Johnny Blue-Eyes

Chapter 26: Breaking Sally Donovan

The next morning, Thursday, Donovan headed in to NSY ten minutes late, with a muffin in one hand and a stack of file folders in the other. She had managed to track down a former headmaster of Rutherford Primary School, who had given her a partial list of male students from 1985-1989, which is all he had records for. She had spent most of the night compiling a list of boys with initials that matched the videos from those years, and today she was planning to do some searches to see if she could find any of those men on the internet or police databases. It was a shot in the dark that she really didn't expect to hit anything. Boring, tedious work unlikely to lead anywhere. Her favourite.

Distracted by plans for her day, she stopped at the newsstand for a coffee to go with her muffin. While the man was pouring her coffee, she stepped back and let her eyes wander while she mentally prepared herself to track down further victims, which may mean cold calling men out of the blue and turning their lives upside down. All of those boys were adults now, and absolutely none of them had come forward. They probably had jobs, spouses, children of their own. What would they say to having their worst secret exposed?

Donovan happened to glance to her left and spotted a familiar figure leaning against the side of the building about twenty meters away: Sherlock, with his coat pulled in tight and his head down, a rolled up newspaper clutched in his hand. Oh, shit, had Kitty Riley published another article about this case? If Fadil had given her more details, Donovan was going to have his head.

She was filled with an almost overwhelming need to talk to Sherlock, to try to make this right, but she knew it would do no good. There was no way he would ever forgive her, so why even try? Her best bet was to keep working out how to win this case another way, to get him out of having to testify.

Donovan squinted at Sherlock's posture. His shoulders were hunched over and his arm was wrapped tightly around his midsection like a hug. On anyone else she would say they were upset about something. On Sherlock. . . well, she didn't know what to think.

Sherlock's hand came up quickly and swiped at his face, then he glanced around as if checking to see if anyone was watching. When Sherlock looked her direction, Donovan hastily turned away, but not before she noticed that his cheek was bandaged and his eyes were rimmed with red. What was wrong with him? Was he crying? How had he cut his cheek?

Donovan's eyes fell on one of the newspapers, The Independent, on the stand in front of her, and suddenly the rest of the world ceased to exist, because the photo on the front page was of a ginger-haired man, with serious green eyes and a cowlick that caused his fringe to stand up in the front. The headline read in bold letters, SUICIDE OF CONCERT VIOLINIST. That hair, those eyes—she knew them. The boy in the fourth video, J 1981, with the sad eyes.

She stood frozen to the spot, her eyes glued to the photo. Of its own accord, her hand reached out and pulled the newspaper from its slot. The first line of the article read, "Renowned musician Joshua Strauss, age 40, first chair violin for the London Symphony Orchestra for over 10 years, was found dead in his Camden flat yesterday evening of an apparent suicide. . ."

The article continued, but Donovan's attention was diverted by a hand that had appeared in front of her face, holding a small voice recorder. She blinked at it for a second, and then looked to her left to see that the arm was attached to Kitty Riley, who had a smug expression on her round face.

"Sergeant Donovan, what do you have to say about your videotapes being quashed in the paedophile violin teacher case?"

"I—uh—don't have a comment about that," Donovan said distractedly. She snuck a glance at the side of the building, but Sherlock had vanished, which was good. It would be better if Riley didn't know he had been there.

Riley moved the voice recorder to her own mouth and said, "And I hear you have a victim who is prepared to testify in the case. What do you say about the rumours that your mystery witness is none other than Sherlock Holmes?"

Donovan froze for an instant, then slowly turned and looked Riley in the eye. The woman's cockiness faltered a tiny bit at the murderous rage she must have seen in Donovan's face.

"Yes, I do have a comment about that," Donovan said slowly. She plucked the voice recorder from Riley's hand and held it close to her mouth. "You," she began in a soft, dangerous voice, "are a morally bankrupt, heartless publicity whore who will print anything in order to see your byline on the front page."

Riley's mouth opened in a little O. She started to reach for the recorder, but Donovan held onto it and continued. "NSY does not release the names of victims of sexual assault. And if you publish the names of victims, even speculate on them, I will see you prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. And you may quote me on that."

Donovan shoved the recorder at Riley, who took it wordlessly. Then she took her coffee (which she realized the man had been holding out to her for quite some time) handed him the money for the coffee and the paper, and stomped up the steps into the building.

Just inside the front doors, she almost ran smack into Lestrade, who was on his way out.

"Oh, uh, Boss, can I talk to you for a minute?" she asked, shifting the files from one arm to the other so she could pull out the newspaper, and almost dropping her coffee and muffin in the process.

"Is this about not wanting Sherlock to testify? Because we need him. We can't win this case without him."

"No, it's not about that. . ."

"Then we'll talk about it later, all right?" Lestrade clipped his walkie to his belt and put his hand out to catch the door. "Got a break in my homicide case."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Sherlock finally ran our suspect to ground, so I'm headed out to bring him in. Thought Sherlock was coming with me, but he just texted that he can't make it."

Donovan just blinked at him. "Oh," she said faintly.

