CHAPTER 36: CATCH ME IF YOU CAN
When the three of them arrive at an embankment on the Thames, a Scotland Yard officer is waiting for them. By the scornful frown creasing his forehead, Giulia assumes he is the person she spoke to on the phone: Detective Inspector Dimmock.
"Mr Holmes, I thought you'd bring only one guest," he harshly welcomes them as Sherlock ducks to slip under the police tape sealing the scene.
"Then you have a terrible memory, Detective Inspector. This is Doctor Watson. You've met him before. We always work together." Sherlock briefly does the presentations before stepping onto a narrow stretch of rubble by the riverside.
"And I suppose you are Giulia Ferrini, the woman on the phone." The Inspector turns to Giulia. She gives him a silent nod, and he scrutinises her from head to toe, narrowing his eyes at her. He spins around, pointing at a lifeless figure lying on the muddy soil.
"Then perhaps you can explain to me who that person is and why she's dead."
She? Giulia's head snaps up, and she squints at the body on the ground. As the D.I. escorts her closer, flanked by John and Sherlock, she distinguishes the appearance of a corpulent woman in her late sixties. Her jaw drops. This is all wrong: that isn't the person from the phone call. Wrong gender, wrong age.
Giulia stares at the corpse in complete shock, unable to utter a sound. After half a minute of stillness, she breathes out, "I have absolutely no idea who this is. I swear, I've never seen or talked to this woman in my life."
"We'll verify your statement later on." Dimmock gives her a leery look. "In the meantime, I would appreciate it if you didn't tamper with the corpse before we complete all the proper forensic procedures," he addresses Sherlock, who has knelt down to examine the body.
John crouches down next to his friend and shoots him a worried glance when he hears Sherlock wincing in pain at that sudden movement: his wound hasn't thoroughly healed yet.
Holmes lifts his head toward the police officer, feigning self-abasement.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Inspector, would you like to present your brilliant theories on this murder first?"
Dimmock remains unperturbed and clears his throat.
"First, we can't be sure it's murder. She might have killed herself by jumping off a bridge."
"If that were the case, how did she turn up right here? This is the River Thames, not the Pacific Ocean; I'd exclude the possibility that a gigantic tidal wave washed the body ashore." Sherlock strikes Dimmock's pride with irony. "The corpse is simply standing too far away from the water. Even you should be able to notice that."
"Alright, given the distance from the water, this woman couldn't end up right where she is lying without a little help," the police officer reluctantly concedes. "Still, it doesn't rule out the option of suicide. Maybe a passer-by saw her floating near the riverbank and dragged her body on the shore out of compassion, then alerted the police through the anonymous call that notified us of the discovery of the corpse. We can't exclude this scenario," Dimmock stubbornly insists.
"Actually, we can. We can't disregard the plainly clear absence of any traces going from the water up to this precise spot. And yet, someone dragging dead weight would leave deep prints in this quagmire. Also, we shouldn't overlook the tiny detail that neither her body nor her clothes appear to have been immersed in the water recently," Sherlock explains conceitedly. "But to make it easily understandable, even for Scotland Yard's standards, I'll simply point out the obvious now: as you proved when calling Giulia, the burner phone found on the body is fully functioning, whereas I really wouldn't hold much hope for the survival of any piece of technology in the Thames's waters," he concludes.
Dimmock fidgets under Holmes's patronising gaze and signals him to carry on.
"Now, it should be quite clear that this woman didn't drown in the river, and her death was no accident or suicide. In the end, you got something right with your theory, though: she couldn't end up here by herself. Whoever killed her must have planted that phone on her dead body."
Sherlock studies the cadaver while a solitary question whirls in his mind: Why?
He quickly straightens up. "Since you've just demonstrated the uselessness of your unfounded speculations, would you be obliging enough to tell me everything you have gathered so far on the victim, leaving out any detail that bears no basis in fact, please?"
The D.I. starts recounting, "We found some documents in her pockets identifying her as Dr Kim Cab. However—" but he doesn't get to finish his sentence because Giulia's loud gasp cuts him short.
"That's the name of the neurologist from the phone call," she exclaims.
Dimmock glowers at her, putting his hands on his hips, and she can't help but roll her eyes at his clumsy attempt at a power pose.
"You've just claimed not to have ever had a conversation with this woman. Why did you lie if you were clearly the last person to hear from her?"
"No, she wasn't," John intervenes before Giulia can talk back. He has been examining the corpse for a couple of minutes and raises his head to meet the questioning look on Dimmock's face. He explains carefully, "I'm not a pathologist, but from a preliminary analysis of body temperature and lividity, I'd say that this woman has been dead for at least three hours. Over the phone, you talked about a call registered 45 minutes earlier: If we add the time it took us to get here, that infamous last call must have happened no more than an hour and a half ago. Am I right? This woman had already been dead for quite some time, back then."
