Johnny Blue-Eyes
Chapter 18: The downside of using civilians
Monday morning Donovan got in early, with the idea of contacting the headmaster of Rutherford Primary School and asking about student records. It wasn't impossible to hope that she could find a list, and maybe even a yearbook with photos to match to her videos, was it?
When she got to her desk, she found an envelope from Tracey Sorrell that contained a statement from Rainer Lindt. It was short and to the point: he admitted that he had been a violin tutor but denied any wrongdoing. Donovan just shook her head. How did he think that was going to work when they had witness statements along with videotaped evidence of multiple sexual assaults? In fact, it was only through Pomeroy's finesse that Lindt had been released on bail instead of sitting in a jail cell awaiting trial.
The statement also accused Mycroft Holmes of assault and announced Lindt's intentions to press charges. Shit. She had really hoped that she wouldn't have to arrest Mycroft. Now she only hoped she could convince him to come in on his own to get processed. Donovan stuffed the statement back into the envelope with a sigh and texted Lestrade. Just got a statement from RL accusing MH of assault. Think he'll come in on his own?
While she waited for a response, she booted up her computer to search for Rutherford Primary school. She didn't expect it would be too difficult, since she knew it was within a few blocks radius of Lindt's flat.
She was wading through search results when her phone chimed with a text from Lestrade. I'll ask him to come in. We can handle it quietly. Oh, God, she hoped they could keep this out of the press. She just needed to make sure Fadil didn't find out about it. Maybe it would be easier if she just killed him now and got it over with.
Her phone chimed again. Riley published another story claiming the Met have something to hide. Maybe it's time for us to schedule a press conference to set the record straight?
Ugh, Donovan hated press conferences. She could never see the reporters' faces over the lights, and all the conflicting shouts gave her a headache. Maybe she could talk Lestrade into running the thing while she stood behind his shoulder and nodded.
Another chime. To clarify: by "us" I mean "you."
How did you know what I was thinking? Holmes is rubbing off on you. Ok Boss, I'll see to it.
Donovan shook her head and returned her attention to her search. An hour later, she had discovered to her chagrin that Rutherford Primary School no longer existed, and in fact the building had burned to the ground in 1994, so that was a dead end. Her brief shining hope of a list of male students from which to find possible victims died an ugly death.
She was contemplating when and how to schedule the press conference when her phone chimed with a text. She pulled the phone from her pocket and glanced at it, then froze and re-read the message, which came from Tracey Sorrell.
Got a motion to quash the videotape evidence was all it said. Donovan's stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch. Quash the videotapes? They were the foundation of their case.
On what grounds?! she demanded angrily.
They're claiming Gilbert was acting as an agent of the police.
What? Where would they get that idea?
You tell me.
Donovan's stomach gave another little lurch. Gilbert had been her C.I., but now she was remembering a few other small jobs he had done for her that were more or less under the radar. Oh God.
With leaden feet she tracked down Lestrade, who was sitting at his desk, brow furrowed, with files spread out all over. She glimpsed a few more surveillance photos of his prizefighter suspect in the McClinchy homicide taken from various angles.
He glanced up briefly when she walked in, and then back down at the photos. "Hey, Sally, what's up?"
"Pomeroy submitted a motion to quash the videotapes."
Lestrade's head jerked up. "What? On what grounds?"
"They're arguing. . ."
"Yeah?"
"They're arguing Gilbert was acting as an agent of the police when he nicked them."
"Agent of the police? Where would they get that idea?"
Donovan stared at a spot on the floor just in front of Lestrade's desk: a small square indentation in the carpet that indicated the desk had been moved at some point in the past. Her hand went automatically to the Saint Monica pendant on her necklace, her fingers rubbing over the outline of the saint's staff and the folds of her dress, as if it could protect her from the shit that was about to come down.
After a momentary pause, Lestrade said, "Sally?"
"Well. . ."
"What? What is it? They're not right, are they?"
