September 24, 1973

"Wake up, my dear Watson."

I awoke as Holmes gently shook me awake.

"Is it morning already?" I asked.

"Quite so. Let us not tarry; we would scarcely want our lovely Jasmine to scold us, would we?"

"Not at all."

After consuming a light breakfast in the Oak Room, Holmes and I ventured to the foyer, where Jasmine awaited us, this time wearing a purple shirt with the words "DEEP PURPLE" in white block lettering:

"So, you two are on time. I am mildly impressed. Let's go."

Instead of heading to her car, Jasmine promptly slapped Holmes across the cheek.

"Hey, quit starin' at my boobs, ya pervert!"

"I dearly apologize," said Holmes. "I had never seen any that big."

"Just get in the car, ya jerk."

Holmes and I entered Jasmine's Buick, and she drove off once we had buckled our seatbelts.

"Well Jasmine, what is our business for today?" asked Holmes.

"I'm takin' ya to get some fresh clothes; you two look like complete shit with what you're wearin' now. Don't even get me started on your friend's hat."

"And what is wrong with our current vestments? Surely, they perform their function adequately, do they not?"

"Wht's wrong with 'em? Ya look like ya lost a goddamn bet! That's what's wrong with 'em!"

"I assure you, my dear Jasmine, that…"

"Look, just stop talkin' 'till we get there, OK?"

Holmes obeyed the command to remain silent. Soon enough, we reached a store called "JIM'S DISCOUNT CLOTHING & SHOES". The store was quite larger than the antiques store and pawn shop we'd been to the previous night, with a bewildering array of clothing. Without question, Jasmine pored through the racks where the clothing was hung up, taking a large variety of clothing. She even paid a visit to a section of the store where shoes were kept and took a box marked "CONVERSE ALL-STARS".

"Lemme see your feet," said Jasmine.

Without question, Holmes lifted up his right foot. Jasmine withdrew a shoe from the box and placed its sole against the sole of Holmes' shoe.

"Nah, too small."

Jasmine placed the shoe back in its box and looked for another one, repeating the process until she was sure she'd found a set of shoes that would fit Holmes. She also underwent this process with me. Aside from these more casual-looking shoes, she also permitted us to obtain more formal leather dress shoes. Once she was satisfied with the array of clothing she had picked out, she led us to another section of the store, where the wall was lined with stalls of some sort.

"And what, pray tell, are we doing here?" asked Holmes.

"These are the changin' rooms," replied Jasmine. "Go in there and try these clothes on."

I picked up an unusual buttonless short-sleeved shirt. "We shall, but what sort of shirt is this?"

"It's called a 'T-shirt'," said Jasmine. "Now go change already."

I took my fair share of some of the clothes that Jasmine had gotten for us and brought them into the changing room with me, being sure to lock the door once I was inside. After removing my current vestments, I proceeded to try on the clothes. The T-shirt was a most unusual garment, but I had deduced that one need only put their arms through the sleeves and squeeze their head through the elastic collar in order to get the shirt on. I was surprised, too, that the garment actually fit. How Jasmine was able to perceive the size of the clothing that would fit me was beyond my limited powers of deduction, but I was grateful that they did fit. Wearing a T-shirt, denim pants – which I later learned were called 'jeans' – and those unusual shoes – which I later learned were called 'sneakers' – I truly looked and felt the part of one who was living in the 1970s.

Jasmine had also chosen some more formal attire for us, and when I was trying on a suit, I was shocked to discover that the button-down shirts of this era had the collars integrated with the shirts. Nevertheless, I found this change to be most convenient, and the cravats had scarcely changed in their design, although the diagonal stripes on some of them were of the opposite direction from what I was used to. Nevertheless, it was a kind gesture of Jasmine to get us vestments that I was more accustomed to, although I could perceive use for something as simple as a T-shirt and jeans. Once I had tried on my fair share of clothing, I brought it out of the changing room and accompanied Jasmine and Holmes to the front counter to purchase the clothing.

With these new vestments purchased, Jasmine insisted on taking us back to the Plaza Hotel.

"Why have you taken us back to the hotel?" asked Holmes.

"Get changed," replied Jasmine. "We got a case for ya."

