Warning: This chapter includes graphic descriptions of sexual violence and murder. You will be seeing the aftermath, not the act itself, but the details may be disturbing.

Michael Hartman lived in Wapping in a block of flats whose shell retains the character of its waterfront warehouse past, but with a heart that is pure 21st century luxe. Similarly repurposed structures perch side by side with artfully aged new construction along this section of the Thames north bank, sharing space with trendy pubs and restaurants. It is not the address of a young man on a budget.

Lestrade parks just outside the garage that occupies the building's ground floor and flashes his badge as they walk past the constable guarding the open vehicle entrance. The garage has slots for twenty cars, ten on either side of the narrow drive. The crime scene is at the far end of the left hand row, only visible from the entrance because of the police presence and the yellow tape that marks the perimeter.

Sherlock stops just inside the tape boundary and absorbs the pertinent details in one slow pivot. There's a small lift at the far end with its door facing the spot where the body lies. Anyone exiting the lift would see it immediately. On the right, opposite the second to last car on that side, is a metal door marked 'Stairs'. No security cameras, an omission that will doubtless be quickly rectified now. Sherlock turns to Lestrade. "Is the garage door secured?"

Lestrade uncrosses his arms to point at a keypad mounted on a three foot post to the right of the door. "Press a button leaving, key in a passcode coming home. There's a matching one outside."

Sherlock gives him a look. "Yes, I can see that, but are they functional? How long does it take the door to close once it's been activated?"

"I'll ask." Lestrade turns and heads for the sergeant in charge of the scene.

Sherlock opts for the direct approach. He walks to the keypad, and pushes the button. The door rumbles closed in a leisurely fourteen seconds. He pushes the button again, and times the opening at fifteen seconds. He returns to Lestrade's disapproving frown.

"Sherlock, those buttons haven't been dusted for prints."

"The killer didn't touch the keypads." He brushes past the DI and walks around the car to view the body for the first time. The car Michael Hartman lies next to is a dove gray Jaguar. The driver side door is standing open.

Sherlock observes the body as he pulls on a pair of latex gloves.

Lestrade steps around him to reach the open car door and peers inside. "Keys are in the ignition. Mobile phone on the console. I don't see any signs of a struggle."

Sherlock walks slowly to where Lestrade is standing, scanning the body as he moves. Hartman's trousers and underwear are bunched around his ankles, exposing him from the waist down. The pattern and spread of bruises on the buttocks and hips reflect the grip of large, powerful hands. The obvious source of the blood surrounding the lower portion of the body is the tire lever shoved into the rectum. Not the cause of death. Not enough blood loss. But clearly done while the heart was still pumping. He moves to the head and crouches for a better look. Dark purple discoloration of the face. Protruding tongue. Bulging, wide-open eyes. Leather belt pulled tightly around the neck. The hands are not bound, and there is no gag on the mouth.

Sherlock comments as he scans the details. "The victim is a bit below average height, but muscular enough to have put up a fight. His killer outweighed him, and topped him by six inches or more, judging by the hands that made those marks. Hartman was no match for his attacker," he examines the victim's hands closely, "but he didn't even attempt to defend himself." He takes out his phone and starts taking pictures. "He wasn't unconscious, going by the expression on his face," Sherlock says as he moves down the body, taking several angles of the bruises and the tire lever. "He was awake for all of this."

"So, not tied up or gagged. Or knocked out cold. How did the killer control him? What stopped him running away, or calling out for help?" Lestrade looks toward the sergeant, and waves him over.

The officer excuses himself from the woman he's talking with, and comes over to Lestrade, writing on his clipboard as he walks. "Yes, Detective Inspector?"

"Any witnesses?"

"Just Mrs. Wills, sir." he nods toward the woman he was interviewing, "She spotted the body when she was coming out of the lift."

"Was there anyone else in the garage?" Sherlock asks.

