are aware of anyone at all who might have wanted to hurt her—"
She lets her voice trail off, but none of the students say anything. Sherlock's hope that they might be a source of information looks like a dead end.
"We should probably go now," she says to him.
"What about our test?" the girl with cotton candy pink hair says. "You're the sub, aren't you?"
Immediately the hubbub starts again.
"We can't leave the class in need of adult supervision, Watson," Sherlock says, angling away from the students. "I suggest you check out the teachers' lounge, or wherever the faculty who are not currently on duty congregate, while I wait for the sub to arrive. I may be able to prompt the students who knew Mrs. Jefferson to remember something of value. Divide and conquer. Not a bad plan, actually. I'll catch up with you shortly."
"You sure? Just leave you here?"
"I am unafraid, Watson. Yes, I realize that American teenagers can be formidable, but I will manage."
As she starts for the door, she hears him say, "Now, about that test. Tell me what you have been studying with Mr. Simpson."
Without students in the hall, Joan finds it easier to navigate. For a moment she stands still and orients herself. If the teachers' lounge is where it was when she was a student, she needs to head to the right, back towards the main office.
The overhead fluorescent lights cast everything in harsh relief. As Joan walks down the hall, she peeks into open doors and listens to the murmur of students and teachers. If she continues down this hall to the end, she will run into the bandroom where she and Marcus Lattimore used to practice.
A thin wail of a horn catches her attention. It might be fun to take a look inside….
"Can I help you?"
The voice is not quite angry, but almost. Joan jumps slightly and sees a short Asian woman with graying hair stepping out of a utility closet, a broom in her hand.
"Mrs. Shen?"
"Do you have permission to be on this hall?"
Tapping her name badge, Joan says, "Mrs. Shen, it's Joan Watson."
Mrs. Shen squints and leans forward.
"Joan? Mary's Joanie?"
Joan feels a flood of relief. Mrs. Shen was a custodian at Midwood even when Joan was a student. Both Mrs. Shen and her mother are in the same Chinese social club that meets once a month to discuss popular novels and gossip and play mahjong.
"What are you doing here?" Mrs. Shen asks.
Suddenly Joan's presence feels absurd and difficult to explain. Blushing, she says, "I'm working with a consultant for the NYPD. We're here investigating the death of Mrs. Jefferson."
"Investigating? A heart attack?"
"She may not have died from a heart attack," Joan says, glancing around as a student passes by. "We're trying to find out if anyone she worked with—anyone here—might have wanted to kill her."
"You're joking! Why is a surgeon working with the police anyway?"
"I'm not practicing medicine anymore. I'm working as a...consulting detective."
Joan glances away but not before she sees Mrs. Shen's brow furrow.
"Your mother didn't say anything," Mrs. Shen says. Joan sighs and resists the temptation to raise her hands to her flaming cheeks.
"Well," she says at last, "it's all still new. But right now you can help me. Were you aware of any conflicts Mrs. Jefferson might have had with any of the other staff? With Mr. Cho, for instance? Someone suggested that he might have wanted her to leave."
"Hunh," Mrs. Shen says. "What's the word? Whippersnapper. Cho's a young kid. Came in here this year with all these ideas. Made a lot of people mad, not just Ethel. She was just more vocal about it. But you knew her, didn't you? She didn't mind saying what she thought."
Setting the broom against the wall, Mrs. Shen moves closer to Joan and lowers her voice.
"But you don't think he killed her, do you?"
"We're just asking questions," Joan says. "We don't have any particular suspects in mind."
It's not quite the truth, but Joan is suddenly shy about revealing anything more.
"In fact," she adds, "I was on my way to the teachers' lounge to see if anyone there has some information."
"Oh, it's not down here anymore," Mrs. Shen says, moving back a step. "It's in the new wing past the cafeteria. On the other end of the building. You need me to show you?"
"Past C hall? I think I can find it. Thanks! I'll tell my mother you said hello."
Giving what she hopes is a confident smile, Joan heads down the hall back to the room where she left Sherlock. Slowing her gait, she tilts her head and listens just out of view of the open door.
She hears his voice, his tone the one she calls "Professor Holmes," didactic and swift and punctuated with high notes for emphasis.
"Yes, as you explained so well, Jeffrey, Newton's Third Law of Motion makes clear that force doesn't exist in isolation. When you push against something, it pushes back. This force actually has a name. If you haven't already learned it, write this down. Phlürb. P. H. L. U. R. B. The U has an umlaut over it, just so."
As he speaks, Sherlock's voice fades slightly and becomes muffled. Taking a step forward, Joan sees the whiteboard come into view, and standing facing it, Sherlock is drawing a vertical arrow pointing down with a blue marker.
"This," he says without turning around, "is an action. And this," he says, drawing another arrow, this one pointing upward, "is the reaction, the phlürb. Not just in science, but in everything. It's quite simple, really. No matter what you do, there are consequences. You might think you are working in isolation, but phlürb is at work, reaching back, connecting with you in ways you cannot imagine."
Joan comes abreast of the open doorway and Sherlock looks up at her.
"Or even," he says, not shifting his gaze, "in ways we do not always want or appreciate at the time."
The loud click of footfalls on the tile floor of the hall catches her attention and Joan looks behind her. A burly uniformed school security officer approaches, his stride heavy and purposeful. Beside him a nervous older woman with a coat draped over her arm takes two steps for every one of his.
The real substitute, apparently.
Sherlock comes to the door and sees them. Raising his eyebrows at Joan, he swivels around to the students seated in their desks and says, "Test tomorrow, class. Don't forget to study the notes I gave you today. And don't forget what I told you about the importance of being skeptical when presented with new information."
The uniformed officer comes to a stop, his hand resting on his taser at his belt.
"Sir, ma'am," he says without preamble, "come with me."
A/N: I hope you enjoy this update! Thanks for letting me know!