Two Hundred and Twenty-One Baker Streets (34 page)

“Fascinating,” he said.

“Is it?”

He didn’t answer, and instead stepped closer in my direction. Though his appearance was a bit overbearing, I couldn’t say I felt threatened. The man acted as though he was fascinated by everything around him, and yet his eyes said he was already over it. There was something familiar about him, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

“I feel like I know you. Like I’ve seen you before. Did my ex- wife send you? Are you her most recent fling that’s now been flung?” I chuckled to myself, but was cut off by the sharp tone of the mystery man.

“Oh, you would like that, wouldn’t you? An easy answer, something simple like yourself. Well it is quite simple actually, Doctor; quite simple indeed. I knew your great-great-uncle.”

His accent was British, so it seemed plausible for a moment, until I realized that there was no way this gentleman could have been alive when my uncle was, based on his middle-aged appearance now.

“Whatever trick you are trying to pull, I think I’ve had enough. You’ve had your fun now. There’s no money here, and you wouldn’t make it far if you tried to sell the equipment. Everything has a serial number, and—”

“Oh, Dr. Watson, I’m not here to rob you. I’m here to help you.”

Y
OU CAN IMAGINE
how all of this must have looked to me, but I can assure you that whatever scenario you have drawn up in your mind would not be comparable to the confusion I felt. His voice was cold, articulate, and he sighed with exaggeration as each moment passed.

“There is no other answer, Dr. Watson. I knew your great - great-uncle—knew him quite well, actually—and the longer we waste here, the less we know about this jumper.”

“Now, how did you know about that?” I asked.

“I’ve heard everything. Do you want me to explain why I am here, or do you want to catch a killer?”

B
Y THIS POINT
,
I had tweaked the technique, such that I did not require all of the equipment from my lab, only the portable x-ray unit, a few petri dishes, and a process similar to somatic cell nuclear transfer, but rather than needing a surrogate of sorts to fertilize the cells, a way was discovered to warm them using the radiation from the x-rays. This process was discovered by accident by my great-uncle Dr. John Watson. Apparently, he was working on something, when he’d refused to return from America; other than my great-aunt. That was what had been on those notes, and similar to the way he had discovered it, the right combination of radiation and lighting and all around odd luck had been exactly what had happened for me.

Though I would never have been able to recreate the process blind, as lightning tends to not strike twice, I was—through his spotty notes, and many failed attempts—able to decipher a process as close to human cloning as had been discovered. The ashes of Sherlock had been carefully preserved in that wooden box, and that was why my uncle had passed it down to me. I suppose he knew we were the same, he and I. Living a mundane life and in need of more than a military background and a boring medical practice, and that was how Sherlock Holmes came to be standing in my living room, looking over my notes on the Patchwork Killer case. He would at times disappear, usually when the days had been exceptionally long, but I could always find him again within that wooden box.

“This Miss Jenkins; what else do you know about her?”

Holmes asked.

“Not much,” I said. “She’s a local celebrity of sorts, and not just for her performances down at the Blue Moon Cabaret”.

“I see.”

Sherlock continued scanning over the notes I had made while on scene as Mrs. Hernandez entered the room.

“Horchata, Dr. Watson?”

Mrs. Hernandez had both hands wrapped around the edge of a large, flowered metal tray that housed three glass tumblers filled with what at a distance looked like milk. Each glass had a stick of cinnamon peeking out from the top, and since it was clear she had gone to some trouble to make this presentation, I accepted and joined her at the small dining table several feet away. “What about him?” she asked me.

“Just ignore him for now. He’s thinking. This could go on for hours, days even.”

Mrs. Hernandez, though visibly curious, refrained from any further questioning. Whatever was in her past life had taught her one thing: the less you knew, the safer you were.

We sat at the table drinking the ice-cold liquid and watched Holmes pace the floor, manic. He waved his arms overhead and mumbled to himself with each step.

“He looks like a crazy person,” she said.

