So, here is the murder. I hope the deductions are not too obvious (again not my forte).
As they arrived on the crime scene, Sherlock and John were the focus of journalists, as usual. If those hungry vultures could be called journalists. The detective and his blogger were again harassed with questions about the murder, Moriarty's return and the possible link between the events, all the while flashes sizzling and popping around them. The detective almost regretted not having the stupid hat with him. But it had been stolen by Janine so she could take those tedious pictures for the tabloids. Of course, he hadn't asked her the hat back.
As they were passing under the yellow band signalling the scope of the crime scene, Sherlock saw from the corner of his eyes Donovan make a face. Even if she wasn't as aggressive as she'd been before the fall, she was still not totally sold on him. He didn't really care but strangely, since his return he hadn't felt the need to antagonize her further. Lestrade was waiting for them in the recess of the dark alley they were in. The air was fetid, smelling of urine and decomposition. However, when they came up to the corpse, the smell was replaced by a strong odour of burnt flesh with some remnant of detergent.
The body was the one of a young woman, blonde with graceful features that had just started to harden and wither from abuse in both drug and sexual forms. The body was also marked with bruises, toes and fingers showing the damages of leaving on the street. So a hooker, addict of course. She probably started using before she went into selling her own body, the oldest scars on her arms not as ragged as if she'd needed to dull out what was being done to her body. Her petite body was otherwise clean, very clean. Too clean, he could smell as he leaned to pick up any olfactory clue. Her body had been rinsed with bleach in forensic countermeasure. So whoever had done it was not stupid. Not your average junkie or angry jon. No this was premeditated.
Now, Sherlock had a look at what would ensnare all the eyes of the people there. Under carefully crossed hands, the victim's chest had been totally opened, from the Y incision to the cracking of the ribs, all of to extract something from the chest. Something that had been burned to the point of being ashes until being placed back into the chest. Her heart.
Sherlock turned to John and saw the shadows on his faces. This was not their average case. It seemed somewhat totally out of place in a street of London. This was too dramatic, too big for twentieth century England. It had its place in a horror novel full of psychopathic serial killers and FBI agents. Or a Ripper. Already, the maps of London started unfurling in his head so he could calculate the distance between the alley and the infamous neighbourhood. John crept up and knelt by the victim next to Sherlock and asked:
"Wow. That does look like a serial killer, doesn't it?"
Behind them, Lestrade made a face but waited attentively for Sherlock's analysis. Sherlock mind's was straining, trying to see beyond the obvious. The scene was methodical, all aspects cautiously worked out as to avoid leaving any trace. But something didn't feel right with him, there was something that was just out of the ordinary with that crime scene. The body. He needed to know more about the body. Sherlock got up and turned to Lestrade:
"The killer is methodical and careful. This is clearly a secondary location." Said Sherlock.
"What? How do you know there has been another place? This place reeks of burnt flesh!" replied the DI gesturing to the charred flesh.
"Once again, Gavin, too caught up in the drama, you fail to observe the obvious." Said Sherlock.
"Oh go on, then. Do your show." Said Lestrade, too focused on having a clear answer to correct Sherlock on his name. And also too jaded about it to try yet again.
Sherlock turned to John and gestured to him to have a look:
"So John, what do you see?"
"Well, the victims heart has been burned, that's for sure. Don't see any other organ missing, though. So, yes the heart only. The fire must have been intense to achieve that degree of charring. It would have attracted bystanders?" attempted John, trying to figure out what was Sherlock seeing.
Sherlock rolled his eyes at that.
"No, John. The heart was obviously burned here. Otherwise, the only explanation for the smell is that someone had a little barbecue down here. And whatever some think, most delinquents wouldn't be so hardened as to have a cosy little picnic above such a sight, and none so stupid." Sherlock sighed. "No. The burning ritual did happen here but before that what had to do the murderer?"
John looked at the victim's torso and immediately understood:
"He opened her chest. There should be at least some blood." Whispered the army doctor.
Sherlock nodded as his friend finally caught up. He looked at Lestrade that seemed not totally convinced:
"What if he had killed her before? Wouldn't be so much blood effusion, would it? Could be easier to clean?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes once again.
"Look at her, officer. No obvious sign of strangulation nor furious cuts nor terrible blow to the head. Nothing pertaining to passion. And even me who disdain sentiment, am not totally unaware of the symbolism of the heart. So there needs to be something very brutal in her death. But anyway, Molly can confirm that once we have the body in the morgue." Replied Sherlock.
With that, he put his collar up and made his way back to the street, John quickly following him until the caught a taxi to go to the St Bart's.