Two Hundred and Twenty-One Baker Streets (30 page)

“Are the police dangerous to me?” I asked as mildly as possible.

Holmes looked at me over her shoulder. “Only if you’re innocent.”

I managed to control myself from laughing, and only achieved this because both detectives were glaring at me.

“Molly Parker saw you just last week, didn’t she?” Straude asked.

“She did. I saw her the month before, too. Over the course of the school year, I’ll end up seeing most of the student body, many of them more than once.”

“Justine Clarke, Ramona Hernandez, Quannah Wells, and Susan Lewis all were your patients as well, were they not?” Straude asked.

“I’ve seen all of them, yes.” I had. They were all nice girls. All different from each other. All dead now. Bright futures cut short. I tried not to think about it. Thinking about it created anger for which I had no safe outlet. “New London has a heavy emphasis on wellness and preventative care.”

“Who was the doctor before you?” Holmes asked, as she examined the small statuettes of St. George slaying a dragon and St. Rita with a thorn in her forehead and a grapevine wrapped around her, both gifted to me by an old friend.

“I honestly have no idea. He or she left no notes or files. I’m sure Mrs. Hudson would know. Why am I being questioned?”

Straude opened his mouth but Holmes spoke before he could. “Save your breath, Lee.” She was still looking at the statuettes. “Despite having gone to Oxford for medical school, which is both impressive and explains why he speaks properly, medicine is not Dr. Watson’s life’s calling, although he enjoys it. He’s a veteran of Operation Enduring Freedom in Afghanistan and the War on Terror in Iraq, with his time in Iraq sandwiched between tours in Afghanistan. He hated war, but was a good soldier. He was wounded in battle, taking damage in his left shoulder and right hip. He’s fully recovered, though wet weather makes him ache, hence why he moved to the Southwest instead of returning home to the Northeast, which is a wonderful excuse he uses for why he rarely visits his parents or siblings, whom he loves but doesn’t really like. While he received an honorable discharge, that was because he was popular with his superior officers, since he killed a man in a protective rage. He does fit the profile, since he’s highly intelligent, underachieving, and a loner. Sadly for you, Detectives, he’s not our killer. However, once we find that man, should he be killed before trial, our good doctor should ensure hehas an airtight alibi.”

“None of that says he isn’t our man,” Saunders pointed out.

“True enough,” Holmes said. “Regarding the man you killed in Afghanistan, how old was the woman he was attacking?”

“You seem to know so much about me; why don’t you tell me why you’ve been investigating me and answer your own question at the same time?”

“Oh, Lee hates it when I do that.” Holmes turned around and crossed her arms over her chest. “But it does save time.” She looked at Straude.

Who shrugged. “I didn’t ask you to come out from New York just for the weather. I’ll let you work as you want, Sherlock.”

“Fine. First off, I haven’t investigated you, other than the time spent in this room. I was called to meet Lee and Will while they were en route to the college.”

“You’re saying you know all that about me from having been in this room ten minutes?”

“It’s been nine minutes, but, yes.”

“How?”

She shrugged. “You have your service medals framed and hung, but they sit on a side wall, meaning you have to stand where I am in order to see them—you’re proud of them, but don’t want to be reminded of your service. Presumably it’s because you felt the horrors of war deeply and regret all you did there.”

“That’s quite true, yes. What about medicine? You insinuated I’m not happy being a doctor?”

“No, I said you enjoyed it but it wasn’t where your heart lay. All your diplomas and certificates fill the wall behind you, but they’re quite dusty. They need to be up and displayed to prove you’re allowed to practice medicine, but you rarely think of them, meaning this wasn’t your choice for a career. Before we joined you I verified with Mrs. Hudson that the medical practice is off limits to the regular cleaning staff. There’s a service that picks up any hazardous materials, but otherwise, you’re responsible for keeping the offices clean. It’s part of your arrangement for living on campus.”

There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Hudson looked in. “Terribly sorry to interrupt, but Howard is here to collect your hazardous wastes.”

“Speak of the devil. This needs to be done,” I said to the police. Straude nodded and I went and opened the door all the way as Mrs. Hudson headed back to her desk.

Howard rolled his dolly in. He was a big man, not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but pleasant, thorough, and punctual. “Afternoon, Doctor,” he said. He gave the detectives a nod, and Holmes a wide smile. “Miss, excuse me, don’t want to run over your toes.”