Sherlock looks impressed at John's logical reconstruction of the events, while the D.I. knits his brows together.
"I don't understand. Then who phoned her?"
"Doctor Cab's male assistant. Judging by his voice, I think he couldn't be much over forty," Giulia clarifies.
"But that's impossible, because—" once again, Dimmock is interrupted mid-sentence as Sherlock talks over him while his eyes sparkle with excitement.
"Interesting. You didn't talk to the victim, but in all likelihood, you had a chat with the killer."
"Oh, God." Giulia pales and takes an instinctive step backwards on wobbly legs. "It all makes sense now. The secretary said that the doctor herself would show up soon. Although, I guess he forgot to specify show up dead."
"Why would the killer call you?" Dimmock inquires, pointing an accusatory finger at Giulia. His face is a mixture of incredulity and mistrust.
"To send a message," Sherlock replies on her behalf with an entranced look on his face. Some pieces of that jigsaw puzzle start falling into place. It was all part of a plan explicitly prepared for him.
"Like a threatening letter to Giulia?" John asks.
"No, like an invitation to me. He got in contact with her to show he knew who my friends were. This killer can play with my life as he pleases. The phone call was a subtle way to let me know he was about to give me an interesting case to dive into." He turns to her. "Giulia, you said that the assistant talked about remedies for my frequent ailments, didn't he?"
She quickly nods, and Sherlock smirks.
"The only infirmity affecting my brain is perennial, agonizing boredom. Apparently, this case is meant to be my medicine, which also explains the absurd role of a neurologist." His amused expression betrays his subtle appreciation for the murderer's perverted sense of humour.
John passes a hand across his face, trying to brush off a horrified look from his features.
"Let me get this straight: for recreational purposes, he killed this woman, who is neurologist Kim Cab?"
"No, she isn't," Sherlock and Dimmock reply simultaneously, and their eyes dart to one other, a confused frown on both their faces.
Dimmock explains first, "Her documents are fake. We don't need an in-depth analysis to assess that she was carrying the same type of ID that underage people use in pubs to drink alcohol illegally. We ran a quick search on our database: there isn't any Doctor Cab in the London area. This is what I have been trying to tell you for the last minutes, but I got invariably interrupted." He scowls at them before carrying on. "That's why I was never convinced of the story of the assistant to an inexistent doctor. But you didn't know any of that." He cocks a brow at Sherlock, who gives him a nonchalant shrug.
"A superficial glance at her body eliminated any doubt. She can't be a neurologist; that's a desk job." He bends down and lifts one of the corpse's hands. "Look at her hands: Can you spot the calluses? They are the result of manual work. Now observe her fingers: strong. Nails: broken, consumed. Have you seen her arms? Not exactly slim but still burly—not as a result of working out, though. She hasn't developed any other muscle of her body," he lists, talking up a blue streak.
"Logical conclusion: she does some hardworking job requiring strength in hands and arms, but nowhere else. My guess is that she cooks a lot and/or does yard work. Definitely not a neurologist." He tilts his head to the side with a boastful grimace.
"I would've never guessed a manual job judging by the suit she's wearing," John says.
Sherlock stares at him with a perplexed expression. "Those clothes aren't hers. It's pretty obvious, isn't it?"
He looks around and glances at their vacant faces, then shakes his head.
"Please, people, make an effort. The sizes are all wrong: the trousers are too long, her feet are squashed into shoes that are at least two sizes too small, and her shoulders are squeezed into that jacket in an implausible contortion that would prevent any movement."
"This means that the killer stripped her of her clothes and changed the cadaver into those. But why?" Giulia realises as a shiver runs down her spine. That murder is getting uncanny by the minute.
Sherlock narrows his eyes at the body, murmuring, "I think there are two plausible explanations. Option A: The murderer had left too many clues, fingerprints, and traces on her clothes. However, I'd rule this one out. It would be an amateur's mistake, while we are clearly dealing with something attentively concocted and rather intriguing."
"Yeah, you're enjoying it. We get it. What's option B?" John whiffles, annoyed.
"I believe she was wearing some sort of uniform—something highly recognisable. And our dear killer wanted to leave us with no leads whatsoever."
"Hold on, are you seriously suggesting that after the murderer killed her, he undressed her of whatever standardised uniform she was wearing and dressed her in impersonal women's clothes just to throw us off?" Dimmock tries to catch up with Sherlock's observations, then objects, "That would indicate premeditation."
Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes at his obvious conclusion.
"The killer forged documents in the name of a made-up persona just to plant them on a corpse. How much more premeditated can it get?"
Dimmock stares into his piercing eyes, swallowing his pride and taking the roasting.