The officer turns to Sherlock. "She didn't stick around long enough to see. Just got back in the lift and went back to her flat to call for help." He turns back to Lestrade. "My partner's knocking on doors. Only 12 of the flats are occupied. So far, nobody reports seeing or hearing anything unusual." He glances at his waiting witness. "Will there be anything else, sir?"

"She didn't check to see if he was alive?" Sherlock asks the officer, but his focus is on the witness. She is an attractive, well-dressed woman in her fifties who appears quite composed for someone who has just found a mutilated body in her car park.

"Sherlock," Lestrade warns, but Sherlock is already on his way to the woman.

"Mrs. Wills? Was the garage door open when you came out of the lift?"

She frowns at him. "Am I expected to repeat the entire story to you as well?"

Sherlock smiles. "Did the officer ask you that question?"

She squares her shoulders. "No, he did not."

"And?" Sherlock prods.

"I don't know," she huffs impatiently. "I don't think so. I saw him as soon as the doors opened. I never got out of the lift."

"There's quite a bit of light coming through the open door. The character of the light would be different with just the overheads. Do you recall if it looked like it does now?"

The woman glances at the sergeant and Lestrade, then back at Sherlock. "Are you accusing me of lying?"

Lestrade joins them. "We're just hoping you might remember something more." He gives Sherlock a look that says he's also noted the woman's oddly defensive response.

Mrs. Wills lifts her chin. "It was closed."

Sherlock nods. "How long does it take for the door to close?"

She frowns. "How on earth would I know that?"

Sherlock turns back to the body and leaves Mrs. Wills to the sergeant. Lestrade follows. "What was that all about?"

Sherlock has crouched next to the body. He replies without looking up at Lestrade. "She didn't go back to her flat immediately. She left the lift and walked over to the body. She knew Hartman, and she didn't trust him. Good instincts. Bad liar."

"Why would she lie?"

Sherlock gives him a weary look. So obvious. "Morbid curiosity doesn't fit the image she's trying to project. She wanted a closer look, and she doesn't want to admit it."

Lestrade crouches next to him. "Okay. So, the killer surprises the victim, subdues him somehow, and does this." He gestures at the tire lever. "Sexual assault, or meant to look like one."

"Poetic justice?"

The DI straightens up. "Could be."

"That would make James Anderson a man in need of an alibi," Sherlock comments. "A medical professional might have methods for subduing a victim that would be fast and efficient without physical force."

Lestrade shakes his head. "Anderson would never have been given Hartman's name. Not even Dimmock would make a mistake like that."

Sherlock stands up. "Doesn't Philip Anderson have contacts among his former colleagues who might have leaked it?"

"Even Donovan was avoiding him by the time he left. The only information Philip or James would have been able to get was that a suspect was questioned and released."

Sherlock frowns. "But he knew that the evidence was tainted. If he managed to get his hands on that information, what makes you think he didn't discover the suspect's name?"

"You really think the husband did this?"

"You saw the crime scene photographs. Can you think of a stronger motive than what was done to his wife?"

Lestrade thinks for a moment. "I'll ask Dimmock if he told the victim's husband anything he shouldn't, not that I expect him to admit it. It would have been incredibly unprofessional, not to mention stupid."

"Remember who we're discussing."

"Right." He looks past Sherlock at two men approaching in blue disposable coveralls. The forensics team. He looks back at Sherlock. "Seen enough?"

Sherlock arches an eyebrow. "I believe we now have access to the victim's flat?"

Lestrade smiles. "You're reading my mind."

Hartman's flat is on the first floor facing the water. His flat key is on the ring with his car keys, and his status as a murder victim makes his flat an extension of the crime scene. Everything it contains is now fair game, including any evidence that could implicate him in the Anderson rape. While Hartman is obviously no longer subject to prosecution, being able to definitively attribute the crime to him would be the next best thing.

Lestrade knocks sharply on the door and identifies himself. A moment later, he uses the key and unlocks it. "You wait here," he tells Sherlock, then reinforces it with a glare before he enters the flat to do a quick sweep in the unlikely event that the killer is lurking inside. Lestrade comes back to the door and waves Sherlock in.

