“Because I expected it. I was looking for it.”
“What?!” Jones exclaimed. “Looking for it?”
“Yes,” Holmes declared. “Lieutenant Michaels did not commit suicide. He was murdered.”
* * *
Back in Jones’ office at Schriever, Holmes sat with that worthy, as well as the base medical examiner from Peterson, explaining his rationale.
“I did not waste my time on the perimeter, gentlemen. I observed the layout and arrangement, and noted not merely the failure of the vehicle to slow down. Did you observe the tire tread marks appeared to have dug into the ground after the impact with the fence, Colonel? You did not? You do understand the significance, however?”
“The truck was still accelerating at the time it struck the fence, and continued to do so past it.” Jones nodded grimly.
“Correct. You noted, Colonel Jones, that I took the most experienced mechanic with me, when I examined Michaels’ vehicle,” Holmes reminded the police chief. “That was no mere whim. I am unfamiliar with…such lorries, but it was needful. I spent some time observing the undercarriage, and requesting of him what I was observing. As a result, we discovered something interesting.”
“And that would be?”
“The steering system had been tampered-with. Specifically, the kingpins had been manipulated in such a fashion as to permit little to no ability to turn the vehicle. Colonel, I do recommend you debrief Sergeant Hynes, and ensure he does not discuss the matter.”
“So Michaels couldn’t have turned to follow the road if he’d wanted to, is that what you’re saying?” Jones said, absently making note of Holmes’ recommendation.
“Indeed. But in point of fact he was unable to, in any case,” Holmes informed them. “Dr. Jacobsen, am I right in assuming the contusion upon Michaels’ head was sufficient to have, at the least, stunned him?”
“You are,” the medical examiner replied. “But when the snipers unloaded into the lieutenant, his body jerked around considerably in reflex, flailing about the interior of the truck cab. Such things are very common in multiple gunshot fatalities. This could account for the unusual location fairly easily, I would think.”
“But the time, Doctor, the time,” Holmes pointed out.
“There’s always a little leeway, plus or minus, in the determination of the time of an incident,” Jacobsen protested. “It likely means nothing.”
“Doctor, you surprise me. We have already demonstrated the vehicle had been meddled-with. By way of further proof, let me tell you: Lieutenant Davis’ drug overdose was administered via intravenous injection, was it not? At roughly the same time as the injection, he ‘fell,’ striking his head on the right side hard enough to render him unconscious. And he was found, first thing in the morning, with the heat in his quarters set quite high, hence the initial diagnosis of heatstroke.”
“You’ve seen the forensics report,” Jacobsen accused.
“No,” a stunned Jones answered for Holmes. “General Morris told me to give him a copy of the full report, but I’d saved it until last…” He picked up the report in question from his desk beside his elbow, waving it at Jacobsen. “It’s been right here the whole time.”
Jones and Jacobsen stared at each other, then at Holmes, for long moments.
“So you’re saying…” Jones began.
“I am saying Lieutenant Michaels was stunned—possibly rendered entirely unconscious—then placed in his vehicle some little way up the road. His vehicle was modified to prevent his changing direction should he awaken, then it was set in gear, aimed for the perimeter fence.”
“But I understood it was accelerating,” Jacobsen commented, confused. “If there wasn’t any modification to the gas pedal, how…?”
“Probably they wedged Michaels’ foot into position,” Jones shrugged.
“Correct,” Holmes nodded. “His own weight, and the natural rigidity of limbs, would have provided sufficient pressure. I would highly recommend sending an investigatory team along the road, to see if the starting point may be discovered.”
“I’ll get on that first thing this morning. What about Davis? I assume he was deliberately injected, knocked out either before or after—probably before? Then the heat cranked up,” Jones hypothesized, watching Holmes’s reaction to see if he was on track.
“Very good, Colonel,” Holmes smiled, pleased. “You have the advantage so many detectives of my experience did not: imagination. Once the pertinent data is brought to your attention, you are able to postulate how it might have come to pass.”
“So we have a double murder on our hands,” Jones declared grimly.
“Yes,” Holmes said. “If I were you, I would look into what the two men may have been doing in common, of questionable veracity. I would also keep a sharp watch for a man of below average height, say around five-feet-eight or -nine inches; right-handed, with the finesse required to strike such blows as we deduce without killing outright. He may also be a skilled mechanic himself, or he may have an accomplice who is one.” He rose. “Now I must return to my quarters. I anticipate the arrival of my liaison shortly, and it might distress her to find me absent, so early in the day.”
“Right,” Jones nodded, standing and dismissing Dr. Jacobsen, who headed back to the forensics lab at Peterson. “I’ll take you back now. Would you like me to keep you apprised of developments in the investigation?”
