London, two weeks later. Molly Hooper stormed down the halls of Saint Bart's until she arrived at the door labeled DOCTOR AMELIA GARNETT.
She took a breath before she knocked.
"Come in."
"Hello, Dr. Garnett. We possibly have a breech in security. Several reports I've filed in the past two weeks have gone missing. The case numbers are still in the index, but all the materials are gone. Hard and digital copies. No reference number, so no one's checked them out. They're just missing."
"You lost reports before filing?"
"No. These were all filed. I mean, they are filed with numbers in the system."
Garnett interrupted, "You think this is a problem to bring to my desk?"
"Each of these bodies came in separately, but I've reason to believe that the four missing files are connected to each other as well as a fifth body that I autopsied today. All suspected homicides," Molly explained.
"Our files are a bit off, and clearly that bothers you, but you said the case numbers are in the system, so you've already filed them, yeah? They're hardly lost. Submit a request when you file this next report of yours," Garnett replied. "I'm disappointed. You're talking as if you're fresh out of school."
"All our evidence in four suspected homicides is missing, we can't ignore that. Unless you've forgotten that security has been a problem at this facility."
"Molly, Doctor Hooper. In the past month, we've had an attack on a staff member, a murder on the grounds - "
"I am very aware," Molly interrupted. After all, she had been the one attacked.
"Fair enough. But with the investigations, and Barry Thomas and Doctor Greenberg suspended pending its outcome... not to mention the staff is being pulled out of their labs and meetings constantly for questioning... with all that going on, is it really a surprise that some reports are missing? That the filing's a bit off?"
"You're saying you think this is just a clerical error?"
"No, I think it's a human error caused by a lot of people who are scared and overworked, and we all have you to thank for that."
"Say that again," Molly said quietly.
"I didn't mean that last bit," Garnett said apologetically. She continued, "If the case numbers are still in the system, then the materials are on hand, maybe not accessible at the moment, but we've got them. So file a request for the reports, and as soon as they're available, you'll get them. But whatever you do, don't come to my office like the building's on fire."
"Right, then," Molly replied as she left.
She considered Garnett's comment as she walked back to her office. What Garnett said was true; she connected Thomas and Greenberg to Sebastian Moran's network, but then again, they were the ones wrapped up in a criminal conspiracy. Apparently, she was now a complete pariah in the building, down to her reports being mishandled. That, or someone was trying to cover up five homicides. At this point, she didn't know which would be more difficult to handle.
John Watson knocked on the ornate door marked 26A.
"Ah, John Watson?" a man said from behind the door.
"Err, yes," he replied. "Mr. Tyler Waverly?"
The door opened to reveal a scrawny man in his early fifties. He waved John into the flat.
"I've left everything as it is," Tyler said. "An officer and a constable came by after I called nine nine nine, but they said they couldn't do much more than file a report. I mean, they snapped some photos and put some things in baggies or something. Then they handed me some information so I could get a report for my insurance company."
Tyler led John into the sitting room. Glass was everywhere. Two decorative tables had been overturned in the midst of a small, broken statue. The door to the balcony had been shattered.
"I came in after my bath, you see, and there he was, right here in my sitting room, like he belonged. He had on this rucksack, full, mind you. When he saw me, well, that's when he started to throw things around, breaking things."
"So, you didn't hear him before you came out of the bath?"
Tyler replied, "That's what's got me so... like this, you see? I didn't hear him. He must've been all around my flat. He took paintings from almost every room. While I was in the shower, and not a peep, not a footfall."
"So, he sees you, and starts throwing things around? What about this statue, then?"
"The bust."
"Sorry, right, bust," John said. "Did he have it in his hands? You think he would've taken it with him if you hadn't come in?"
"Eh, no," Tyler replied. "Now you mention it, I think it was already broken."
"So he smashed it before he ever saw you?"
"He must've done."
"Right, so he came in here through the balcony. We're on the second floor, so that's possible. Then he goes all around your flat collecting paintings and putting them into a... errr... you said a rucksack?"
"I didn't actually see that bit, but yeah."
John continued, "Then he... where was the bust?"
"On that table," Tyler said pointing to the end of the room.
"So he took it from here, which is across the room from the balcony, but he smashed it here, in front of the door?"
"Seems so."