The living room is large, with two glass walls that open onto a balcony with glass balustrades. It's an impressive view of the Thames, no more than ten feet above the high water line. The decor is sparse, starkly modern, principally black leather, chrome, and glass with white walls and polished wood floors. Sherlock walks slowly around the perimeter, noting the absence of any personal touches. It might as well be a furnished model rather than someone's home. There's no dust on any surface, and the windows are sparkling clear. No magazines, or books. No television. The art on the walls is tasteful, matches the theme of the room, and reveals nothing about the flat's occupant. Sherlock is standing in the center of the room on a ridiculously deep shag rug when Lestrade calls his name from the rear of the flat.

He finds Lestrade in a bathroom that is as pristine as the living room. The mirror cabinet over the wash basin is open. "Shaving stuff, toothbrush, shampoo," Lestrade says, waving at the contents. He opens the cabinet below the sink. "Blow dryer. Cleaning products." He straightens. "I'd have sworn no one was living here."

Sherlock walks into the bedroom and opens the closet, then the drawers in the bedside table and the bureau. He pulls back the duvet and leans down to sniff the pillows. "He was living here, and sleeping in the bed." He returns to the bureau. "Everything is folded and aligned perfectly. Obsessively so." He closes the drawer and heads for the kitchen.

Lestrade stands in the doorway and watches Sherlock open the cabinets and drawers, then the fridge. "Doesn't look like he did much cooking."

Sherlock frowns at the room in general, and Lestrade walks back to the living room. Sherlock opens the last unexplored area, the cabinet beneath the sink. On the right is a plastic tray that holds a few cleaning products and a collection of neatly folded plastic bags. On the left is a round plastic rubbish bin that looks empty, until he brings it out from the cabinet for a closer look. Lying at the bottom is a white, standard size envelope. He picks it up carefully by one corner and finds a single line address written on the front in blue biro ink in a man's script. The address says simply 'Hartman'. The flap isn't sealed, and he extracts a single sheet of paper. "Lestrade."

The DI strolls back to the door. "Find something?"

Sherlock holds up the sheet of paper, reciting what Lestrade can read from the unfolded note. "Face me like a man." He hands it to Lestrade. "Signed 'James Anderson'."

James and Miranda Anderson's home is a one bedroom flat on the ground floor of a multi unit brick complex on Peridot Street in Beckton, less than a half mile from the Tube station. It's a quiet, reasonably safe area. That's what Miranda Anderson must have believed, right up until the moment she encountered a sweet-faced young man on her way home from the Tube station who proved that there is no such place.

James Anderson doesn't know they're coming to see him. A first reaction is often the most revealing part of the interview. The first surprise, however, is on Lestrade and Sherlock when the man who opens the door to their knock is the wrong Anderson.

Philip Anderson comes outside and closes the door behind him, hope blooming on his face. "You've found something?" The question is addressed to Sherlock.

Lestrade answers. "Not what you think, I'm afraid. This is an official call."

Philip turns on him, frowning. "What are you saying?"

"We need to talk with your brother. And it would be best if you weren't present."

"We just buried my brother's wife." His voice is icy. "Can't this wait?"

That would explain the dark suit. Sherlock has rarely seen Anderson out of his blue coveralls. "You asked me to help your brother. I'm still trying to do that. We need to talk to him, alone. Now."

Philip hesitates. "Let me tell him." He goes back inside and closes the door. He comes back a few minutes later, just as Lestrade raises his hand to knock again. "He's willing to talk to you, but I'm not leaving." He crosses his arms.

Sherlock starts to protest, but Lestrade cuts in, "That will be fine. For now. Can we come in?"

Philip steps back and holds the door.

It's a small, cluttered living room, the diametric opposite of Hartman's trendy flat. The floral print sofa and matching overstuffed chair take up half the room. James Anderson is seated in the center of the sofa, dressed in a dark suit and tie. He stands, and Philip goes to his side. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes, this is my brother, James Anderson."