"Why those documents, then? Why this farce, Mr Holmes?"
Sherlock averts his gaze. "The answer will come to me in a minute. I'm still trying to get inside the killer's head." He takes a breath to mask his uncommon self-doubt.
"First things first: cause of death. John, knock yourself out," he gestures towards the body, as Dimmock purses his lips. He doesn't like to have them meddle around his crime scene and fumble with the body. Yet he has no choice but to let them do as they please: he is groping in the dark.
"I'll be a medical examiner in the next life," John mutters in a self-deprecating voice and starts inspecting the body. "From a superficial analysis, I can see that her lungs look over-inflated." He squats down and carefully presses the tips of his fingers on her abdomen and diaphragm while craning his neck and tilting his head to listen intently. "I'm not sure, but I'd say there's fluid trapped in her airways, filling the thoracic cavity. Given that she shows traces of froth around nostrils and mouth, I'd almost say that she drowned."
Sherlock has spotted the unconvinced note in his voice and urges him to continue, "But?"
"But she had a little help: there are signs of strangulation around her neck." John brushes a finger along the victim's throat, pointing at a series of abrasions.
"Impressive, John," his friend compliments him and focuses on those signs.
"These ligature marks are quite peculiar; the bruises on the skin follow one another at regular intervals. I can confidently affirm that a simple rope wouldn't cause those. So, what could leave that kind of scratch?" He asks, mainly to himself.
"Perhaps she was wearing a beaded necklace—maybe pearls—when she was strangled?" Dimmock suggests. He feels as if he is third-wheeling ('fourth wheeling', if he counts Giulia's contribution).
"Don't be ridiculous. She doesn't exactly look like the kind of woman that would wear pearls..." Sherlock rebuts snobbishly, but the words die in his mouth, and he spins around to stare at him.
"Wait, what did you just say?"
He stares at the D.I. with such a surprised expression that Dimmock himself gapes at him: Holmes wouldn't look at him that way, not even if he solved the entire case all by himself.
"You mean the beaded necklace?" He repeats sheepishly. One instant ago, that arrogant detective demolished that very conjecture.
"Precisely. This is promising," Sherlock shouts and hastily rolls up the victim's trousers to expose her legs.
"What in God's name are you doing?" Watson cries out.
"Oh, John, you can't even imagine how suitable that expression is, in this case." Sherlock smiles slyly at him, then points at the woman's knees. "Look at that: she used to kneel so often and for so long that her knees are almost consumed to the bone. Now, observe that oedema on her feet and swollen ankles: an obvious sign of a sedentary life. It's as clear as day now. Our mysterious woman here was a nun."
Everyone turns to look at him with wide eyes. He is getting used to that. After all, he always felt like a circus animal poked by the spectators to spur him to show off his skills. Better even, he feels trapped in a fish tank with people pressing their hands and noses against the glass, staring at him from beyond an insuperable barrier. In the metaphor of his world, one thing is upside down, though: everyone standing outside the fish tank is a goldfish.
"A nun? How can you tell?" Dimmock asks, baffled.
"Let's stitch together every single piece of information we've gathered so far, shall we? As I underlined earlier, uncared-for nails, callous hands, and burly arms signal that she might cook in a canteen for many people and possibly do some gardening. We could assume she cooks for her ordained sisters and takes care of the vegetable patch in a convent. Everyone would recognise nun clothes: that's why her tunic had to be replaced to mask her identity and throw us off. She led a sedentary life with long hours spent in a kneeling position while praying. Finally, the last fundamental piece of information: she was strangulated with some kind of beaded necklace she was wearing, as per your theory."
"A rosary," Giulia deduces.
He beams at her. "Bingo."
"Who would kill a nun?" John asks, horrified.
"The same psychopath that would phone one of my flatmates to advertise his crime," Sherlock replies, then adds in a gloomy tone, "In case you haven't noticed, this isn't a common murder. We are dealing with something much darker."
"To sum up, some derailed man—about whom we have zero information—abducted a nun, brought her to the riverside, dragged her into the water, and drowned her while strangling her with her rosary. Then he changed her into anonymous clothes and called your flatmate Giulia, posing as the personal assistant of your alleged neurologist. Is that really your reconstruction of this case?" Dimmock recapitulates puzzled, hardly believing his own words.
"All correct, Inspector, except that she wasn't killed here," Sherlock specifies.
"What makes you think that?" John arches a brow at him.
The detective points at the muddy soil surrounding the body.
"As we have already clarified earlier, there is no trail reaching the water, meaning that she didn't drown by the riverside. But we have another crucial clue: the soil around the body is untouched—no signs of a struggle. Yet when being suffocated, anybody would try to squirm free of the stranglehold. No one dies like that without putting up a fight, which is also why I'm confident the autopsy will reveal interesting evidence under her nails that might give us more information."
