Entry Two: Rebecca Larson

Rebecca was a slob, and I say that as Sherlock Holmes' flatmate. I know the definition better than anyone else. Although, unlike the beakers filled with suspicious liquids that I was use to seeing, her mess was at least nontoxic. I hoped.

I squinted around the small flat littered with wrinkled clothing, garbage, old cigarettes, liquor bottles, crumpled papers, and dirty dishes which have been sitting out for over six months. The smell from the mess was so strong that we could sense it before the landlady had even unlocked the door. Compared to a decomposed body, that was nothing. Still, it was nearly an involuntary action when our hands flew to our noses.

"Right," Sherlock uttered strenuously from the barrier of his hand, "Well, let's make this quick."

I watched curiously as Sherlock very calmly retrieved a folded handkerchief from the pocket of his tailored jacket and carefully unfolded it, holding it over his face. I gave him a peculiar look.

"A handkerchief? Are you really that posh?" I teased. He looked at me like it was the most practical accessory in existence.

"You never know when you'll need to chloroform someone," he said in his 'obviously' tone, while he stepped confidently into the flat.

"Hm," I hummed thoughtfully in consideration, "I still prefer the old fashioned way."

"That's your department Captain Watson," he teased, glancing back at me with a sly smile that made me laugh.

I followed close behind his tall frame, with Grady's stocky one just behind me. Rebecca's landlady remained in the doorway, peering in disinterestedly with eyes half concealed by droopy eyelids. She looked like her face was permanently frozen in the expression one has just after waking, and her emotions always seemed to be fixed in the same state of wandering apathy.

Rebecca's flat was split into two main rooms with doors leading to the single bathroom and bedroom on the right wall. The entry door led straight into the living room, and on the left, divided by a wall was the narrow kitchen. Sherlock's first instinct was to stride into the center of the living room, dodging empty liquor bottles, and other rubbish piled up in disorganized heaps. Against the dividing wall between the living room and the kitchen was a television and a coffee table with rotten plates of food, and in front of those was a couch towards the center of the room. It was blue and dilapidated with sunken cushions, clearly very worn. Next to the piece of furniture was a small end table with an older style landline phone.

Sherlock instantly gravitated to the area just behind the old couch, rotating on a swivel to take it all in. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, removing the handkerchief and returning it to his pocket.

"You're insane," I told him with a scoff, stopping just by the coffee table.

"It's better to get accustom to it John. Besides, there's richness in the smell. There could be so many overlooked clues."

I shook my head and looked at him oddly, but I removed my hand. I made my way over to a desk that was wedged in the far right corner, across from a bookshelf on the left wall. The desk was so cluttered, that the whole surface of it was concealed under journals, pages with scribbles, stacks of books, and a beautifully kept retro typewriter. Grady walked further into the room, awkwardly standing behind me and glancing around the flat. He obviously had no idea what to do. It was so different from the ease he felt when speaking with Annie's mother earlier. His medium for investigation was questioning, not observations and theories.

"We already took pictures," he told Sherlock and I. He looked between us but I was the only one who was listening.

"Good. Uh, did you check for signs of a break in or anything taken?" I asked more out of politeness rather than needing to know.

"Yeah it all checked out."

I nodded. The killer was very consistent and neither of those scenarios were part of his M.O for Annie McCray. According to the report, there was no sign that anyone had entered using force, and the case was the same for Rebecca's flat. It doesn't take Sherlock to come up with theories based on this. Either the killer was someone the victim knew and welcomed in, or she wasn't killed in her home. The objective here was simply to learn as much about Rebecca Larson as possible. She had no family members to interview since she was an orphan, so the only information that we have on her is the little that was offered by Mrs. Wilson the landlady.

Suddenly Sherlock opened his eyes and pointed to Mrs. Wilson standing in the doorway, trying to catch her off guard. I had seen him use this tactic many times. He believes abrupt stress brings out honesty in people and reveals their concealed emotions. I agree mostly, as long as he doesn't use it on people who are already traumatized. However, this woman is so apathetic, that I don't know what he thinks he will accomplish with that strategy.

"Did you come in here at any point?" he demanded. The woman blinked her droopy eyelids and shook her head, apparently not caught off guard at all.

