alt.sherlock.holmes

by Gini Koch

  Sherlock headed for the catwalks and started to climb up. I followed suit, hoping that the gloves we were wearing to keep from contaminating the crime scene wouldn’t cause us to actually slip and fall to our deaths.

  It was a little dicey in a couple of places, but we made it up without too much trouble. Sherlock pulled the magnifying glass out of the duffel and began to examine everything. It was fairly dark up here, so I got one of our flashlights out to give her light. We worked our way across the entire thing fairly quickly.

  Then Sherlock went back to the general area Dawn would have had to have been in order to have landed in the ropes as she had.

  “Her neck was broken elsewhere and she was brought up here, then dumped into the rigging. Possibly tied and swung in.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “There’s no sign of a struggle, no flecks of nail polish, no cloth fibers caught on the metal, no blood. Falling people tend to scream, Watson, and the only scream was from The Woman.” She cocked her head. “Please call for Mitch to come up here, would you? And make sure he’s got on evidence gloves.”

  “Why me?”

  “You’re being the nice one now.”

  “I’d ask why either one of us is playing good cop or bad cop when we have Lee and my best friend down there, but I’ve learned not to question.” I leaned over a bit. “Mitch, I’m sorry, but could you come back up? Wearing evidence gloves, too, please and thank you.” He stared at me as Straude handed him a pair, but he started for the ladder while pulling the gloves on, so I presumed this meant yes. “Is he a suspect?”

  “Everyone’s a suspect, Watson. Other than you and me, and I’m sure we can exclude Lee and William, too.”

  “Saunders will accuse me, you know.”

  “Oh, you’re so sensitive.” She looked at me. “It’s a good quality most of the time.”

  “Thanks. Dennis isn’t a suspect, is he?”

  “He was out of our sight during the window of opportunity, so yes, he is. The other actors are, as well. Dawn was a small girl—any one of these people could have attacked her and broken her neck.”

  “Neck breaking isn’t as easy as the movies would have you believe, Sherlock.”

  “True enough. The medical examiner will have to tell us if her neck was broken after she was dead.”

  “You think it broke from the drop, not from whatever the attack was?”

  “It’s very possible. The ME will make that determination. Our job is to find the murderer.”

  Mitch reached us now. “Look, I’m not going to give you a statement—”

  “Oh, stuff it, man,” Sherlock snapped. “We’re not reporters, we’re detectives. Hired by both Andenson and the L.A.P.D. So you will, in fact, give us any and all statements we want. However, what I need to know right now is if that black bag hanging there is supposed to be there.”

  She pointed and I could see the one she meant. It wasn’t filled, like most of the bags I could see hanging around; it also looked larger than any of them.

  “No, and I didn’t see it before, either. But then, it’s kind of in a dark spot, isn’t it?”

  “It is. I need you to retrieve it, please. Use that gaff pole.”

  “That’ll mean I have to touch and move things,” Mitch said, a little snidely.

  “Yes, you will. Hence why you’re wearing those gloves. Just think—I could have asked you to climb into the rigging in those gloves, to retrieve the evidence by hand.”

  Mitch sighed. “Noted. Don’t be sarcastic to the lady detective.”

  “Or she’ll kick your ass, yes.”

  Mitch stared at Sherlock for a moment, then he chuckled. “Got it. Ma’am.”

  It took some maneuvering, but Mitch was able to use the tool she’d pointed out—a long stick with a hook at the end—to snag the bag. He managed not to drop it and brought it back to Sherlock.

  “Impressive, thank you.” She motioned for me to shine the light on the bag, which I did. She once again used the magnifying glass to look it over. “Aha.” She pointed to something inside the bag.

  Mitch and I both looked where she was pointing. “Ah... hairs?” he asked finally.

  “Yes, and also makeup smears. The lab will have to make the definitive tests, but it certainly looks like the makeup Dawn was wearing.”

