Johnny Blue-Eyes

Chapter 16: Interview with a Vampire

Friday at 10 am sharp, Donovan met Lestrade outside of Lindt's hospital room at St. Bart's. Lestrade was dressed in a fresh suit, but his face showed his exhaustion the same as she knew hers did. She was sure he hadn't slept more than a couple of hours the previous night.

"Thanks for doing this interview with me," she said by way of greeting, holding out the cup of hospital vending machine coffee she had brought him to show her appreciation. "You look like shit."

"Yeah, well, so do you." He took the coffee and held it up in a silent toast.

Donovan lifted her cup as well. "To the Holmes brothers for keeping us up all night."

"To the Holmes brothers for catching us a serial paedophile."

"That too." Donovan took a gulp of her coffee, then immediately pulled the cup back and wiped her mouth. "Shit, that's hot."

Lestrade chuckled at her, then his smile dropped. He gestured for her to follow him a little way down the hall, away from the closed door to Lindt's hospital room. "What's our plan of attack here?"

"Get him to confess."

"How do you plan to do that?"

"I was hoping you had an idea."

"Well. . ." Lestrade took a sip of coffee while he contemplated that. "The video evidence is pretty strong. The offense is unmistakeable. On the other hand, you said you could never see his whole face, and he's aged so much as to be nearly unrecognizable anyway. We found no evidence in his flat to indicate he ever had recording equipment. Our only forensic evidence hasn't come back from the lab yet."

"We've got a couple of witnesses."

"As of right now you've got one witness. What are the chances he'll actually take the stand when the time comes."

"I'd say. . . slim, but Lindt doesn't know that."

"Right. So we stick to the story that our witnesses identified him as the man who assaulted them, and that we can corroborate that with the videos. No matter what he says, he knows why Sherlock and Mycroft broke into his flat last night. We need to make him believe we can prove it."

"Yeah, ok. It's worth a shot."

"Ready?"

"Yeah," Donovan said with more conviction than she felt. She took a last sip of her coffee and tossed the rest in the rubbish bin.

Lestrade's cup hit the bin as well. "That stuff tasted like shit."

"How would you know? Been eating a lot of shit lately?"

"Funny, Donovan. Real funny."

When they entered the hospital room, they found Lindt propped up in bed, handcuffed to the rail, talking with a man Donovan immediately recognized—Gabriel Pomeroy for the defence: mid-forties, tall and imposing with sleek black hair, impeccably dressed in a navy blue suit and matching tie. Ugh. Donovan stopped so abruptly that Lestrade bumped into her back.

Lestrade caught her elbow and gave her a questioning look. Donovan realized he didn't know that she had dated Pomeroy off and on for almost a year several years previous, mostly off, and she would be happiest if she never had to see him again. Not that he was sleazy or a drunk, or really anything she could pin down. It was just that she wasn't quite herself when he was around. His methods of control were so subtle that she found herself wondering if she were going crazy, and she considered herself well quit of him. And it was the same in court: with his sincere-looking smile and soft voice, he quickly had juries eating out of his hand.

When he heard their footsteps, Pomeroy turned around, and his face arranged itself into a slightly oilier version of his usual convincing smile.

"Ah, Sergeant Donovan and Inspector Lestrade. Always a pleasure."

"Have you been retained by Mr Lindt then?" Donovan asked abruptly. That smile won't work on me, buster.

Pomeroy's smile vanished. "Indeed I have. You weren't planning to interview my client without an attorney present, I hope."

"We didn't know he had retained one."

"Ah. Well, he has. So here we are."

"Well, then, counselor, we'd like to interview your client."

"I'm afraid that's not on at the moment. My client will not be answering any questions today. I do, however, have some questions for you."

"So is it your contention that you are not guilty, then?" Donovan said around Pomeroy to Lindt, who was looking at her quite like a squirrel caught in the headlights.

"Don't answer that," Pomeroy said mildly. "Sergeant Donovan, you will speak to me, please."