"I only opened the door a few months ago, and that's when I found her missing. The flat was too quiet. It was suspicious. And the phone kept ringing but nobody would answer," she drawled.

I looked at her with confusion because that statement seemed contradictory.

"You thought something was wrong because it was too quiet?" I asked her. I gave a look to Sherlock and he seemed just as confused. That's always a good expression to see on him. It makes me feel like I'm not being as 'unobservant' as he tries to make me believe.

"Well," the landlady began, "She was a little batty. People were calling me everyday about her making too much noise. She was always shouting and throwing things around. I nearly called the police once."

"Odd. Did she live with anyone?" Sherlock asked, "Did she have visitors?"

The landlady shrugged.

Sherlock waited but she didn't elaborate any more except to say, "My tenants' lives are none of my business."

He groaned with aggravation and searched around for something, stopping at the space just behind me where Grady stood.

"You, Garson," He gestured to him, sending him into an even more nervous state.

"Grady," I corrected.

"Whatever," he mumbled, waving away the mistake.

The Sergeant was far out of his bounds in this setting, and he looked it. Sherlock could sense his self consciousness and decided to target the weakness.

"Garson, you're not doing anything productive. Go check the bedroom and bath," he ordered.

Grady looked at me apprehensively, silently asking the questions he was afraid to ask out loud in fear of the arrogant git's response. I gave him a sympathetic but casual smile to reassure him. It's not like Sherlock never orders me about without explaining. I swear he thinks people can read his damn mind sometimes. As Grady walked passed me, I gave him some advice.

"Look for how many toothbrushes there are," I whispered, "Any medications, clothing from another person, weapons in the underwear drawer, etc."

Grady grinned at me gratefully and walked with a resolute stride to fulfil his duties, like a soldier going into battle.

Meanwhile, Sherlock began his investigation in a spiral pattern around the room, taking in all perspectives slowly. He examined the path his feet took as he stepped, careful not to corrupt any possible evidence. He walked around the perimeter first, making his way back to the center of the room. When he passed the bookshelf, he stopped to examine the pictures. There was only one photo, which included Rebecca Larson as one of the subjects. She was a thin woman, with an almost pixie like oval face. She had large dark eyes, thin lips, and short wavy cropped black hair. Although the photo was maybe ten years old, she had signs of premature wrinkles even then, most likely due to her smoking and drinking vices. The woman beside her in the photo looked somehow similar.

"Related?" I asked.

"Sisters, possibly cousins but not as likely," responded Sherlock.

Then he focused on the contents of the desk, beginning with the papers. Most of them were unreadable scribbled notes, torn from the journals that were filled with similar pages of cryptic writing. He flipped through the journals, decoding the terrible handwriting as much as possible.

"She was often drunk when writing, obviously," he noted of the scribbles.

"What do they say?" I asked, peering over his shoulder. He shrugged and tossed them on the floor with disinterest.

"Something dull and irrelevant. Moving on," he muttered. He turned to the old typewriter, examining it from all angles, noting things to himself in the process.

"Doesn't seem like her style, and it's in nearly perfect condition. Used often. Cleaned often..."

Meanwhile, I picked up one of the books and flipped it over to reveal the front. It was one of those paperback mystery romance novels, but oddly enough, the picture of the man and woman on the front appeared familiar to me.

"I've read this," I told him, holding up the book. He narrowed his eyes and wrinkled his nose at the information. Before he could continue his judgment of me, I explained.

"You know the girl I went out with a few times during the kidnapping case in August?"

"No," he replied shortly. I was not surprised at all. To be honest, I was lucky to remember her name.

"Well her name was Sophie. She was in a book club. This was one of the books her group read and we ended up reading it together. It was actually really good."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "This is the cheapest literature available second to tabloids."

"But Sherlock look, Rebecca Larson is RL Whitney! She's a famous writer, a recluse," I emphasized, feeling like I had made my biggest discovery on a case in months. Sherlock didn't look at all impressed by it however. He probably had known who she was for a while now.

"Well John, she's dead," he said with just as much emphasis, "and we have more pressing matters at hand. What does the publishing date in the book say?"

I flipped to one of the first pages and scanned the text.

"2009," I read, "It was her most recent book."

He scoffed, "That was seven years ago. Do you know the turn out for those romance novels? Clearly she was struggling to publish something new. Hm, struggling writer, smoker, alcoholic. I'm starting to get the picture here. Low self esteem, became a near hoarder. Hand me the book."