Holmes gave him an amused smile and moved out of his way. Howard collected the two hazardous bins and left two others in their places. “See you next month, Doctor.” He shot Holmes another smile. “Hope to see you next month, too.”

“You never know,” Holmes said. Howard grinned, then left.

I shut the door behind him. “Sorry about that. Now, you were telling us how you know medicine isn’t my heart’s desire while rating my cleaning skills.”

She lifted one of the statuettes. “There’s no dust under these statuettes, nor on the bookcases. You’re very thorough. And yet you rarely, if ever, think to dust your diplomas. But you haven’t turned your hand to anything else. Meaning you enjoy it well enough, but it’s not what you wanted to do, not really.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Why did you go to school in England, when there are plenty of good medical universities in the States?”

“Family tradition. My parents immigrated here before they had children, and I’m the fifth in my line to graduate from Oxford in medicine. Huge point of pride for my family. Speaking of whom, why do you think I don’t like them?”

“The picture of your family is low on a wall you can’t see— you love them enough to have their picture up, but you don’t like them, which is why the picture isn’t where you can see it easily. It also clearly shows architecture and landscape that’s typical of the Northeastern United States. And I can understand the resentment, being forced into a role you do well with but didn’t actually want. Why did you join the Army?”

“It seemed like... the right thing to do.”

“Yes, and for at least one person, it made all the difference in the world. Which is why you went—to make a difference.”

“How do you mean?”

“Your statuettes—they’re cheaply made and inexpensive, yet you have them in a place of honor, where you can see them any time you look up from your desk. Saint George slew the dragon, Saint Rita is the patron saint of those wounded in battle. I doubt you bought those for yourself. They strike me as being gifted to you by the young woman whom you rescued.”

“How do you know I saved a young woman?”

Holmes took a picture off the small wall opposite the one my medals hung upon. “She’s about fourteen, based on her face, and Afghan, based on her clothing and location—somewhere in Kabul, if I’m any judge.” She handed the picture to Straude. “She’s also holding a sign that says ‘to my hero’ in Pashto, with a simple drawing of a man with blood on his left shoulder and right hip and a crown on his head. The photo is wrinkled, but you framed it anyway. It came with the Saint Rita statuette. You were injured after you rescued her. The Saint George statuette is older and shows signs of wear—she gave that to you before your injury and you kept it with you.”

“Yes. To all of it. And she was being attacked by three men, one of whom was a relative of hers. I killed them all. They were insurgents, so my superior officers didn’t mind. Her name is Anoosheh, it means—”

“Lucky,” Holmes interrupted. “Or happy. And she was both, thanks to you.” She took the photo back from Straude and hung it back up. “It’s a rare thing for a man to save one girl from a brutal attack, in a situation where the authorities are unlikely to ever be involved, only to rape and murder five others in a country where the police are far more concerned, Lee.”

Straude sighed. “We need to look at every possibility, Sherlock.”

“I’ll happily provide DNA if that’s helpful.”

“The killer uses a condom,” Holmes said. “And he’s very good about leaving nothing much for forensics to work with.”

“Almost as if he’s medically trained.” Saunders shot me a look that said I was definitely still his favorite suspect. “He needs to be stopped. Whoever it is. It’s why we called you in, Holmes.”

“Four months too late,” Holmes snapped.

Straude shrugged. “It took some convincing, Sherlock. You know I’d have had you out sooner if I could have.”

Holmes didn’t look appeased, but before anyone else could speak, there was a knock at my door and Mrs. Hudson stuck her head in. “I’m so sorry to interrupt yet again, but you’re running late now, Doctor. Mr. Corey is here for your weekly order, and Alisa Brewer is waiting for her appointment as well. They’ve been chatting with me for a good ten minutes now, and Mr. Corey said he has to be off soon, and I know you don’t like to miss him. And Alisa has a class starting at the top of the hour.”

Straude and Saunders didn’t look happy. “You two go to our next obvious suspects,” Holmes said. “I’ll stay here with the good doctor.”

Straude heaved a sigh. “Fine, Sherlock. Meet up with us before you chase anything down, would you? Dr. Watson, don’t leave town.” With that, the two detectives left. The tension in the office went down to something normal.

“I’ll see David first, Mrs. Hudson. Tell Alisa it’ll just be a couple of minutes.”