Lestrade comes forward and shakes hands with James. "I'm very sorry for your loss, Mr. Anderson. And I'm sorry that we have to disturb you today."

James shakes his hand, but his eyes are on Sherlock who is standing a few paces back. "Philip said you tried to help me, but there was nothing you could do. Has that changed?"

Sherlock and Lestrade have a game plan, devised during the drive to Anderson's home. Lestrade will handle the interview. Sherlock's role is to observe James Anderson, and to refrain from interrupting for as long as humanly possible. Sherlock looks at Lestrade now, prompting James to do the same.

"Do you mind if we sit?" Lestrade takes the armchair without waiting for an answer.

The Anderson brothers take the sofa. Sherlock, who would prefer to stand, can't do so now without looming. He pulls out the chair in front of a small desk and sits, one foot tapping minutely on the carpet, back ramrod straight.

Lestrade asks the first prepared question. "Do you know the name of the man suspected of attacking your wife?"

Philip stiffens, but the change in James is instantaneous. Quiet grief to dark fury. "He's not a 'man', and he didn't 'attack' her." He spits the words. "He's a rabid animal who murdered her and got away with it."

"James." Philip puts a hand on his brother's shoulder. "He doesn't know the name. How would he?" His eyes narrow. "Greg, what's going on?"

The DI exhales and pulls a small notebook from his coat. "I need to ask you some questions, Mr. Anderson. The man who was suspected of attacking your wife," he deliberately emphasizes 'suspected', and his expression dares another outburst, "was found murdered this morning."

Philip sucks in a sharp breath, and James sags back against the cushion, staring at Lestrade with wide, shocked eyes. His expression changes quickly from shock to confusion, and finally alarm. "You think I had something to do with it?" Outrage comes next, and he sits forward, ready to spring. "I was burying my wife this morning!"

Lestrade opens his notebook and says calmly, "We don't know what time he was killed."

Philip finds his voice, and it's tight with anger. "I came to you for help." He bites out the words, glaring at Sherlock. "I should have known better."

"I am helping you. Your brother needs to tell us how he got the name." Sherlock's voice is as level as Philip's is irate.

"What makes you think he got it from anyone? I don't know it. How would he?" Philip looks to James for confirmation, but James looks away. "James?"

At Lestrade's signal, Sherlock extracts a plastic bag from his coat and holds it out to James. "Is this your signature?"

James glances briefly at the signature visible through the plastic, then rises wearily to his feet. "I have something to show you." He walks to the desk and takes a folded sheet of paper from the top drawer. He hands it to Sherlock who holds it carefully by the edge. It's a half sheet of letter size white paper with a few lines of text in the center.

Sherlock reads it aloud. "'Michael Hartman killed your wife.'" He passes it to Lestrade. "Unsigned. Hartman's address is conveniently included."

Lestrade looks up at James. "Where did you get this?"

James returns to the sofa and sinks into it. "It was stuck in the door when I got home from the hospital the night my wife died." He looks at his brother. "I didn't kill him, Philip."

Philip stares at him. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I just wanted to get a look at him. See his face. I don't know if he was even home. I knocked, but no one answered, so I stuck that note in his door, and then I came home." He looks at Lestrade. "I swear that's all I did. I never saw him."

Lestrade poises a pen over the notebook. "You went to his flat, when?"

"Last night."

"What time?" Lestrade's voice takes a turn that Sherlock recognizes, from inquiry to interrogation with no steps in between. Philip Anderson appears to notice as well.

James frowns. "Exactly? I'm not sure. I left here about nine o'clock. Maybe an hour later? Ten, I think."

"Did you take a taxi?"

"I drove my car."

"How long were you there?"

James blows out a long breath. "Ten minutes? No more than that. Maybe less."

"Did you go anywhere else?"

"No, I came straight home. And before you ask, I got back here just after eleven. My brother can confirm that I was here when he phoned."

Philip speaks up. "I called his landline from my mobile." He pulls out his phone and scrolls to the call history, then holds it out to Lestrade. "Right here. I called him at 11:07, and we spoke for eighteen minutes."