I did as he said, not really knowing what he was expecting to do with it. He flipped to the publishing page again and I watched as he gently tore it out. He folded it and stored it in his pocket for future reference.

Then he resumed the path around the room. I stayed where I was because I had no idea what I could contribute at that point. Sometimes it's best to just sit back and nod my head. He stopped between the coffee table and the television, his eyes trained on the floor where a dark spot had sunken into the carpet.

"Interesting," he mumbled, bending down to get a better look. He leaned close to the carpet and sniffed the spot to identify it.

"Alcohol?" I asked. He shook his head, reaching into his pocket for his magnifying glass.

His eyes glowed with calculating excitement, apparently finding a clue within the spot which was unseen to the naked eye. He returned the tool to his pocket and sat up, kneeling on one knee. He looked around with a concentrating expression, stretching his arm out as a vague measure of the radius around his body. I watched with avid curiosity as he stood up and examined the coffee table with closer distinction.

"Not you," he told the table. He caught sight of the end table with the phone and hummed in thought. He moved to the surface and felt it with his fingertips. He sniffed them, then picked up the phone and turned it over in his hands. He grinned with discovery.

He jumped onto his feet and stared directly at the wall next to the desk.

"There," he pointed. I gave him a peculiar look but examined the wall, hoping to figure out what was going on in his head.

I could see there was definitely a small dent in the wall, unnoticeable unless in close proximity.

Sherlock's finger gravitated down to the carpet on the floor just below that dent.

"What?" I demanded, tired of being in the dark. He looked at me with urgency and continued pointing.

"Look!" he shouted in response. I rolled my eyes but did as he said. I squinted at the carpet and noticed a dark black spot similar to the one by the coffee table but wider and more concentrated. There were flakes of some dark material in it, perhaps tea leaves, and a glimmer of something in the light. It was...glass shards.

"Glass, leaves, and a black spot. Alright, Sherlock please explain," I turned to him curiously and he grinned.

"See this ring on the end table?" he asked. I walked over to where he was and he showed me the mark next to where the phone was sitting.

"Condensation from a drink," I attempted to guess. He shook his head.

"Too large for that. It was a vase. She had a vase of flowers here, which she never threw away, but never changed the water because she was either lazy or forgetful, most likely both. That's why the water was rotten," he explained, then grabbed my arm and turned me around to face the spot on the ground.

"You see John, she was sitting here," He said, demonstrating the scenario by sitting down on the couch, close to the end table.

"Someone called and she picked it up. She was so distraught by whatever the conversation was that she dropped the phone and it hit the table. See the impact impressions on both?" he asked. He handed the phone to me and I saw the chips and scraps on one side which seemed to match the marks on the wood of the end table.

"She stood up," Sherlock simulated by doing so, "Then she turned towards the end table, grabbed the vase, spilling some of the water on the ground behind her in the process, and threw it forward, hitting the wall."

"She cleaned the wall I'm assuming," I noted. He nodded.

"She cleaned the wall, threw away the vase, but never cleaned up the glass remnants or the spots on the ground. She probably wanted the evidence from the moment erased, because of the upsetting memory of the phone call, but didn't have the strength to do it. She cleaned it quickly, just enough to not be reminded of it."

"Why does this mean anything Sherlock?" I sighed, still not understanding why this was significant except for Sherlock's opportunity to show off.

He thought about the question for a second, "Well, I have two theories. And both of them are on this paper."

He held up the page from the book but I still wasn't getting it. Grady entered before my confused look could be followed with further questions.

"One toothbrush," he announced proudly, presenting the evidence with dignified grace.

…

I discovered that Sherlock's first theory involved some kind of nasty dispute between Rebecca and her editor which resulted in her little incident with the vase. Surprisingly the small publishing company was located not far from Cresmere in a larger town where many of the locales worked or went to school at the university.

They meet by appointment only but because it was an urgent police investigation they made an exception.

The editor was a professional looking woman, but honest and polite. She wore an androgynous suit and tie and had her long brown hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. She sat leaned back in her chair, and when we entered her office her face broke into a polite smile.