  “So, someone attacked her, tossed her into this bag, climbed up here, dumped her out of the bag, and then got back down?” I asked. “All without being noticed?”

  “No. Someone killed her, tossed her into this bag, climbed up here with her over his or her shoulder, tied a rope tightly around her neck, tossed her over hard enough that her neck broke, tossed the bag into a spot where it would be hard to see, and then climbed back down. Presumably without being noticed.”

  “Oh, well, when you put it that way, piece of cake,” Mitch said. “Who would want to hurt Dawn, let alone kill her?” He looked down. “You know, other than the rest of the cast, I mean.”

  “I’m not certain this is about Dawn, and I’m not certain that it isn’t. But I need a listing of anyone who would have been up here today, anyone who could have been up here legitimately today, and a full listing of the cast and crew who were on the set today.”

  Mitch sighed. “You’ll get that from me. I’m the key grip. I have the full crew roster, and I can get you the cast, too. Do we have to keep these gloves on?”

  “Yes, we do. In case there are fingerprints up here. Other than the entire crew’s, that is.”

  “Yeah, though if we find any of the actors’ fingerprints that would be unusual.”

  “We should be so lucky, Mitch,” Sherlock said, as we started down the ladder.

  It was harder going down, in part because of the gloves, but mostly because it was dark and the ladders, while sturdy enough, weren’t something I’d want to spend my career on. Mitch seemed to have no issues, nor did Sherlock.

  The duffel bag and I went down last. The bag caught on something and I lost my footing. As I slid around and managed to keep myself on the ladder and the duffel still in my possession, I caught a different view, and a flash of light.

  “Sherlock, there’s something to my left.”

  “Do you need assistance?”

  “No, I’ve got it. I can direct you to what I’m seeing, though.”

  She nodded and I did so. It took several minutes, during which I remained hanging somewhat so I wouldn’t lose sight of whatever I was seeing.

  Once Sherlock found it, though, it made things worse, not better.

  IT TURNED OUT that what I’d spotted was a door leading outside. The flash of light I’d seen was from the bottom, where the sun shone through just right.

  Once I was down and had joined Sherlock, Straude, Antonelli, and Jackson, I got to witness her cursing quietly as she searched the area for clues. The men looked no happier.

  “This only makes things more complex, but well spotted, Watson.” Sherlock crouched down to examine the bottom of the doorway.

  “Consider me happy to have almost fallen, then. Was the door locked?”

  “No, it was not,” Straude said unhappily. “The murderer could have easily come and gone through this door.”

  Jackson nodded morosely. “We don’t think about that door. It’s supposed to be for trash pickup, but there’s another door for that which is nearer to the craft services area, and we all use that.”

  “And it’s behind the stage so we’ve just told everyone to keep it closed and forget it’s there,” Antonelli added.

  “There’s yet another door in and out no one’s bothered to mention?” Sherlock asked, as she looked up. “It’s as if you all want the murderer to succeed.” Everyone seemed ready to lose their cool, even and perhaps especially Sherlock.

  “Just like during Campus Queen,” I pointed out. “Keeps things exciting for you.”

  This got me glares from the three men, but Sherlock burst out laughing. “Good point, Watson. A very good point.” She stood up. “There’s nothing he
re, unfortunately, but Lee, you should have your men check the trash bins just in case.”

  She looked around as Straude spoke quietly into a walkie-talkie.

  “See anything of interest?” I asked. I saw nothing. The doorway let out into an alleyway loaded with large trash cans: eleven on our side, twelve on the other. There were doors to other soundstages scattered about. One of the doors farther down had a couple of folding chairs next to it.

  She cocked her head. “Possibly. Lee, keep everyone in. Watson, with me, please.”

  She strode off towards the door next to the chairs and I followed. “What are you thinking?”

  “Chairs means someone comes out here and sits, frequently enough to leave something to sit on.”

  We reached the chairs. There was nothing exciting about them. “Whoever’s out here, they’re slobs.” The ground was littered with cigarette butts.

