CRIME SCENE was never in my bucket list, I only ever read about it from novels and I would've never imagined myself getting involved in one. Too much has happened this month; a series of misfortunes kept befalling on me, but this time felt different—for an inexplicable reason, Sherlock Holmes had the eye filled with assurance when he invited me. However, the Inspector who came to fetch him didn't seem to have mutual feelings.
Sherlock, the Inspector, and I met in front of the café's entrance. It already seemed legitimate that Sherlock is the consulting detective that he claimed he is, he wasn't arrested or anything when Inspector Lestrade arrived.
If anything, the Inspector was more than happy to see Sherlock, grinning from ear to ear and completely speechless at first. It even appeared as if he forgot that I'm standing next to them. He held both of Sherlock Holmes' shoulders and heaved a sigh of relief.
"I'm glad . . ." Inspector Lestrade said. "Finally . . . I can finally go home after weeks of overworking."
"Glad to see you too, Lestrade," Sherlock replied and shove the Inspector's hands away from him. "But to think you'd give your personal number to a civilian just to find me, I must be honored to push to you to your limits."
"Oh, please, you cheeky brat. It's not you but the serial killer that we've been chasing for weeks."
"It could've been only three days if it's me."
Huh? The Inspector's right, this Sherlock is a rude cheeky brat.
I took a sip from the drink that Sherlock bought me, and in the dead silence of the night, I humiliatingly made a slurping sound. It made the two gentlemen notice my presence in the midst of their reunion. It was Inspector Lestrade who smiled at me and patted my shoulder.
"You're the girl in 221B, aren't you? I'm glad you called right away, you're a lifesaver." Inspector Lestrade's smile was so sheepish and genuine that he might grow some flowers around his head. "I'm sorry you had to be disturbed in the middle of the night. I want to return the favor one day, so if there's anything I can do for you, let me know, young lady. For now, please excuse us and go back home to take a rest—"
Sherlock stepped in gap between the Inspector and me. "That won't do, Lestrade. She's my condition."
"Condition?"
"Yes. It's either she'll come with me, or you get no one."
Eh? Is it okay to make a deal with an Inspector like that, with a nobody and an outsider like me? Why would he even go to such lengths just because I wanted to know what happened at Reichenbach? Sherlock Holmes must be either absolutely confident about himself or that he must've gone crazy. He even made me sound like I'm some kind of a disease.
For the second time, Inspector Lestrade was rendered speechless. It was obvious that he didn't want to comply but Sherlock's resolution was immovable, so his desperation had won over his own aspiration, I guess. If they really needed Sherlock, then it must've been hell of a case.
Moments later, I found myself inside Inspector Lestrade's car, sitting awkwardly in the backseat as the two gentlemen in front of me were talking about a case. It felt illegal for me to hear about it because it sounded like a confidential matter amongst the police. Whenever I look through the window, I could never tell whether we were heading towards a crime scene or to a place soon to be crime scene that is perfect for kidnapping a young lady without her family in the city.
"When we received the news that a fourth body was found, I headed straight to 221B Baker Street with Gregson and found this girl instead of you, so I was pretty disappointed and hopeless that I didn't bother coming with him to the crime scene."
"Yes, I know. Instead, you went to a bar nearby and had a drink. That's why you arrived shortly after she called you."
Wait, what? Am I riding in a car whose driver is drunk?!
"Aren't you too much of a rule breaker, Lestrade? Should I expect a grim announcement tomorrow—your resignation, perhaps?"
"I'm not drunk at all, please, I had one glass."
Or am I gonna die in a car crash just because I followed a man I just met in the middle of the night? Am I even allowed to complain at all or should I just suddenly open the door next to me and jump on the road?
I sent a text to Mrs. Hudson's phone number, letting her know that I was with the tenant next door. Just thought someone's gotta know.
"Watson, right?"
Sherlock finally talked to me. He just casually invited me, told me to hop in, and then ignored me throughout the trip because he had a lot of catching up to do with the Inspector.
"Yes. Lucieane Watson. But please call me Luce." I think it was a little rather late for introduction. Ideas vanished in my head, as I ran out of things I could say. Sherlock was the one who brought me here, and the Inspector seemed to be alright with it now. I wonder what's gonna happen to me now. I seemed to be rolling down the river, swayed by the waves.
"By any chance, does the young lady have any experience in this field? Is that why Sherlock invited you?" the Inspector asked, looking at me through the rearview mirror.
Before I could answer, Sherlock beat me to it. He sneered and said, "Yes, with her Auguste Dupin and his amazing ratiocination."
I gasped and looked at him in disbelief. Is it his form of mockery?
"No, Sir. I actually don't have."
"Yes, you do," Sherlock insisted. "You took pharmacology as your major, didn't you? You had at least little medicine background in your blood. Besides, your parents are doctors, must've taught you a thing or two."
Here he goes again with information he couldn't have known. I'm intrigued however.
"Did you hear them from Mrs. Hudson?" I asked. Just as what he told me earlier, I eliminated all the impossible and came to the conclusion that it could've only been Mrs. Hudson.