"Of course. Then you are saying that your client didn't videotape himself raping a bunch of little boys?" She was trying, but failing, to keep the disgust out of her voice. Pomeroy's face remained neutral, as if they were discussing the weather. It was the same expression he had given her when she had exploded at him for trying to take credit for her promotion to sergeant. See what a big deal you're making over nothing?

"I didn't hurt—" Lindt started, but Pomeroy cut him off.

"What evidence do the police have against my client?" he asked, holding up a hand to silence Lindt.

"Thirty-two videotapes, showing your client sexually assaulting boys as young as six years of age."

"How did you obtain these videotapes?" Pomeroy asked smoothly, without hesitation.

"They were sent to us anonymously by a man who claimed to have stolen them from Mr Lindt's flat."

"Anonymously? Do you know who this burglar is?"

Donovan cut her eyes to Lestrade, who answered for her. "Andrew Gilbert. Known housebreaker. We've got him in lockup."

"Andrew Gilbert? Why does that name sound familiar, Sally?"

"Oh, erm - He's been in the nick before."

"Right. I think I remember him. And did he mention my client by name?"

"Well—no. We discovered his identity later."

"How exactly?"

"He was identified."

Pomeroy folded his arms and leaned forward slightly. "By whom?" Donovan exchanged an uncomfortable glance with Lestrade. "I shouldn't have to remind you that my client has a right to be presented with the evidence against him," Pomeroy continued, looking back and forth between the two of them.

"A victim came forward and identified Mr Lindt as his assailant," Donovan said reluctantly.

"I see. When will I be able to see this witness's statement?"

"I'll have a copy sent over to your office. Now will you please allow us to ask your client a few questions?"

"Sergeant Donovan, my client had the sanctity of his home violated and was assaulted in the middle of the night. When the police arrived, he found himself in handcuffs instead of the man who assaulted him. He is understandably quite exhausted and confused, not to mention in a great deal of pain. This conversation is over."

"Fine," Donovan said, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. "We'll let you know when the arraignment is. I'm meeting with the crown advisor later today and we'll try to schedule it for tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime, your client will stay here, or if he is ready to be released from hospital, he will be sent to central lockup."

"Very well. My client needs time to recover from his injuries. I assume you have his assailant in lockup?"

"No, he was released."

"And if my client decides to press charges?"

"We can discuss that when he gives his confession," Lestrade said firmly.

"There will not be a confession, Inspector; you know that. My client didn't do what you are alleging, plain and simple."

Donovan was sure that Pomeroy wouldn't be saying that if he had seen what she had seen on those tapes, but she kept that to herself for the moment. "He can tell us that himself when we get his statement," she said. "When will he be available for questioning?" Even before she said it, she already knew the answer: never. Gabriel Pomeroy was famous for not allowing his clients to answer any questions. He handed the police a prepared statement, and then he did all the talking for them, and boy could he weave a compelling argument for a jury, all while making sure his good side was toward the chalk artist in the front row.

"I will be in touch." With that, Pomeroy pointedly turned his back on them. Dismissed. How did that man still manage to make her feel like a schoolgirl? Donovan felt the heat rising in her face. She stared at Pomeroy's back, trying to think of what to say to even the field. Somehow he always managed to have all the power, and even after six years, she still couldn't figure out how to win.

She felt Lestrade's hand on her arm, gentle but firm, steering her out the door into the hallway, where she sagged against the wall.

"Well, that could have gone better," Lestrade muttered. "What was up with you and Pomeroy?"

"I dated him for a while, but that's a long time ago now."

"So it's not going to interfere with your work?"

"No, boss, I swear. It was ages ago."

He fixed her with a skeptical look. "C'mon. I'll get you a real cup of coffee." He beckoned to her, and she followed him down the corridor. "I can't believe Gabriel Pomeroy agreed to represent that piece of shit."

"Oh, I can. Just his type."

"He can't honestly believe he's innocent."

