For all of Sherlock's posturing, the men and women who worked under the watchful eye of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade were far from incompetent. While they were always dedicated, they were particularly mindful in this instance – every single one of them had, at some point, relied on the clinical data provided by one particular pathologist. She was to their mind, one of them and their mood could only be described as furious and somewhat blood-thirsty.
Within seconds of his rapid fire instructions, they'd spread through St. Bart's like a plague of very angry ants. It came to no surprise to him that as he strode down the hallway towards Mike Stamford's office, his radio squawked, "Got the wanker, receiving area, near the hazardous waste repository."
Anderson had arrived before him, growling instructions at the mob of officers around what was very obviously the corpse of Molly's attacker. "Lestrade," Anderson pleaded, "get these people away from here, they won't listen to me."
"Yer a pillock, Anderson!" a voice very much like Donovan's rang out from the group of milling police.
Lestrade coughed to disguise a bark of laughter, there had been many a time when he hadn't disagreed with that assessment. The years of the Fall had not been a curse to Anderson in many ways but a blessing in others. Being fooled so totally by Moriarty had been an eye opener, and if he wasn't exactly likeable, he was tolerable and willing to look at options that he'd have dismissed before. "Oi, you lot back off," Lestrade called out, "secure the area around the receiving bay, all the corridors in and out of this area. If you find anything that looks like it shouldn't be there, I don't care if it's a scrap of paper or a nail, collect it." He watched them for a moment, then growled out, "Get yer arses moving."
They scattered to the winds and he nodded once to himself, if there was something to find, they'd find it. "Lestrade," Anderson murmured, "Look at this." With deft precision, Anderson rotated the corpse's head slightly, revealing what appeared to be a state of the art com set much like the lads in the SAS used.
"He had a partner," he swore, shaking his head savagely. "Great."
Anderson studied the corpse carefully, his hands moving with unseemly grace as he searched the dead man's clothing. He paused when he noticed Lestrade's scrutiny, "No, I didn't take pictures and I haven't documented any of this. Who are we kidding? Holmes's spooky brother is going to make all of this disappear – I'm simply expediting things."
"Roight," Lestrade agreed, straightening, "so what's this berk got in his pockets then?"
Anderson glanced over at the DI and chuckled, "Do me a favour and grab that bin by your knee?" Lestrade grabbed the aforementioned bin and placed it on the floor beside the prone torso.
"Sherlock wasn't kidding when he said she'd buggered him up," Lestrade commented, really looking at the body before him. Anderson nodded as he silently divested the body of its belongings, dumping them into the bin.
"The injury to the face isn't fatal," Anderson remarked, gesturing to the vicious slash that bisected the face, "Painful as hell, bled like crazy but nothing that couldn't have been fixed without a visit to A & E. The blow to the throat, now that's what killed him." He shrugged, "Crushed any number of things from the looks of it, the blood isn't from his throat, he was just bleeding freely and trying desperately to breathe. He must have been gasping for breath at the end." He paused, "What's this?" A small USB drive landed in the bin, scarcely bigger than a thumbnail.
Lestrade noted a crumpled piece of paper in the pile and plucked it from the bin. A series of numbers and letters in six rows, twenty six letters long – no discernable pattern. "Well then," he said as he took the USB drive and stuffed it and the note into his pocket, "Let's see what England's pet genius thinks of this."
Anderson smirked, scratching at his mangy beard, "I'll stay with the body if you'd be so kind as to get Stamford to send a gurney, Lestrade."
Nodding more to himself than Anderson, he stood and walked away down the corridor, "Just as well," Lestrade drawled, "Need to talk to the bloke about some CCTV."