Though I agreed, and in his own way he was precisely that, I just nodded, and continued sipping my drink. Mrs. Hernandez had hung around as long as possible, brought snacks, more horchatas, even began sorting the dishes from the dishwasher, until from nowhere Sherlock yelled out.

“Get out!”

Mrs. Hernandez and I looked at one another, confused, but he yelled again and rushed in our direction like an ape who’s ass had been lit on fire. Mrs. Hernandez grabbed up her tray and backed out of the kitchen. At the top of the stairs she called out, “I’ll stop by later to—”

“I said out!”

She made a final noise of indignation and disappeared below. “Do you have to do that?” I asked.

“She’s just curious. Imagine how you would feel if suddenly some strange person appeared in the living room from a box the size of your fist.”

“You know my methods, Watson. We haven’t much time.” And with that, he rushed out the door and down the dimly-lit corridor, onto the street, with me trailing closely behind.

A
FTER HE HAD
solved the mystery of why the jumper had no fingerprints in about ten minutes, which I relayed to Detective Michaels, the force started calling me in on all sorts of odd crimes. The jumper had, in fact, jumped. It was an open-shut case of suicide. A plastic surgeon known around town for her impeccable botox work and experimental drug trials. The fingerprints had been sheerly a coincidence. Something so bizarre and random only Sherlock was able to identify it. Adermatoglyphia. The extremely rare instance of someone being born without finger prints. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Sometimes, the easiest explanation is the correct one,” he said.

Was it glamorous? No. But it was the only answer, and after the dental records were returned and the victim identified and family notified, the proof was further solidified by the suicide note that came three days later in the mail to the mother of the jumper.

The calls for help became more frequent, and eventually Detective Michaels hired me as the squad Doctor. Though on paperwork it would appear I was doing dental consultations, I was, in fact, consulting on the murders when they were unable to reach a solution. Sherlock would tag along to each scene in one way or another; either in the wooden box in the inner pocket of my coat, or in person. He wore a ridiculous hat with a long grey trench coat which made him quite conspicuous, but everyone was always so caught up in the crime that he was usually able to get a first-hand look at the scene.

Eventually, I had to introduce him as my new assistant, training abroad, and trust me when I say he loathed the title, but it was my only choice when at one point he licked the body of a dead child to see if there was salt water residue. Something that, no matter how lenient, or how blind an eye one might turn, cannot be overlooked.

The onlookers watched, horrified, Detective Michaels gasped, and I—well, after I recovered from the mini stroke which had just occurred—said that he was with me officially, so as to avoid having to bail him out from jail as a child predator. I’d tried to keep his presence at a minimum and avoid any actions that might raise suspicion. The last thing I needed was the world to find out that I, a simple dentist, was doing human cloning of sorts in my illegally sublet apartment.

Sherlock had found nothing strange about what he had done, and thought that everyone had overreacted. I tried to explain how the mother of the child, how we as decent human beings, felt about what he had done, but it didn’t register. Holmes was not one for softer passions, children, women, love; all things he admired as an onlooker, but would never involve himself in, especially when it came to a case.

We never spoke of his personal life, and when I spoke of mine, he seemed disinterested, annoyed. He once mentioned someone who he called ‘The Woman,’ but he did not elaborate and I did not ask. He spoke of her the way one speaks of a rock star idol more than a lost lover. I was certain he felt no passionate feelings for The Woman, but he seemed to admire her a great deal, from what little he had said.

I
NSIDE THE
B
LUE
Moon, it was dark, seedy, and not the sort of place you would want your mother to know you frequented. The women were scantily clad and the air was dank and smelled like stale sweat and fried potatoes. Some men gathered around green felt tables playing blackjack while the rest sat near the end of a small round stage where a young girl danced in fishnets. Too young, if you asked me.

Once the girl exited the stage, Sherlock approached her. “Here, put this on.”

“Are you serious?” the girl asked. “You think I’m going to make money looking like I’m wearing an old potato sack?”

“Just humor me. Watson, give me your wallet.”