"He was an informant, remember? For both of us. But that was six years ago. I haven't seen him since."
"Then he wasn't acting as an agent of the police."
"No, of course not! I didn't tell that idiot to go rob houses!"
"Right. Of course not. You wouldn't do that. Good."
"It's just that. . ."
"What?"
"Well, I may have asked him to. . . procure a few things for me, back when he was working with us."
"Procure things? What are you talking about?"
Donovan felt her cheeks turning red. She wasn't proud of herself, but it wasn't like Lestrade was squeaky-clean either. What she had used Gilbert for was no worse than the ways Lestrade had used Sherlock.
"Shut that door, would you?" Lestrade said, not unkindly. Donovan did so. "All right, spill it."
"It's just—well, a couple of times, when it was inconvenient for us to collect evidence, he may have brought me a few things. Not anything I needed to use at trial, of course, but something to put us on the right track. . ."
"Oh, no."
"It wasn't an official relationship, mind you, just—Oh shit. . ."
"What?"
"Pomeroy knew about it. That's how he recognized Gilbert's name."
"How did he know?"
"A case from about six years ago, just before I made sergeant. Toddler disappears, our prime suspect is Mum, who's Pomeroy's client. Mum blames the ex-boyfriend, but we can't get a warrant because we've got no evidence and he's got an alibi. So I send Andy to break into his flat, and he comes back with evidence the bloke was in Hounslow when the kid went missing, not Bristol as he claimed, close enough to come back into town, snatch the kid and be gone again without anyone the wiser. We went poking around in Hounslow, found a station master who remembered him, and got our warrant. Found the kid's body wrapped up in a trunk in a back closet. Bam, Gabriel's client walks free."
Lestrade rubbed his face. "I don't want to tell you you're buggered, but. . ."
"Oh, God, he's going to get those videotapes thrown out, isn't he? If those videotapes are thrown out of evidence, our case could fall apart."
"You've still got Mycroft."
Donovan shook her head. "It'd be second degree sexual assault at best. That's nothing compared to what I know this piece of shit did."
"What about the tape from my cold case, Johnny Blue-Eyes? That tape has a completely different chain of custody. Have you watched it yet?"
"No, I was concentrating on the ones Gilbert sent us."
"Check it out. See if you can find the section of video it came from. Definitely first degree rape with aggravating circumstances. And we might be able to nail him on distribution of child pornography as well."
"But we'd need Sherlock to testify to make the link with Lindt. Without Sherlock, we'll have nothing."
"Then we'll get Sherlock."
"He won't answer my calls, boss. I don't think he'll do it. His brother practically threatened my life if I didn't leave him alone. And can you imagine putting him on the stand to be interviewed by Sorrell? With their history?"
"We may not have a choice. Keep trying. What about that school?"
"Rutherford Primary. I checked it out. It's shut down."
"Well, go ahead and schedule that press conference. Ask for the public's help. Maybe someone else will come forward. There are thirty more victims that we know of.
"So where the hell are they?"
On Tuesday morning, when Molly got to the morgue, she found Sherlock leaning against the wall in the hallway waiting for her. His collar was popped, hair clean and combed, scarf arranged just so, clothes impeccably pressed as usual. He didn't look like a man who had recently had a psychotic break. He looked. . . surprisingly normal, fine.
He pushed himself off the wall and stood in front of her, blocking her way to the door, hands folded behind his back, a tiny smirk on his face.
"Hello, Sherlock. Do you need something?" she asked automatically while she stepped around him and unlocked the door to the morgue. She assumed he was after a dead body or body parts. She hadn't seen him since he had run out of her flat the previous week, and he had only texted her that once, on the following afternoon to tell her to stop worrying. She had texted and called him several times since then, but he hadn't responded. She had only John's word for it that he was still alive, which rankled her. It was her flat he had run out of. It seemed only fitting that he should come by or at the very least phone her and give her an explanation.