"I hope he's planning on coming back later, because I need him to explain the connection to Goldwater."

Donovan had no comment on that. She had no idea who Goldwater even was.

"Right, so. . . I'm off."

When Donovan still said nothing, Lestrade headed out the door, pausing to look back at her with a quizzical expression as it closed behind him.

Donovan stood for several seconds staring at the door. Sherlock had begged off on a murder investigation? He had been right outside only a moment ago. Whatever made him decide to take off must have just happened. He had been holding a newspaper, but she hadn't been able to see which one. Was it the Independent? Had he seen the photo on the cover and made the same realization she had?

On the way down the hall, Donovan's phone buzzed in her pocket, two short buzzes, so a text. She struggled to her desk, set the coffee and muffin down, dropped the files and newspaper, and pulled her phone out. The text was from Sorrell.

I have an exam set up for SH, 13:00 tomorrow at St Bart's hosp. You can pick him up on your way. Bring the DSLR, because you're taking photos.

Donovan's stomach felt like it was about the reject the few swallows of muffin and coffee she had managed to get down this morning. She dropped into her chair and sat staring at the newspaper photo of Joshua Strauss. She didn't have any proof, and as the article stated he had no living family, she probably would never have any proof, but she knew he was the boy from video #4. The cowlick, the sad green eyes. It had to be him.

Donovan squeezed her eyes shut to block out the picture, but instead a rapid fire collage of images flashed across the inside of her eyelids: Mycroft's tightly folded hands and bruised foot. A skinny blond boy crying as Lindt unbuttoned his shirt. Johnny Blue-Eyes' devastated face streaked with tears. Sherlock swiping at his bandaged cheek and looking around hoping no one saw.

And then another image appeared in her mind, of a smaller version of herself with her arm protectively wrapped around her brother Alex, hiding in the back closet while their mother drunkenly ranted and railed and destroyed their cluttered flat. She could still remember the sounds of breaking glass, the smell of mothballs and mold, the fear in Alex's eyes, how she tried to be brave for him even though her heart was pounding and her throat was clogged with unshed tears.

With that picture still burning on the inside of her eyelids, Donovan pulled her necklace from inside her collar and rubbed her thumb along the tarnished silver chain and over the worn pendant. This necklace had been passed down from her strict Irish Catholic grandmother, to her mother who wanted desperately to be a good Catholic but was too hungover on Sunday morning to take them to early mass, to Sally who had no use for religion but still derived comfort from the feel of Saint Monica's dress and staff. She closed her eyes and pressed her thumb against the warm metal. Saint Monica, pray for us, she heard her mother's voice whisper.

She had never told anyone what things were like at home, but she had secretly always wished someone would just make it stop. She hadn't been able to make it stop for herself, but she had to try and make it stop for these boys. The only way to do that was to somehow get Lindt to confess and plead guilty. Then at least Sherlock and Mycroft wouldn't have to stand up in court and tell the world what that monster had done to them.

She knew that Pomeroy had been telling Lindt he could beat the charges if he just kept his mouth shut. The only way she was going to be able to convince Lindt to confess was to do an end run around his slimeball solicitor.

Sherlock left NSY with no particular idea of where he was going, other than "away". Away from Sally Donovan's judgmental glare, away from Kitty Riley's prying eyes, away from the black car he had seen across the street (fuck off, Mycroft!).

He walked quickly, pushing past people on the pavement like he had someplace important to be, trying to ignore the little jolt he felt every time he brushed up against someone. Two blocks on he spotted the ginger-haired boy across the street, the boy he now knew the name of: Joshua Strauss. He froze and stared wide-eyed and unblinking as Joshua slowly crossed the street toward him. The boy's face had a bluish cast, his eyes were nearly black with broken blood vessels, and there was a dark red mark around his neck. When he had nearly reached the pavement on Sherlock's side of the street, he lifted his hand and pointed at Sherlock, mouth open but saying nothing. His tongue and lips were purple and swollen.

Sherlock took a stumbling step backward, gasping for breath but finding none. "Go away!" he whispered on his last mouthful of air. The boy continued to advance, and now behind him Sherlock spotted the vampire, fangs glistening crimson with fresh blood.

"You're next," the vampire hissed, and even though he was at least twenty meters away, the voice cut through the noise of the street to speak directly into Sherlock's ear.

"Go away," he said again, but this time it came out as a whimper.

Around him, people had started to take notice of his strange behavior and moved to avoid him. Through the parting crowd, he caught a glimpse of a sleek, black car, the same one he had seen outside The Yard, which meant it was following him.

Sherlock turned and fled, pounding down the pavement, narrowly avoiding colliding with other pedestrians, blindly running toward his nearest bolthole, Dagmar Court, where he knew the way into an abandoned flat. He kept a stash there, for emergencies, and he was sure this qualified. He just needed to not think, not hurt, not feel the hands, for a little while.