Both of us retired to our hotel rooms, and after storing the bulk of our clothing in the hotel room's closet, we changed into the more contemporary suits that we had purchased, mine being dark blue with a matching cravat, while Holmes wore a brown suit with a plain black cravat. Nevertheless, he elected to wear his trademark hat and coat with them. We both took our pistols and some ammunition, and fortunately, our suit jackets contained inner pockets suitable for carrying them. Now well-equipped, Holmes and I returned to Jasmine's car, and once we were buckled in, she took us to the scene of the crime that we were to investigate, on 480 Park Avenue. Immediately, I recognized the building as the one where we were first accosted by the police. Jasmine led us into the building and pressed a button on the wall next to a set of metallic doors.

"What is that button for?" asked Holmes.

"That calls the elevator," replied Jasmine. "It takes ya up to whatever floor ya want without the need for stairs."

"Ah, you mean the lift!"

"Whatever."

Once the lift had come to us, we stepped inside, and it was just as metallic as it was on the outside. Jasmine pressed another button, and once the lift doors had slid closed, we were taken up to the floor that she had requested. Once the doors opened, she led us to a door that was blocked off by a yellow ribbon with the continual markings of "CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS". Already, I could see that a portion of the door had broken off at the doorknob.

"What crime has been committed here?" asked Holmes.

"So, this wealthy socialite named Melba Goodson was killed," replied Jasmine. "Looks like it was a burglary gone wrong."

Holmes stepped over the makeshift barrier and attempted to turn the doorknob. He then turned to Jasmine:

"No, this was no burglary. Whoever gained access to this dwelling was in possession of a key, and after they entered to commit a crime against Miss Goodson, they exited the abode, closed the door and then struck it with enough force to break it open, but in doing so, they forgot to lock the door again.

"What!?" exclaimed Jasmine. "How the hell can ya tell all that?"

"Quite simple, really. When you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains – however improbable – must be the truth."

Jasmine crossed her arms. "And I suppose whoever iced Melba Goodson never actually took anything."

"We shall see."

Jasmine, Holmes and I proceeded further into Miss Goodson's penthouse, which was just as luxurious as – if not more luxurious than – the Plaza Hotel, possessing such amenities such as a long leather couch, a large TV and a fair share of wooden furniture that I suspected might be maple. In the living room, I saw an outline of a human being splayed upon the floor, drawn with white tape. Judging by the bloodstains left in close proximity to where the head would be, she had died of a head injury of some sort. Holmes, however, was at the moment more preoccupied with scrutinizing the valuables that had once belonged to Goodson, though once he had completed this task, he approached with his answer.

"While I haven't an inventory of the exact belongings of Miss Goodson, I can say with the utmost of certainty that nothing of value was actually stolen. Whoever murdered her had merely strewn her valuables about to give it the appearance of an attempted burglary. As for the victim herself, the shape and size of the bloodstains present means that she was killed by multiple instances of blunt force trauma to the head."

Jasmine crossed her arms. "You're not entirely wrong. We found a lamp on the other side of the room from Goodson that had some of her blood on the base of it. How ya figured that out so easily is beyond me, though."

"When one is a student of all subjects, one may very easily figure out what others cannot immediately discern."

"OK, quit braggin', Sherlock. Ya found what ya came for, so let's go."

"Before we depart, I must inquire as to the whereabouts of Miss Goodson's body."

"She's at the morgue right now."

Jasmine drove Holmes and I to the morgue, a gray, dreary building in all aspects of its existence. She led us down the halls, which assailed our noses with a dull, sickly smell, until we finally arrived at one of the rooms where corpses were stored.

"Can I help…oh, hey L'Esperance," said a morgue attendant, a thin, balding man with chestnut brown hair, pale skin and a moustache. He wore a pair of glasses and a light blue uniform not unlike a hospital attendant's uniform. "How can I help ya?"

"Bill, this is Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. They're here to see Melba Goodson's body."

"OK…"

Bill opened one of the storage units in a manner similar to a filing cabinet, thereby revealing Goodson's corpse, naked except for a sheet that covered most of her. Immediately, Holmes inspected the corpse.

"Jasmine was correct. The pattern of bruising on Goodson's head is consistent with being struck multiple times by the base of a lamp, though I do wonder what became of the lamp."

"We brought it in as evidence," said Jasmine. "Let's go back to the house and tell Lieutenant Frazier about this."

"Go back to whose house?"