"I don't know if he does or not, but it doesn't matter. He'll do anything for the publicity. He's preparing his usual 'my client is really the victim here' routine. By the time he gets done with the jury, he'll have them believing that Mycroft Holmes sexually assaulted Lindt, not the other way round." Donovan suddenly stopped in the hallway and put her hand to her head. "Oh, God."

"What?"

"I have to meet with the Crown Advisor today."

"Yeah, to prepare for the arraignment. So?"

"It's Tracey Sorrell.* She scares me. You remember what happened with Moriarty's trial. She was out for blood after Sherlock made her look like a fool." Donovan whinged. "Boss, you've got to come with me."

"She scares you?" Lestrade chuckled and shook his head. "How do you think I feel? She still hasn't forgiven me."

"What Sherlock did was hardly your fault. Anyway, she has to listen to you."

"She doesn't think so. This is your case, Sally."

"Boss, please? Will you come?"

"You can do it. I have faith in you. Just keep Sherlock's name out of it. It would be best if we can do this without his statement."

"Good plan. Can you imagine what she'd do if she found out he was one of the victims? I don't think she'll ever agree to use him as a witness again."

Tracey Sorrell came to NSY that afternoon to review the evidence ahead of the arraignment. Donovan checked her files three times before the meeting, making sure all the photographs and her notes were in order, reviewing Mycroft Holmes' statement, examining the preliminary forensics report for the typographical errors that Phillip was famous for.

Now she sat silently across the conference table and waited while Sorrell looked everything over, her expression never changing. Ever since Sorrell had been demoted over the Moriarty trial, Donovan knew she had been looking for a case to get herself back in the good graces of the Crown Prosecutor's office. She had to be excited to catch this case, but her face gave no sign.

"Well, what do you think?" Donovan finally prompted.

"How many videotapes?"

"Thirty-two," she answered promptly. "Dates ranging from 1977 to 1992, according to the labels."

"Did you find a hidden camera or any connection to the videotapes in his flat?"

"No, but he had plenty of time to get rid of evidence after the tapes were nicked."

"And he was not recognizable in the tapes?"

"I recognized him, but it would take some effort to convince a jury of it. He was very clever at keeping his full face out of the shot."

"He's never been arrested or under suspicion before?"

"No, Ma'am."

Sorrell took a moment to page through the documents until she found the notes from their attempted interview with Lindt. "So he was not willing to confess?"

"No. His solicitor was with him and wouldn't let him say a word to us. I doubt we'll get a guilty plea."

More flipping through papers. "I see one witness statement here. Any others?"

"N—no, no others have come forward yet." Donovan attempted to act casual, hoping that Sorrell wouldn't look too closely at the name on the witness statement, but the hope was in vain. Sorrell scanned the page a second time, then looked up at Donovan with her eyebrows raised.

"Holmes?" She queried.

"Erm, yes. Mycroft Holmes. He is willing to testify that he is the boy in the first video."

"I see. Any relation to. . ."

Donovan bit her lip. "He's Sherlock's older brother."

"Ah, yes, I remember him." Sorrell's lip curled upward with distaste. She looked over the page again, a little more closely this time. "His statement wouldn't fit the definition of rape."

"No, but it connects Lindt to the tapes, and as you can see from my notes. . ." Donovan reached over and pulled the appropriate page from the file ". . . the charge of first degree sexual assault of a minor under thirteen definitely applies in some of the other cases."

"Have you watched all of the tapes?"

"No, not all of them. Not yet. They're rather hard to watch."

"Hmm. . ." Sorrell said, eyes on Donovan's notes. "Well, we should be able to meet the full code test for an indictment with the videotapes and physical evidence found at his flat. Any idea when the DNA results for the trace evidence on the sofa will be back?"

"Looks like at least a week. We've put a rush on it, but the lab is backlogged as usual."

"Ok, we'll deal with that later then. I think we're ready for the arraignment this afternoon."

*Tracey Sorrell is the prosecuting Barrister for Moriarty's trial who interviewed Sherlock in court during The Reichenbach Fall, when he went off on one of his deductions and got himself tossed in jail for contempt of court.