Lestrade makes a note, then locks his gaze with James Anderson's. "Why did you go to Hartman's flat?"

"I told you. I wanted to see what he looked like. To see what kind of man could do what he did."

"What did you mean, 'Face me like a man'?" The DI's follow up question is immediate, not giving James a moment to think.

Philip clears his throat. "I think my brother needs to talk to a lawyer."

Lestrade sits back. "Is that what you want, James? To prolong the investigation and keep it focused on you? Or would you rather just answer the question?"

James sighs. "I wanted him to know that he didn't get away with it. To wonder every day of his life if I was waiting around the next corner." His gaze is fixed on Lestrade's. "I swear on my wife's soul that I did not kill him."

The DI closes his notebook. "I'd like to take that note back to the lab and have it processed for prints."

Philip shakes his head. "Not until we talk to a lawyer."

James touches his arm. "It's all right, Philip. I have nothing to hide."

"Thank you. Hartman's time of death should be established in a day or so." Lestrade nods to Sherlock, and they both stand. "We'll be in touch," he tells the brothers.

James nods. Philip glares. "You can show yourselves out."

"You still think James Anderson could have done it," Sherlock observes as they're getting into the DI's car.

Lestrade exhales heavily. "I wish I didn't."

Sherlock smirks. "Then don't. He had motive, certainly. And the way Hartman was killed would suggest a personal vendetta. But his surprise was genuine. He had no idea Hartman was dead. Once Molly sets the time of death, he'll have an alibi, and everyone who attended his wife's funeral will be witnesses."

Lestrade pulls out onto the main road, glancing at Sherlock as he checks the traffic. "If the time of death coincides with the funeral, sure. What if it doesn't?"

"Then this case jumps back to an 8. But that's not going to happen. The man who killed Michael Hartman is substantially taller and heavier than James Anderson. Hartman's lifestyle far exceeded his legitimate means, which strongly suggests he was supplementing his income. The recreational drugs trade would fit his age and taste. He was young and violent. He would have had enemies. Even the constable guarding the garage door this morning could put together a list of suspects with that information."

Lestrade shoots him a sidelong glare. "Tactful to a fault, as always. Write it down. I'm not a bloody tape recorder."

The case is a four, but there's one loose end that needs to be tied up before he can completely put it aside. He makes a call from the taxi on his way back to Baker Street.

"Molly, there's a body on the way to your morgue. I need you to check something for me."

Two days later, Sherlock is sorting through plastic bags in the freezer in search of a piglet he saved for a rainy day when he hears John's familiar tread on the stairs.

"You're just in time," he tells John by way of greeting, holding the frozen piglet aloft.

John makes the expected face. "Just tea for me, thanks."

"No sense of adventure," Sherlock fires back. He turns to the counter and switches on the kettle.

John pulls out a chair and sits down with his arms folded on the table. "What have you been up to? I keep checking to make sure my phone's working."

"A murder case that started out an 8 and turned into a 4. Not worth your time."

"Yeah, well even a 2 would sound good to me. It's been too long."

Sherlock's phone rings in the living room just as the kettle boils.

John pushes back his chair. "You get the phone. I'll make the tea."

Sherlock sprints to the desk and picks up his phone. The caller ID is for Bart's morgue.

"Sherlock, I think I have something for you. Can you come to the lab?"

"You can't tell me on the phone?"

"It's better if I show you. And I have something you'll want to take with you."

"Takeaway from the mortuary. How can I refuse?" He lifts an eyebrow at John who has come partway into the living room to listen. "I'm on my way." He pockets the phone. "Fancy a trip to Bart's?"

John smiles.

Molly is waiting for him in the lab, and her smile brightens when she sees John follow him in. "Hello, John. This is a nice surprise!" To Sherlock, "You were right about Michael Hartman being drugged. I haven't identified the substance, but there is an injection site on the back of his neck just at the hairline."

John clears his throat. "Sorry, Michael Hartman?"

Molly looks at Sherlock.