Somehow Donovan made it through the day, through hours of tedious work tracing names and photos of possible victims on the internet with no luck, through Lestrade's triumphant return having arrested his homicide suspect, through half a dozen texts from Sorrell laying out increasingly horrifying details for tomorrow, and through at least twenty phone calls requesting a comment about the progress of their investigation now the tapes had been quashed. Through it all, the newspaper with the photo of Joshua Strauss stayed on her desk, under her stack of files. Every time she caught a glimpse of it, she felt her resolve strengthen. It was too late for Joshua, but there were at least 31 other boys out there she could spare the pain of having to relive their personal hell.

It was almost dark when Donovan pulled her hair into a ponytail, put on her old gray hoodie and left NSY without saying good night to anyone. Lestrade was still interviewing his suspect without help from Sherlock, who had never shown up; Fadil sat at his desk with his back to her, but she still didn't feel like talking to him. He was lucky she hadn't strangled him with her bare hands.

She shoved the section of newspaper into her front pocket and put up her hood on the way out of the door. It was cold but not wet, which was good as she planned to take the tube to where she was headed. It was at least six blocks to the tube station: not the nearest, but a relatively busy one where she could blend in with the crowd and be anonymous.

She got off a stop before Lockyer Street and walked the rest of the way with her hands stuffed into her pockets. The tricky part was going to be convincing Lindt to let her in, but she thought she had a plan that would work. Lindt struck her as narcissistic and weak-willed, a combination she planned to use in her favor.

When she reached the building, she punched the button to buzz Lindt's flat, keeping her face turned away from the security camera in the corner of the entryway. It was a long moment before he finally answered.

"Go away," came Lindt's querulous voice through the intercom. "I don't want to talk to any reporters."

"Mr Lindt, I'm not a reporter. I'm from the police, here to talk to you about your break-in."

"I already gave a statement."

"We'd like some more details so we know how to charge the man who attacked you," she said quickly, before he could disconnect the call.

"I'm not sure I should talk to you without my attorney present."

"Your attorney isn't representing you in the assault case because you are the victim. I really want to hear your side of the story. This is an important case and we want to make sure to get a conviction."

There was another short pause, then the buzzer sounded to open the door. Donovan pulled her hood lower and entered the building. At the door to Lindt's flat, she knocked firmly but quietly. As soon as he turned the knob, she put her shoulder into the door and shoved it open in his face. He took a startled step back, eyes widening as he recognized her.

"You—you—you're not meant to be here. My solicitor said—"

"Your solicitor is a filthy liar who is only interested in fame and glory for himself. I'm here to tell you the truth, Mr Lindt."

Ah, she had his attention now. He was holding onto the wall and staring at her openmouthed. She could almost see the wheels creaking in his head.

"You're a smart man, Mr Lindt. You'd have to be to avoid exposure for so long. You have to know that we've got you dead to rights."

"But the videos—my solicitor got them ruled inadmissible. He said I'd be acquitted."

Donovan took a step in closer, even though he sickened her, and hissed in his face, "He's lying to you. He don't want you to confess because it's better for him."

"N-no, you haven't got anything on me. . ."

"You're wrong. We don't need those videos. We've got another one, and we've got witnesses who are ready to tell the horrible things you did to them."

Lindt took a faltering step back. "They wouldn't—I loved my students. They would never—"

Donovan stepped forward again, backing the old man up against the wall. "You didn't love them! You used them for your own sick pleasure. You are a filthy paedophile. You know what they do to paedophiles in prison? What you did to those boys is going to come 'round to you."

"I didn't hurt them!"

"Oh, yeah?" She pulled the creased and smudged section of newspaper out of her pocket and opened it to the photo of Joshua Strauss. "Tell that to this boy." She shoved the newspaper into his trembling hands, and he gawped at it tremulously, face going pale.

"You know what you did. If you go to trial, we're going to get a conviction and throw you to the wolves. Your only hope is to drop the ridiculous assault charges, confess and plead guilty, and I'll recommend you stay out of general prison population."

"It won't—you don't. . ." Lindt trailed off, eyes wet and terrified behind his thick spectacles. His flabby hands were shaking and his jowls quivered beneath his weak chin.

"We do and we will. I'm just here to warn you what's about to happen. You still have time to save yourself."

"Please. . ."

Donovan's lip curled. The man was pathetic, but she felt no pity for him. Shaking her head, she snatched back the newspaper, then turned and strode out, pulling her hood up on the way out the door.

By the time she got outside, the adrenaline rush had worn off, leaving her hands cold and shaky and her stomach gurgling with anxiety. She reached up to rub the Saint Monica medallion on her necklace, but it wasn't there.

Frantically she felt around on her neck, then inside her collar, but came up empty. Her necklace was gone, and she must have dropped it either inside Lindt's flat or just outside, because she remembered feeling it on the tube. Shit! There was no going back for it now.

Donovan pushed her hand through her hair in dismay. If that necklace were found, it could easily be traced back to her. She was as good as caught now. She couldn't quite believe that she had likely just sunk her career, and possibly her freedom as well, for Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes.

No, on second thought, it was for all the boys, including Joshua Strauss, who was no longer able to fight for himself. Maybe it was a fair exchange.

A/N: Thanks for reading! Now off you pop to leave me a review. Oh, and some folks let me know they were sick of Tracey Sorrell. Don't worry, I'm almost done with her.