I had learned quite early on that to argue was useless, so I reached into my back pocket, and handed him my wallet. He reached inside, took out all of the cash I had and gave it to the girl. Her eyes beamed and her defensive demeanor melted.

“This is not what you think it is,” Sherlock said. “This is for information.”

The girl once again became skeptical, but with a wad of money pressed into her palm, she played along in case there was more where that had come from.

“Why would anyone want to kill Miss Jenkins?”

The girl, who had already appeared young and fraught, seemed to shrink even smaller. Her thin bleach-blonde hair fell over her eyes and she hunched down and hid her face.

“What is it, child?” I asked.

“I am not a child,” she snapped back, but as soon as the last word left her mouth she returned to her defeated stance.

“I can’t talk about this here,” she said. “They’re everywhere.” She shifted her eyes upwards. From the dark corners of the room, a small red light came into focus. Cameras were set up throughout the building, and it was clear we would get nothing from her.

“Kiss me,” Sherlock said.

“Sherlock!”

“It’s not what you think. Just do it.” The girl, accustomed to being told what to do, obliged.

I watched uncomfortably as the two proceeded to nuzzle and whisper to one another.

The door burst open onto the street and the light stung my eyes.

“What the hell was that about?” I asked.

“This,” Holmes said.

Now once again wearing his coat, he reached his hand into the pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. On it was the number
303
and the name
Dave
.

“She told me that this Dave person had been harassing Miss Jenkins non-stop, and that the cabaret refused to do anything about it.”

“You had to kiss her for that?”

“For the record, if you recall, we did no such thing. Merely pretended for the cameras. She’s paranoid, but with good reason.”

“Does she think this Dave person could be our Patchwork Killer?”

“She didn’t seem to find it implausible.”

“So what does this Dave guy have to do with the girl at the ice cream shop, or the drifter?”

“That’s what we must find out.”

Sherlock took stride once again and headed down the street in the direction of the city center. I followed in step, and hoped he was right.

T
HE NEXT DAY
the papers were filled with ‘Patchwork Killer’ articles. Each one framing its own theory of the murders. Someone in the department had let slip all the details of the cases save the fact that the drifter had a lighter in his pocket. I suppose
dead man has lighter
sells less papers than
lounge singer gets skin sewn back on
. The
Daily Sentinel
was puzzled, remarked that a crime this violent had not occurred here since the hangings of the early 1900s. I scanned each paper, looked for clues. The
Bugle
had an open call section where people could send in their thoughts on whatever local matter was at hand.

It was usually just a bunch of angry blue-hairs complaining about taxes and young people, but one letter caught my eye. It was a cry for help. A letter written by a woman desperately searching for her husband, who had gone missing a week before. He had, without warning, been called away to attend an urgent business matter and never returned. It was sad, but not a case for myself or Sherlock Holmes, so I read on.

I set aside any conjecture formed that might be of use, and over breakfast and iced horchatas, discussed the possibilities with Sherlock. Holmes seemed amused by the theories created by our locals.

“You would feel silly if one of these turned out to be correct,”

I said.

“You are right, I would feel considerably foolish, but lucky for me there’s no chance of that, which you would know had you taken the time to read them.”

“I did read them.”

“Then you would know there is nothing here of interest.” Holmes reached across the table and retrieved one of the biscuits that Mrs. Hernandez had set out. Just as he was about to take a bite, he shot up from the table and walked out the door.

That was my cue to follow.

S
HERLOCK KNOCKED ON
the door, and a moment later a young, attractive, thirty-something housewife peered through the screen door.

“Mrs. Peppard?”

“Yes?” she said.

“Your husband. Have you found him?” Holmes asked. The woman turned red as an apple and shifted her glance downward.

“I did,” she said. “It was a misunderstanding.”

“Was it Mrs. Jenkins?”

The woman looked up at him, stunned, and through watery eyes nodded.

“That’s all,” Sherlock said, and turned around exiting the porch.