"The precinct house, you dumbass!"

Holmes nodded. "Ah, yes!"

Jasmine drove Holmes and I back to the 18th Precinct station, where we headed to see Frazier.

"Welcome back, Holmes and Watson," said Frazier. "I see you two are lookin' sharp. Any news on the Goodson case?"

"Yes, Lieutenant," said Holmes. "The theory that it was the result of a botched burglary can safely be put to rest. Whoever murdered Goodson merely took steps to give it the appearance that she was there in the midst of a burglary. For one, the murderer had a key that granted access to her residence and had forgotten to lock the door prior to forcing it open. Secondly, though I am personally unaware of the entirety of her belongings, I have ascertained that nothing of value was taken, and I am certain that your detectives will come to that conclusion as well."

"Maybe not, but I think we got a coupla suspects now."

Holmes and I turned around to see officers Smith and Jones with two Black men in their custody, one of whom I recognized as the same man who attempted to rob us last night. The other one had a more voluminous but similarly-textured hairstyle and was not only clean-shaven, but slightly shorter than the other man save for his hairstyle. Both of them protested their arrest:

"Hey, what the hell is this!?" said the first man. "I didn't do nothin'!"

"Yeah man, we innocent!" said the second man.

"Who are these two gentlemen?" asked Holmes.

"Marcus Nelson and Rudy Lambert," said Smith. "We've brought 'em in before. They got rap sheets a mile long."

"Yeah, but we didn't kill that woman!" said the first man.

"Shut up!" said Jones.

"I shall determine that."

Once again, with his practiced, studious eyes, Holmes proceeded to go over every inch of Nelson and Lambert, leaving no inch unnoticed. When he had finished his analysis, he brought forth his answer:

"Smith, Jones…let these men go."

"Why?" said Smith.

"Neither their skin nor their clothes have even the most minute traces of Miss Goodson's blood. Furthermore, their clothes exhibit no traces of material from the door that was broken, nor any other particles that could be traced back to her apartment."

"So you gonna let us go now?" asked the first man.

"Almost. Which one of you is Marcus Nelson?"

"That's me," said the first man, the one who attempted to rob us.

"Mr. Nelson, where were you at the time of Miss Goodson's murder?"

"I was shootin' some pool at Rick's Bar, then I ran into you, Whitey."

Holmes turned to Lambert. "And you, Mr. Lambert, where were you at the time of Miss Goodson's murder?"

"I was catchin' the Yankees double-header at my old lady's pad."

Holmes nodded. "Judging by the tone of their voices and the size of their pupils, these two gentlemen are indeed telling the truth."

"Wait, we can't just let 'em go!" said Smith.

"Let 'em go," said Frazier. "If Holmes says they're innocent, they're innocent."

"Yes, Lieutenant."

Smith and Jones unlocked Nelson and Lambert's handcuffs.

"Go on, get outta here!" said Jones.

Nelson and Lambert made a hasty exit.

"Though I will say, Lieutenant Frazier, that I am most interested in corroborating Nelson and Lambert's alibis," said Holmes. "Come, Watson and Jasmine; let us drive over to Rick's Bar."

Jasmine, Holmes and I were headed out when we were accosted by Hedison:

"Hey, Holmes, how's Dirty Harriet treatin' ya?"

"She seems to harbor hatred for us unlike that of any woman I've ever met. How a woman could loathe others so is beyond my belief."

"Yeah, Jasmine may not be the friendliest mama out there, but she ain't that bad once ya get to know her."

I noticed Jasmine giving a cold look to Hedison and Holmes. Meanwhile, Hedison continued with his bit:

"So, make any progress on the Goodson case?"

"We've absolved Marcus Nelson and Rudy Lambert of the crime, so we are now on our way to corroborate their alibis."

Hedison shook his head. "Ain't it a crime?"

"What is a crime?"

"There ain't as many Black people in America as there are White people, but brothas are gettin' locked up at a higher rate than White people. That's part of the reason why I wanted to be a cop: to show people that just because my skin color ain't the same as yours, that don't mean I can't do what you can."

"An interesting motivation. By the way, are you still angry about what happened between us last night?"

"I ain't gonna lie: I'm still kinda pissed, but I know y'all didn't mean to insult me, so like I said, I'll let it slide this once. Besides, I'm real happy knowin' that I get to work with the Sherlock Holmes, one of the baddest crime-solvin' muthas in the world!"