"It's Tuesday," he said. He held out his hand with something in it—a small jar half-filled with pale amber liquid. Oh! Sample day. She had forgotten.
He continued to hold the jar out while she stared at him. After a moment, she decided to take it as a peace offering. "Ok, Sherlock, thanks." She took the jar and started into the morgue. The door swung shut behind her, but a second later he pushed it open again and followed her in.
While she set up the test, he stood silently watching her. It was making her uncomfortable, made her wonder if he was deducing that she had eaten four biscuits for breakfast or that she had almost phoned Tom last night because she was lonely.
"Is this sample actually yours this time?" she asked, to break the tension.
"Of course it is," he said with an immediate scowl.
"There's no 'of course' about it. Last time you tried to fool me with a sample from some old codger. Maybe I should DNA test this as well."
"I'm trying to abide by the terms of our agreement," he snapped. "Just test the sample and be done with it."
Molly suspected that John had threatened his life if he didn't comply, but she didn't say anything about that. Instead she prepared the sample while he stood glowering at her from the other end of the counter. Feeling conspicuous, as if it were she under the microscope instead of his sample, she tested the urine and found traces of haloperidol, which cleared up the question of whether he had been in hospital after he had run out of her flat. No statins, which she hoped meant it was actually his urine this time. No sleeping medications either. Did that mean he was sleeping better now? Or had he given up on trying?
When she was finished, she could feel his eyes still on her. Finally she turned to him and raised her eyebrows, but he still said nothing. "Well?" she asked, folding her arms.
"Well, what?"
"I've been worried sick about you. No call, no texts, you don't return my messages, nothing for almost a week. You could have been dead in a ditch."
"If I were dead in a ditch, you would know about it, because my body would be lying on a slab in your cooler," he said flippantly.
"Not funny, Sherlock."
"All right." He took a deep breath. "Molly Hooper, I apologize for destroying your bear," he said in a rushed, flat tone with his eyes fixed on the far wall. "I'll buy you another."
Molly narrowed her eyes at him. That sounded like the kind of apology a five year old would give when prompted by his mother. Or in this case, probably prompted by John. "I don't care about the bear—well, I do, but I care about you more. I was afraid. . . well, you looked like you were having a flashback. I thought you had remembered something. . . something awful."
He blinked at her for a moment; his mouth opened and closed abruptly, then he dropped the eye contact and stepped back against the counter. Molly stayed put, carefully folding her hands behind her back. She remembered what had happened the last time she had gotten in his face, and she really didn't fancy having him run out again. "What was it, Sherlock? Can you tell me what's going on?"
"Talking serves no useful purpose," he said scornfully, but he touched the knuckles of his left hand to his lips while he said it, like he was trying to keep the words in. Now that she was closer and the light was better, she noticed dark smudges beneath his eyes, so he obviously hadn't been sleeping well. Even though he looked so perfectly pulled together and everything seemed fine on the outside, she was sure something was going on under the surface, something he didn't feel he could share with her. Something. . . but what?
"Maybe you don't want to talk to me, but is there someone else you can talk to? You need to tell someone."
"I talked to John," he said firmly. His hand squeezed into a fist and dropped to his side again. "You don't need to worry about me. I'm all right."
That sounded like it was probably meant to be reassuring, but it was significantly less than convincing, especially when she noticed the slight tremor in his hand. "I can't help it. There's something wrong and I can't help you. I don't even know what it is."
"I'm fine. Now can we actually talk about why I am here? I was hoping you had an arm to spare."
"An arm?"
"Yes," he said briskly, "with no excess adipose tissue. The fresher the better, and female if possible. I need to experiment with some post-mortem cuts."
Ah, that sounded more like the usual Sherlock. If he was asking for body parts, maybe he was all right after all, Molly thought; time would tell.
A/N: Thanks so much for reading. If you have a second, I'd love to hear what you think. Drop me a quick review below!