"Hey, I'm Joan, How can I help you?" She greeted us, shaking each of our hands firmly, except for Sherlock who looked away awkwardly from the gesture. She quirked her eyebrow at the rejection but said nothing. Grady and I both sat down in the chair across from the desk but Sherlock resolved to stand.

"You used to have an author selling to your company, Rebecca Larson, with the pen name R.L Whitney," he stated.

Joan laughed, "I'm sorry but we have thousands of authors working for us. I honestly can't remember her by name."

Sherlock tossed the book on the desk with a thump. She looked at the novel with surprise but nevertheless began to read the back to get a sense of the story.

"Right… a romance with a bit of crime. Dreadfully cheesy but the public eats it up. I vaguely remember. When was it written? The publishing page is missing," she showed the spot where Sherlock had ripped it out.

"2009," I told her.

Grady rooted around his pocket for something and retrieved on of the missing persons posters with Rebecca's photo on it. He handed it to Joan.

"This might help to remember," he told her. She nodded slowly, furrowing her brow as she studied the picture.

"Yes. I remember her. What's this about? She's missing?" She asked Sherlock, somehow sensing that he was the dominant one in the investigation despite Grady being a sergeant.

"Dead actually, but we know that six months ago she communicated with you previous to her murder, and that you got in a rather intense dispute" he said quickly, and narrowed his eyes in examination of her body language and tone of voice. It was a variation on the Reid technique. He stated accusations as truth rather than a question and if it were true, some suspects would respond with agreement. "Yes, but…" while if they denied it or if it were untrue, they would offer an explanation. Either way it allowed him to determine her level of honesty.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she scoffed, looking at him as if he were crazy, "I remember a meeting we had about a new manuscript she had written, but she never returned my calls. I'm a busy woman and I don't waste my time so I didn't bother trying to get a hold of her anymore. She didn't show any effort of contacting me so I assumed she changed her mind. Oh my god, she was murdered? That's awful."

She seemed legitimately stricken by the news. Her face grew paler at the grim thought, although clearly she was not close to the woman.

Sherlock seemed satisfied by her reaction and response and finally sat down. He straightened his jacket and crossed his legs.

"I was simply checking. I believe you," he admitted, "Do you know anything about the woman. Did she ever talk about her personal life?"

"No," she shook her head, "Rebecca didn't seem like the type to open up. She was pretty antisocial, a bit of a jerk even".

He hummed and nodded in agreement.

"I see. Well, I think we may have...we need to redirect," he sent me a look. In other words, we needed to move to theory number two.

On the way back to the car Sherlock took the book page from his pocket along with his phone. He silently typed and scrolled using quick expert fingers. I was always amazed by how fast he could search for information. I walked beside him, looking over to see his concentrating expression. His facial features changed to curiosity and then satisfaction.

"What is it Sherlock? What was the other theory?" I finally asked him with a smile.

He passed the paper to me. I read it with concentration, trying to figure out what it indicated.

Dedicated to Maria Larson

He explained, his voice low, eager, and rushed.

"The typewriter back at the flat was given as a gift to Rebecca. Someone close had to have given it to her, because she wouldn't have chosen to use a such difficult method of writing when it would be much more convenient to use modern technology. After all, Rebecca was lazy. Then there was it's impeccable condition. Nothing in that flat was in even a semi decent condition. It must have had emotional significance. She didn't have any frequent male visitor because she would have had signs of a second person in her flat. It had to be a friend or relative. She was a recluse and given Joan's description of her, it was not likely a friend. She was an orphan so that limited the list of family members. There was only one picture in her flat which happened to feature her and a female relative. I concluded that it was most likely her, and if it was, she would have her in her book dedication."

He then passed his phone to me, I looked at him curiously before taking it from him. The screen was on a facebook page for Maria Larson, sister to Rebecca. The most recent posts were sympathy posts, memories of Maria, and hopes that someday there will be a cure.

"Her sister had cancer," I mumbled.

"She died six months ago. The phone call Rebecca received was a call from the hospital with the news of her death. Those flowers might even have been for her room," he theorized, "She was the only one close to her, the only one she let in. Of course she would have taken her death very hard."

"Brilliant," I told him with a smile as we entered the car, "Sad, but brilliant."

"So we are back to having no leads. Rebecca didn't have any enemies, and I don't see the connect to Annie" Sherlock said frustratedly.