She ushered in my preferred pharmaceutical sales representative. Corey was a pleasant, unassuming man about my height, slender, with thinning blond hair, even though he wasn’t quite out of his twenties. He shoved his glasses up as he came in, shot a shy look towards Holmes, then gave me a wry smile. “Guess I can’t say you have the best job in the world today, can I, John?”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Holmes said as she stepped into the examining room. She closed the door, but not all the way.

Corey shook his head. “I heard about the latest. Terrible thing, John. I suppose drinks tonight is out. How are you holding up?”

“As well as can be expected. It wasn’t my daughters who were raped and murdered, after all.”

Corey shuddered. “Still, it’s awful, and they were all your patients.”

“True enough. And yes, I think our regular meet-up is out for this week. ”

Corey dropped his voice. “John, I spoke to Howard on my way up. He said you had police in here, and those were police detectives I saw leaving. Are you... alright?”

“Hope so. Did the police question you?”

“No, and I don’t think they’ve questioned Howard, either. I don’t think we’re here enough for them to care about us.” He shot me a reassuring smile. “Well, for what it’s worth, I know you didn’t do it. Because there’s no way my favorite customer is a lunatic.” We both managed a chuckle, Corey gave me some new samples and I gave him my order. “John, I know your living arrangement isn’t... ideal. I’m looking for a roommate. If you’d be interested, I’d like to offer it to you.”

“Thank you, David, I appreciate that. Get me the information and I’ll see if I can make it work.”

Before Corey could leave, I heard raised voices from the hall, and my least favorite colleague burst into the room. My office was rarely this popular except during fraternity rush week, when all the girls came for help with ‘difficult menstruation issues,’ which was the nice girl code for wanting to get on birth control pills without upsetting their parents.

The head of the Physical Fitness Department, Frank LaBonte, slammed my door shut. “You little weasel, what have you done to my girls?” he roared at me. He was a big, muscular man, with a full head of thick hair and a walrus moustache. He seemed a century or so out of date, as if he belonged in the 1890’s or 1920’s, not now.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“The police were here, questioning you. They know it was you who took my girls. I won’t let you get Alisa, too!”

The one commonality the murdered girls had, in addition to being New London students, was that they were all on New London’s track team. But this was close to the same as being a student, since track was the only competitive sport the college had, meaning any girl who had an ounce of athleticism in her was drafted onto the team. But it was a good program, and the team routinely medaled. That said, I didn’t like how LaBonte claimed ownership of all the girls.

“Alisa’s here to see her school physician,” I said coldly. “And you’re interrupting a business meeting.”

“He undoubtedly wants the sick bastard doing this brought to justice. As in you, arrested.”

Corey edged towards the door. “That’s alright, John. I was just leaving. Sorry again about your loss. And, ah, Coach LaBonte, great job with the team. Hope one of them wins
Campus Queen
.”

Corey fled. I couldn’t blame him.

LaBonte glared at me. “You killed them.”

“Hardly. You have more access to the girls than I do. You have them run through the trails in the hills behind the school. You’re in a position of authority over them.”

His face turned an interested shade of purple. “You’re accusing
me
of hurting one of my girls? Of hurting
five
of them?”

“Oh, stop blustering.” Holmes stepped out of the examination room. “I see Detectives Straude and Saunders have finished questioning you.”

“For the fifth time,” LaBonte shouted. “And yet they’re no closer to finding the truth.” He stabbed a thick finger at me. “He’s the rapist, why isn’t he under arrest?”

“I’ve heard that this country still enjoys little things like evidence and proof.” Holmes got right up into LaBonte’s face. “I said to stop blustering. You can calm down and leave, or I can make you leave. Your choice.”

LaBonte glared at her. “Who the hell are you,” he shook his finger at her, “to try to tell me—”

Holmes interrupted him with a lightning-fast jab to his throat, which shut him up. Then she grabbed the finger he’d waved in her face and bent it backwards. LaBonte was gasping and grimacing in pain, as well as on his knees on the floor in a moment. “I am Sherlock Holmes. I’m here, consulting for the L.A.P.D. I’m also adept in several forms of martial arts and am an excellent shot. And before you ask, I have a gun with me, and I’m truly not afraid to use it. Now, when I let you go, you’ll have two choices. You can get up and leave, quietly, or I can beat the bloody crap out of you and you can leave on a stretcher. Choose wisely. If you’re capable.”