"Well, the only thing I heard from her—or at least recollected—is that you used to attend in Doyle University too. That's how I knew our common ground. I did a little research in the campus the week after your arrival at Baker Street and found out you only completed one year of your major and dropped out during your sophomore year. And a little magic from the internet told me your parents are doctors from the neighboring city. It isn't that hard to figure out that they're disappointed in you and you ran away from home, given that nobody has ever visited you since you moved here. Not even friends."
I raised a brow. "So that's why you said that I was trying to showcase my rebellion against my parents by dyeing my hair?"
"No. You dyed your hair two days ago—I could still smell faint ammonia and dye conditioner from you. You also still had a blue tint on the side of your your neck, left a trace where you've done the dyeing yourself, a little sloppy because it's your first time. Now for someone who recently altered her appearance, you don't seem very self-conscious about it. Usually, women would have subconscious behavioral signs to show it off more through gestures such as touching it often, adjusting your bangs, and stuff alike. You weren't even avoiding rain at all—when you ran to me to return my ID, it's like you forgot about your hair or you're oblivious to the fact that the acidity of the rain could potentially damage the dye. Yes, Luce, you didn't dye your hair for yourself. You dyed it for something else . . . or someone."
The silence reigned over the car. For the nth time, it was a spot-on deduction, leaving me stunned. Honestly, that was more amazing than anything I've ever read about. How could, for once, reality be better?
"Wow . . ." I muttered. "You know so much about me that my persona feel naked to your naked eyes."
"Everyone is really naked to my eyes."
Eh?
Even Inspector Lestrade was creeped out. "Can you refrain from saying things like that? Please."
"Can't promise to refrain from telling the truth."
"Miss Watson, I'm sorry about Sherlock. He's usually like that—actually, he could be worse. He's much worse. But I guess he changed a little over the year. Ten therapist had already given up on him."
Eh? Is that an expression of exaggeration? It's crystal clear that Sherlock has an obnoxious side of him and that when he runs his mouth, it'd be hard to stop him. But I do wonder what did he mean by Sherlock could be worse?
"Isn't it about time you tell me about this serial killing case, Lestrade?" Sherlock's voice gone monotone, and an additional tension suddenly ringed our atmosphere.
For me, it was the cue to shut up.
"Oh, yeah . . . It's past midnight already, but I'm sure some from forensics team are still examining the scene."
"Is Enoch still in it?"
"Yeah, unfortunately for you. But please bear with him. He's trying his best."
"Yes, his last two brain cells are best in arguing how much money does he make in a job that he's constantly failing at."
He makes creative insults too. He could make a good writer.
"Never mind him, Sherlock. Even if it's not his team, there wasn't anything that serves as a lead. The first victim was female, age 19, collapsed in a public restroom in a picnic area last October 2. She was sent to ER, but died six hours later. The bereaved was determined to know the cause of death as she was a healthy woman with no history of any illness. They were suspicious that she had a secret lover, but they had no idea who and where to find him. Not even her belongings told a lead. Everyone we found linked was questioned but nobody even turned out as a potential suspect. Suicide was easily ruled out, she had no reason to be in that place if it isn't for a date."
"What did the autopsy reveal?"
"Phosphine gas."
What's that?
"More than 5ml of zinc phosphide was suspected to be ingested. It turned into phosphine gas when it met the stomach acid. The gas spread to the bloodstream and caused multi-organ failure within the six hours, eventually led to death."
"A legal rat poison," Sherlock said that felt almost like a whisper. "It's not something you can easily find in supermarket or any grocery store, that zinc phosphide. It's highly toxic. It has no antidote either. Did you check their history of bought items from online shops?"
"Yeah, nothing showed up. There are only few companies in our country that manufactures zinc phosphide. Only a few people bought it and none of them are anywhere close to our city. My suspicion is . . . the culprit makes them by himself. So we're still looking into stores that sells zinc and phosphorus."
"You won't find anything there."
"What?"
"Never mind. What about the second victim?"
"Male, a homeless one without any birth registration record. We couldn't identify him yet, a basically dead end John Doe. But he had the same cause of death, multi-organ damage by phosphine gas. But he was already found dead one morning by a group of students, didn't even make it to the hospital, he probably stayed alone and helpless in that area when he was poisoned. Others suspect it's suicide."
"What did the autopsy say about their gastric content?"
"Bread, mainly. Both of them. The third victim was another male, age 52, and a taxi driver. The bereaved stated that the victim complaint of stomachache when he came home from work. Eventually, he had seizures and was sent to ER. This time, they managed to stabilize the symptoms for 12 hours. He was unconscious the while time so we couldn't squeeze any detail. But even with intensive care, he still died. The autopsy showed the same poison, and an abundant amount of instant noodles in his stomach. There were also spilt noodles in his cab, and we figured that the culprit had dine with him inside but there was no witness as it was . . . a cab with a passenger in it, no one will pay it no mind. We checked the camera footages from the streets, but the culprit definitely knew what he was doing. He took the safe routes away from surveillance."
Somehow, I felt the urge to ask a question and I couldn't stop myself. "What are the victims' relationship towards one another?"
Both of them turned to me through the rearview mirror.
"None of them are related aside from the means of death," Inspector Lestrade replied.
Sherlock, with a feeble smile, answered, "The patterns are shadows."