"Tell me about this bust."
"It was just a bust," Tyler replied. "I picked it up secondhand. Elizabeth the First, lovely piece. Paid about thirty pounds at the Wilder Family Shoppe for it."
"Look at this," John said as he pointed to the floor. "See all these? They're handprints."
"Nah, he was wearing gloves," Tyler replied. "I saw as much."
"Fine, then they're glove marks. You know what they tell me?"
"What do they tell you?" Tyler asked, rapt with attention.
"They tell me that your burglar smashed this bust open and then riffled around inside the broken pieces. Any reason why he'd do that? Was it set with a rare stone of some kind?"
"What? No, no, no. Actually, hang on."
He disappeared into another room before returning with a tablet, which he handed to John.
He continued, "See, I've photos of it. I take pictures of all my collection, and you can see it's just a plain bust. If you want, I can email these to you. Would that help?"
"Absolutely, let me just type my email in."
As he typed, Tyler continued, "But like I said, it's just a decorative bust. The robber probably just knocked it over or dropped it."
"If he knocked it over, it'd be broken over there where you had it," John replied. "And if he fell and broke it, then he'd put his hands down once to get up, not all over the place. Was it hollow? Maybe he thought you hid cash or jewelry inside."
"No, it was solid, and I didn't hide anything in it!" Tyler said, clearly at the end of his rope. "I've been robbed! Why do you care about some stupid statue that I bought on impulse a few days ago!"
John took a minute to consider his words. He was not Sherlock Holmes, and he wasn't going to start sounding like the man in his absence. With that being acknowledged, Mr. Tyler Waverly had been quite ridiculous, and he needed to be informed.
John said, "Listen, Mr. Waverly, anyone could believe a burglar came in here, that's fine. But a burglar packing up, what, seven paintings in a knapsack, then climbing back down the balcony?"
"Eight paintings, and it was a rucksack."
"Burglars don't steal fine art with rucksacks."
"He only took the small pieces. Twenty-five by twenties, thirty-five by twenty-fives,* that kind of thing."
"So he stole the paintings, which have questionable market value, but left your computer and electronics?"
"Those paintings are each worth thousands of pounds!"
"Which is why you insured them."
"How did you know about my insurance?"
"Actually, I guessed," John replied. "I mean, either someone who knew you, or rather, who knew the specific art you have in your flat, climbed onto your balcony with a knapsack - sorry, rucksack - to steal from you while you were home, or you scared off an intruder and decided to claim that he stole the art so you could cash in the insurance money."
"I called you because one of the officers told me you were some detective who helped in hopeless cases!"
"Actually, I'm a doctor, and even I can tell your story doesn't make much sense. How long do you think it'll take for the insurance company to ask questions? They'll have their own investigation you know."
"Someone stole from me! I am the victim here!"
"That's technically true, someone did break in, but he didn't steal your paintings. I'm guessing if I poked around your flat, I'd find wherever it is you stashed them, since you haven't had time to hide them elsewhere. Tell me, did you plan on selling your not-stolen works on the black market? Something tells me you're clever like that."
"Clever? What are you on about?" Tyler asked, but his voice revealed his interest, as if John was offering him defrauding for dummies.
"Think about it. You report the paintings stolen, then you find a fence or sell them yourself, it doesn't matter, because as soon as the items are circulating on the black market, it confirms your story that they're stolen. Then you get the money from the illegal sales as well as the money from the insurance company. Very well done, now that I think of it. The only trouble you might find is the insurance investigators. They are very good at finding fences, which means you'd be better off handling the black market sales yourself, otherwise they'll find the guy and flip him."
"Good, I hope they actually identify the man who broke into my home!" Tyler shouted.
John had pushed the man too far, and he clearly had no intention of amending his police statement about the not-stolen art. He was also terrified. It was possible that he was just incredibly stubborn, but John had a feeling that Tyler Waverly might be desperate for money. So he changed course.
"Did you get a look at him?" John asked.
"What?"
"The intruder, did you see him?"
"I told you, I did."
"What did he look like?"
"He was wearing black cloths, a ski mask, and gloves."
"Height? Eye color? Build?" John asked.
"No, I don't know. I guess he was tall."
"Right, well, if I find him, I'll give you a call," John said. "Oh, and I'm sorry for suggesting that you tried to defraud your insurance company."