"But I am not a woman, so how can I be a mother?"

Hedison laughed again.

"Holmes, Watson, I like you. You cats bring a fresh new perspective to the Department. Hell, crime in this city might actually go down if ya stay any longer!"

"Listen, Jim, we don't have time to waste," said Jasmine. "We have to go. See ya later."

Hedison waved at Jasmine. "You too, Jasmine! Be cool!"

Jasmine drove Holmes and I to Rick's Bar, a small place with a dingy yellow sign displaying the name of the establishment and glowing signs in its window, one of which said "OPEN". Taking this as an indicator that the bar was open for business, we entered. Inside its dingy, dimly-lit interior, the patrons – many of whom were Black people – played billiards, drank and just generally loitered about while an unusual form of music graced our ears, medium in its tempo, characterized by sounds that were alien to Holmes and I, but seemed to be arranged in a rhythm suggestive of tribal music. Holmes strode up to the bar, where the bartender – a young, bald Black man who easily dwarfed him in height – took notice of him:

"What'll it be, man?"

"I am not thirsty at the moment. My name is Sherlock Holmes, England's greatest consulting detective. I would like to inquire about a patron who was present here last night."

"Hey, what's this about?"

"A man named Marcus Nelson claimed to be in here last night, enjoying a game of billiards. Is there any truth to his statement?"

"Yeah, Marcus comes in here a lot, and he was shootin' pool. What's that got to do with anything?"

"He was recently arrested on a false suspicion of having committed murder, and I am merely attempting to corroborate his alibi."

"Hey, I know that dude pretty well, and he ain't about that murder jive, see?"

"We believe you. Have a nice day."

"Yeah, you too, man."

Holmes headed for the door.

"OK, so ya got one man off the hook," said Jasmine. "Now what?"

"We visit Rudy Lambert's old lady…whatever was meant by that."

"He was talkin' about his girlfriend, stupid."

"I should find it odd that a gentleman should court a woman far older than himself, though."

Jasmine forcefully grabbed Holmes by his collar. "Hey, ya want me to smack ya again? 'Cause that's what's gonna happen if ya keep sayin' stupid things like that."

"No, I have no particular desire for you to strike me in such a fashion."

"Then knock it off with bein' a dumbass, OK?"

"Yes, of course."

Jasmine, Holmes and I drove over to the apartment where Rudy Lambert's girlfriend lived. It was a small apartment, but clean. Lambert's girlfriend – a short, young Black woman with shoulder-length bobbed hair – answered the door.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Are you Rudy Lambert's girlfriend?" asked Jasmine.

The woman nodded. "I am. Mary Barber is my name."

Jasmine opened a small black wallet-like device with a gold shield in it. "I'm Detective Jasmine L'Esperance, NYPD. These are my associates, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson."

Miss Barber raised an eyebrow. "Ain't those two cats dead?"

"Why heavens, no, Miss Barber; we're quite alive and well, but admittedly out of our element," said Holmes. "I would like to ask you about Rudy Lambert."

"What about him?"

"He said he was here last night, watching a Yankees double-header…whatever that is."

"Yeah, he's big into baseball. I don't get how he can stay glued to the TV watchin' that jive, but he's got his thing, so I don't say nothin' about it. Say, what's all this about?"

"Mr. Lambert was recently arrested on suspicion of murder, and we are attempting to corroborate his alibi."

"Well, I can tell ya right now that my man has done some crazy-ass things, but murder ain't one of 'em!"

"We believe you, Miss Barber. Have a nice day."

"You too, Holmes."

Barber closed her door, and with Nelson and Lambert vindicated, Jasmine could scarcely help but wonder about our current situation:

"Well, there's two suspects out the window. What are ya gonna do now, Sherlock?"

"Has Miss Goodson got any living relatives?"

"Her parents are dead, but we talked to her sister Deanna. She was real broken up about the whole thing. She did, however, tell us that Melba was datin' a man named Robert Lang."

"What do we know about this 'Robert Lang'?"

"He's the owner of Lang Stationery, a paper company in northern Manhattan."

"Having seen my fair share of cases involving murders between two people who were courting, I should think it would be a wise choice to question Mr. Lang."

Criticism is gold. Negativity and nitpicking are pyrite.