  “God bless nicotine addiction,” Sherlock said happily, as she knocked quietly on the door.

  It was opened rather quickly by a middle-aged black man. “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so,” Sherlock replied. “I’d dearly love to speak to anyone who was out here for a smoke break, or just hanging out with the smokers, over the past couple of hours.”

  He rolled his eyes. “We aren’t hurting anything inside the stage. And we sweep the butts up every night. I’m about ready to complain about discrimination; this is the only place we can smoke in this whole corner of the lot.”

  “I couldn’t care less if the entire cast and crew smokes four packs a day each. We’re not here to berate anyone about their lifestyle and addiction choices, nor their cleanliness habits. We’ve had a situation on another stage and I’m hoping one or more of you might have noticed anything.”

  The man looked more interested. “Really? What happened?”

  “Someone made off with some prop jewelry that, sadly, wasn’t fake. Of course the crew are getting blamed for carelessness, and we’re just hoping to get any idea of who might have done it.”

  Again I was glad I was becoming prepared for Sherlock to literally say anything at any time to anyone. Though things had been going missing, so it wasn’t a complete lie. “We’re trying to figure if it was an inside job or not,” I added.

  Sherlock nodded and neither kicked me nor gave me the shut up look. I managed not to congratulate myself. Too much.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “Hate it when that happens. It’s usually some stupid kid’s boyfriend trying to support a drug habit, but if they’re hitting your stage they might try ours, too. Sure, let me round up everyone. Give me a couple of minutes.”

  He disappeared outside and we waited. “You really think someone might have seen something?”

  “The chance is good, Watson, so yes. We have nothing else to go on, since I can guarantee that the majority of the cast and crew are going to alibi each other out. And in case you’re wondering, theft is far less exciting than murder. Everyone wants to have seen something regarding a murderer. Someone doing a snatch and grab? Much less thrilling, so we’re more likely to get truth. Or a version of it.”

  Another minute or so and the door opened again and several people exited. All ages, both sexes, some in heavy makeup, some clearly crew.

  Sherlock spun her story again and appealed to them to try to remember anything they might have spotted. While every one of them took the opportunity to light up, most didn’t remember anything.

  One of the older actresses and two younger men who were grips had been on a smoke break together roughly about the time we thought Dawn had been killed. Sherlock sent all the others back inside so we could question these three alone.

  The woman took a long drag on her cigarette, clearly thinking. “You know... I think I saw someone come out of there. A man? Around Harry’s age.” She indicated one of the grips.

  Harry scrunched up his face. “I don’t really remember. Sorry.”

  The other man looked thoughtful. “No, wait, we mentioned it, remember? Because he came out and started towards us, then stopped, turned around, and went the other way. Beverly, you said he must have been really anti-smoking.”

  “Oh, right,” Harry said. “I remember now.”

  “Can you describe him?” Sherlock asked.

  “About Harry’s age is all I have,” Beverly said. The men nodded. This would have put him in his late twenties to late thirties. This wasn’t a help.

  “White or black?” Sherlock asked.

  “White,” Beverly said with conviction. The men nodded.

  “Light brown hair,” Harry said. “I think.”

  “Looked blond to me,” Beverly said.

  “I honestly don’t remember,” the other man said. “He turned to the right, I do remember that, though.”

  “Well, it’s something,” Sherlock said with a sigh.

  “Did he remind you of any character you might have played or played against?” I asked. Sherlock shot me an approving glance.

  “You know... yeah,” Beverly said slowly. “He looked like a student.”

  “A student?” Sherlock asked. “Why? Something he was wearing or carrying?”

  “A backpack,” she said. “Bill, you saw it, too, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah. I remember thinking it seemed kind of weird.”

  “How so?” Sherlock asked him patiently.

  “It was a Spider-Man backpack. Seemed too young for him.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Harry said. “I just figured he’d worked on one of the movies and it was a gift.”