He left the flat as quickly as possible. Once on the sidewalk, he dialed Lestrade.
"John, you all right?" Lestrade said.
"I'm fine," John replied. "But that break-in you put me on to? I don't think the paintings were stolen."
"But that place was a mess, at least according to the constable."
"Someone broke in and smashed up a statue, not sure why. But the paintings? I think the owner just hid them."
"What makes you say that? You spot some bit of plaster on his shoe that can only be found in art galleries or something?"
"What? No," John replied. "He said the burglar put eight paintings in a rucksack and left down the balcony. No need for deductions. Anyone who believed that must be mad."
"It could happen."
"In cartoons," John said. "You think a man, dressed all in black, could climb down a balcony with a sack of paintings and go unseen by every neighbor? Not to mention anyone walking past. No. His paintings are insured. So he used the break in to get insurance money."
"Right, well, glad you looked into it then."
"I might've given him a few tips on how to evade detection on the black market," John replied. "But purely by accident."
"You what?"
"I was trying to get a confession. He's very wily."
"You're joking."
"Only enough to keep me out of trouble."
"Right, well, listen, I've got to go. We've got some crazy hacker or whatever they're calling themselves these days running us around - "
John interrupted, "Hacktivist."
"Sorry?"
"Hackers sometimes call themselves hacktivist."
"Yeah, sure. We've got one of them, calls himself Hacksaw, and he's been obstructing a homicide investigation. We can catch up later."
"Good luck."
The Wilder Family Shoppe was an antique store that the Wilders owned for the past fifty years. It had an unusually good location with an odd assortment of customers.
"Are you looking for something in particular, Dr. Watson?" the shopkeeper asked.
"Sorry, I didn't catch your name."
"Anthony Wilder."
"Anthony. Actually, a friend of mine bought something here," John replied. "I was wondering if you could tell me anything about it."
"You want information about something we sold?"
John sensed that Anthony didn't want to waste his time on someone unwilling to buy, so he said, "In case you had something similar."
"Ah, of course," Anthony replied. "What was your friend's name?"
"Waverly. It was a bust of Elizabeth the First."
"I remember that piece, came in with a few other items from an estate. The heiress asked our shop to handle the sale of individual items."
"Do you have a website or an inventory?" John asked. "I only ask because everything for the house needs to be approved by the wife. I'm sure she'd love it, but, you know."
Lying tended to get away from John, but even this one surprised him. He didn't have feelings for Molly, anymore than he did for Sherlock, yet the flat had acquired a strong sense of family, like he was living with a sister he actually got on with and their dotty aunt.
"I see, I see. Yeah. I've got pictures of that whole estate if you'd like a copy to show her. Can even show you all the remaining pieces and set them aside."
"Fantastic."
John thought about the bust of Elizabeth the First. Anthony refused to give him the name of the estate, but given the number and rarity of the items, he probably could identify the previous owners with some research.
Of course, there was every possibility that the burglar was just a prankster, put up to it by friends. But why would he break the bust inside, then search around in its remnants? Anyone who wanted to extract something from it could simply steal the bust and dismantle it elsewhere. Unless, of course, the intruder had no means to escape while carrying it. No, that wouldn't make sense, either. Baring extreme impulse control issues, anyone capable of breaking into that flat would bring a bag.
John couldn't make sense of it, but a mystery object inside the bust seemed more reasonable that a fine art thief with a rucksack. Maybe he wanted this to be a complex case because the more he worked, the less time he had to worry about Sherlock. The past two weeks had been filled with bland days, the kind he vaguely remembered before the war.
His thoughts abruptly stopped as he approached 221 B. He had returned later than he'd planned, but it wasn't late enough for Molly and Mrs. Hudson to have turned in. So why was every light in the flat out?
"Mrs. Hudson?" he said as he came in. "Molly?"
He climbed the stairs and spotted someone in the living room.
"Molly?"
"Hardly," Sherlock Holmes replied from the couch. "What took you so long?"
* Twenty-five by twenty and thirty-five by twenty-five are standard canvas sizes in centimeters. These size comparisons are approximately equivalent.
25 x 20 cm = 10 x 8 inches
35 x 25 cm = 14 x 10 inches