"The 8 that turned into a 4 just jumped to a 6. Hartman was suspected of killing Philip Anderson's sister-in-law, the direct result of a particularly brutal rape. Hartman was never charged because the evidence was tainted, and Anderson asked me to look into the case. I didn't find anything to pursue, and the day after Anderson told his brother that the case was a dead end, Hartman turned up murdered."

John's eyebrows rise. "Anderson came to you with a case? Now that's a client interview I would have paid good money to watch."

"It was entirely uneventful."

John snorts.

Molly clears her throat to bring them back to the point. "Did you want to see the body?" She moves to the draped table and pulls back the sheet.

Michael Hartman's body is face down on the metal table, a position that exposes the wreckage left by the tire lever as well as the extensive bruising. John stands at the foot of the table and winces as he scans the damage. "What the hell did he use to do that?"

Sherlock takes out his phone, scrolls to the crime scene pictures he took, and hands it to John. "Tire lever."

John grimaces at the images. "Jesus."

Molly places a gloved finger on the back of Hartman's neck. "It's here."

Sherlock leans close with his magnifying glass. "Fresh enough to have been inflicted near the time of death?" He looks at Molly, who nods. He straightens. "John? Have a look."

John takes the magnifier from Sherlock and peers at the back of Hartman's neck. "I would say so. You think he was drugged?"

Sherlock starts walking around the autopsy table, turning and gesturing as he moves. "His hands weren't tied, and there's no sign he was punched or hit over the head, yet the killer was able to strangle him with his own belt, and sexually assault him without Hartman raising the slightest fuss. There's not a mark on his hands, and nothing under his nails. He was conscious, but not able to fight back. What drug would act quickly enough to let the killer do what he did while keeping the victim aware enough to leave that expression on his face?"

John and Molly share a speculative look. "Succinylcholine." They say the word nearly in unison.

Sherlock nods. "Or something with the same effects. But wouldn't it have had to be injected directly into a vein?"

"Not always," John clarifies. "The drug actually has a longer half-life intramuscularly. Bit slower onset, but the effect typically lasts fifteen to thirty minutes. More than long enough to get the job done."

Molly winces in sympathy. "I know he was a terrible person, but it's a horrible way to die. The injection would have left him totally paralyzed, even his diaphragm. He wouldn't be able to draw a breath, but he could feel everything that was happening to him. The awful panic of not being able to breathe. He could have been conscious for a couple of minutes. Slowly smothering to death." She gives an involuntary shudder. "Can I cover him now?"

"There is a postmortem test for Succinylcholine now, isn't there?" John asks Molly.

Molly nods. "For the traces it leaves behind, yes. If you know to look for it. But it's not always accurate." She turns to Sherlock. "And identifying the specific drug isn't important in this case."

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow. "The murder weapon isn't important?"

She smiles. "I'm not familiar with your rating system, but if a simple injection site bumped the case up to a six, then the rest of what I have for you should make it a ten."

Sherlock and John exchange a look.

Molly continues, "I had already heard of Michael Hartman before you asked me to look at the body. I ran his DNA for Greg Lestrade a few weeks ago for the Miranda Anderson rape, although I had no idea she was Philip's sister-in-law. Greg brought me a cigarette butt and asked me to compare the DNA to evidence from the Miranda Anderson rape. It was a match."

John looks at Sherlock. "Then why wasn't Hartman arrested?"

"The DNA evidence from the rape was compromised. It was all they had, so Hartman was not going to be prosecuted," Sherlock answers John, then turns to Molly. "So, what makes this case a ten?"

She turns to the table behind her and picks up two manila folders. "This is your takeaway." She hands the files to Sherlock. "Both of those victims were murdered shortly after eluding justice, just like Michael Hartman. What makes it a ten is that I believe they were all killed by the same man."

End of chapter two

A/N - Virtual roses and digital chocolates to Jolie Black and sevenpercent for patient and meticulous beta through four 'final' drafts of this chapter. Any errors that remain no doubt came from the final tweak that they are seeing for the first time with this posting. -GW