  “No,” Bill said. “I have a friend who worked on all of the movies, originals and reboots. I’ve seen all the cast and crew swag and that wasn’t something from any of the productions. It looked more like what a kid would pick up at the drugstore for school.”

  “Probably stole it,” Beverly said. “Just like he stole from them.” She nodded her head at us. “Say, what production are you with again?”

  “Glitterazzi,” Sherlock replied. “Andenson Productions.”

  “Oh, them.” Beverly didn’t sound impressed. “Sorry you’re stuck working for that outfit.”

  “We just started,” I said. “What should we know about?”

  “Don’t expect to get paid,” Harry said. “I have a couple buddies who took jobs there. It’s a mess. Half the crew’s ready to quit, but they’re sticking it out because their contracts all allow for the production to be late on payments twice within a calendar year without causing any breach.”

  “That seems to be an odd clause,” Sherlock said.

  Bill nodded. “It is, but it’s typical for them, honestly. Stolen props would be the least of it. Talk on the lot is that they’re in over their heads, financially and creatively.” He lowered his voice. “We heard the director ran off with all the money.”

  “They cast reality ‘stars,’” Beverly said, making air quotes. “There’s not a professional actor on that set. Of course they’re a mess. And if their director ran off it just shows he’s the only one with a clue.”

  “They told us several of the cast were professional actors,” Sherlock said, sounding worried.

  “Oh, honey, they lied,” Beverly said sympathetically. “They have some new kid who’s supposed to be good, but other than her and their stable of overacting losers, they have a handful of D-list character actors, and that’s it.”

  “You forgot the diva,” Bill said.

  “Oh, yes,” Beverly said dramatically. “The act-tress. Or, as we call her on our set, the casting couch queen.”

  “She’s unattractive?” Sherlock asked.

  “No, she’s pretty enough,” Beverly admitted. “But she’s too full of herself. Thinks she should be the star of everything. And from what I’ve heard, she’s willing to do anything she has to, too. Sleep with anyone, blackmail anyone, beg, borrow, or steal from anyone.”

  Harry nodded. “Anyone turns up dead, she’s who I’d look at first.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  Bill shrugged.
“She guest starred on our show. She was a nightmare from start to finish. We almost lost a makeup team, hair dresser, a director, and two supporting actors because of her. She’s poison to a set.”

  “Who should we be avoiding?” Sherlock asked.

  Beverly shrugged. “My money’s on you already knowing, even if you’ve only been there five minutes. Irene Adler.”

  SHERLOCK GAVE THE three of them her card in case they remembered anything else. Not the one that said Private Consulting Detective; the one that just had her name and number on it.

  Then we headed down the alleyway in the direction the man with the Spider-Man backpack had gone.

  “You can say it,” I said to Sherlock as we passed the Andenson door.

  “Who me? Say what?”

  “That you’re right about Irene.”

  “Watson, rumors are just that—rumors. And while I feel that their assessment of The Woman’s character is likely spot on, the person who was seen leaving was a man. A man who went out of his way to not be seen by the only people around to see him. Which is far more suspicious than The Woman’s well-deserved if possibly overstated reputation.”

  “In other words, you want me to keep my date and see what I can get out of her.”

  “Watson, sometimes we’re so in sync it just warms my heart.”

  We reached the end of the alley and looked both ways. We were at a T-intersection with another alleyway. There was a lone trash can far off to the left, but since Bill had said our quarry had gone right, we did as well. “Do you think we’re going to get paid?” I asked as we walked slowly along and Sherlock looked for anything that might be a clue.

  If we’d been on dirt she’d have found a plethora of data, of that I was sure. She’d done entire studies on shoe, tire, foot, and paw prints. Unfortunately, the lot was all concrete and wasn’t giving her much to work with.

  “Getting paid is my least consideration, Watson. However, your question is a good one in general. I think that having the set’s financial situation confirmed by reasonably uninterested bystanders says that there’s far more going on than we’ve been told by our clients.”

  “Do you think it’s as simple as Cliff ran off with the money?”