"Are you suggesting that the murderer killed her somewhere else and dumped her body here?" Giulia inquires, trying to follow his reasoning.
"I don't suggest; I affirm it with high certainty," Sherlock snaps back, then points at some vague traces on the ground. "And those faint footsteps going from the road up to the exact spot of the corpse confirm my thesis. Dimmock, would you give us a summary of the evidence found on the ground before the police started canvassing (and might I add, ravaging) the scene?"
The D.I. sticks his chest out, describing, "There was only one blurry set of footsteps bearing the signs of a clumsy and hurried attempt to wipe off any recognisable trace."
"That's it: only one blurred set of footprints. Conclusion: the nun wasn't moving when they arrived here. She was probably already dead, and the killer carried her body. This also gives us one important detail: our murderer is quite a strong man. This woman can't weigh less than 175 pounds."
"But I still don't understand the signs of drowning and suffocation on the body," John barges in. "I'm sure she has liquid in her lungs. How do you explain that?"
Holmes stays silent for a few seconds, lost in thought. He is torturing himself, for the answer is not so obvious, and he can't seem to come up with a solution to that mystery.
"We will only be able to establish the definitive cause of death and retrace her last moments after a complete autopsy. After all, if the killer wanted to make me juggle around this case to entertain me and offer relief from boredom, I can't be expected to solve it in ten minutes. It would spoil all the fun." He smirks sardonically, struggling to mask a deep sense of insecurity. He never feels doubt; he never leaves a crime scene with more questions than he had upon his arrival. Yet, this sadistic challenge is proving to be harder and more involuted than foreseen. In his twisted mind, though, this isn't necessarily a bad thing.
"My work here is done," he says, walking away from the crime scene.
"Not so fast." Dimmock runs after him. "I need to carry on with the investigation, and I haven't got the chance to interrogate Giulia yet." He gives her a side glance.
Sherlock glowers at him. "That's because it is irrelevant now. She has nothing to do with this murder. She didn't know the victim nor talked to her. She probably had a brief chat with the killer, and she told you what it was about: he posed as Dr Cab's personal assistant. Nothing more to add."
"Then why did he phone her?" Dimmock insists, flaring his nostrils.
"I told you already. Do you blackout when I speak?" Sherlock gibes him.
Dimmock looks daggers at him, suppressing the urge to make him blackout with a left hook, instead.
Sherlock reads the twitch of hatred on his lips and explains further, "It was just an elaborate way to get to me, to lure me into this crazy game. And possibly scare Giulia, too. Just look around: we are dealing with a psychotic personality."
And the killer isn't the only psycho here, Dimmock mentally comments. Then he presses Holmes. "If you were always the intended target, why didn't the killer phone you directly?"
Sherlock shrugs. "As a precaution, maybe? Perhaps he feared I would recognise his voice: he might have a distinctive brogue or foreign accent. It doesn't matter. You are focusing on the wrong details. You want to proceed? Great, start by checking if any religious institution has reported a missing nun. And one more thing: please send the body to St. Barths immediately," he commands, turning his back to him.
"Do you have any more requests, Mr Holmes?" Dimmock sarcastically shouts after him.
Sherlock turns his head back slightly and replies in a serious tone, "Actually, I do. Get in contact with D.I. Lestrade and let him tag along with this investigation. I work better when he is the only Scotland Yard representative I have to cooperate with."
"With all due respect for Lestrade, this is my case," Dimmock protests fervently.
Sherlock looks down on him and calmly answers, "Yes, and if you want it solved, you'll do as I ask. Don't worry: Lestrade will not take any credit from you. God knows he only takes merit from me because the regulations force him to. He won't steal your thunder, but he'll let me unleash mine. Have a good day," and with that, he strides to the road, looking for a cab.
"Hold on, Sherlock." John takes him by the arm, forcing him to turn around. "You can feed Dimmock half-explanations, but it doesn't work with me. Help me understand what is truly going on. I get the deranged role-play the murderer started with you, but I still don't comprehend why he created the fake IDs. Why would someone invent some sort of persona only to kill her instantly? And why use that doctor's name?"
Sherlock comes to a sudden halt and stares into his eyes, petrified; he looks as if he has just seen a ghost. If he only believed in such supernatural beings, anyway.
"It's not a name. It's an anagram. If you rearrange the letters of K-I-M C-A-B, you get I'M BACK."
Author's note: Now that I've dropped the bomb, I'll leave you, lovely readers, to your assumptions: Who is back?
P.S. A hint: Please remember that this fanfiction is set in Season 2, after the Hounds of Baskerville...
I hope you appreciated Sherlock's deductions in this chapter. Heaven knows I had a lot of fun while coming up with all the clues that he might notice about the dead body.