“Yes, please,” Holmes agreed immediately. “If I am not in my quarters, chances are either General Morris or Dr. Chadwick will know where I am. In all probability, for at least the next few weeks, I will be with Dr. Chadwick during the day.”
“Good,” Jones said.
* * *
When the knock came on Holmes’ door later that morning, he saw, not the delightful young woman he expected on the other side, but a pair of trousered legs and many, many voluminous shopping bags with handles above them. Skye was laden with shopping bags of every conceivable size and color, and he stepped aside in surprise to allow her to waddle through the door.
“Here,” she panted, depositing the bags en masse on the floor of his sitting area as he closed the door. “I didn’t wanna make multiple trips, but dang, I thought I was gonna drop something. Gate security about had a cow.”
“What is all this?” Holmes wondered skeptically.
“Clothes and junk,” Skye waved her hands vaguely at the pile. “A little of everything, actually. Oh, and I did find the straight razor, and I sort of found the cologne.”
“Sort of?”
“Yeah,” Skye pulled a face. “The company discontinued the fragrance a few years ago. But it’s still popular with some of the locals, so I found a supply store that mixes their own version of it.”
“Ah. Excellent.”
* * *
While Holmes rummaged through the bags, Skye slung her laptop case down from its shoulder strap and sat it on the coffee table, opening it.
“Holmes, come here a minute,” she said, extracting a folder and skimming through it. “I want you to look at something.” A tall body abruptly appeared at her elbow, and she jumped, startled.
“What?” Holmes asked.
“Take a look at these, and see if they’re accurate,” Skye said, handing him the folder. “These are copies of the stories you and I discussed showing Morris, yesterday.”
* * *
“Ah,” Holmes said, flipping open the folder and skimming down the first page. Absently he moved to the nearby armchair and started to sit; then became aware of his breach of etiquette. “Oh, forgive me, Skye,” he murmured, glancing at her in apology. “Please take a seat, if you would.”
“No problem, Holmes. You don’t have to be formal with me. I would’ve plopped down anyway. Treat me…” she thought for an instant, “treat me like you might treat Watson.” Skye grinned.
“Very good.” He returned the grin. They seated themselves, and Holmes resumed a rapid scan of the stories. Skye sat quietly, watching him. When he had finishe
d, he shook his head in bemusement, then glanced up at her, allowing wonderment to show in his grey eyes.
“They are, indeed, accurate,” he vouched, astonished. “I hardly understand how, but they are correct in essentially every detail. This is precisely what happened. A bit embellished, of course, but then, that is Watson’s style. And his agent and go-between, Doyle, only encourages him in it. And you say these were works of ‘fiction’ by the Arthur Conan Doyle of this continuum?”
“Exactly,” Skye nodded assent. “SIR Arthur Conan Doyle, I might add; knighted by King Edward VII in 1902. Are you ready to go?”
“I suppose so,” Holmes agreed, handing the folder back to her.
“Good. I’ve got a meeting with General Morris in ten minutes about you.”
“In regards to what, precisely?”
“Letting the bird out of its cage,” she declared cryptically.
* * *
It took some doing, because General Morris was decidedly uncomfortable about the thought of letting Holmes off the base. But Skye was not Chief Scientist for any lack of logical reasoning ability. She pointed out that if Morris didn’t let the man get out and have a taste of civilian life, not only would the great intellect eventually rebel in boredom, but he would be crippled in his detection abilities.
“He can’t stay here forever, and your best bet at disguising him is in plain sight. So he has to get a taste of all of it,” she explained. “Has to be able to see firsthand what our so-called ‘modern’ society is like, in its every aspect, from top to bottom, in order to know what forces drive the individual to commit crime, and in what direction he or she would be likely to turn. There’s nothing abnormal about him just because he’s from another universe; Peter verified that. He’s already got the GPS tracker like you wanted, so you can’t lose him. Besides,” she added as a trump card, “you know I’m trained and cleared for this type of duty, and I’ll be with him, the whole time. Well, I take that back—I’m not following him into the men’s room,” Skye grinned.
At her joke, Holmes, sitting in the chair nearby while his advocate pled his case, became the Great Stone Face.
“But I hardly think we have anything to worry about,” Skye added, surreptitiously winking at Holmes to put him at ease. “Look at these and you’ll see what I mean.” Skye handed Morris the folder Holmes had seen earlier.
“What are these?” the general queried, puzzled.
“These are some of Holmes’ cases, in the form of the stories Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote. I’ve already run through them with Holmes, and he vouches the stories are reasonably accurate and are essentially those that his Watson actually wrote.”
“That true?” Morris glanced sharply at Holmes.
* * *
Holmes nodded.
“Indeed. The accounts are sensationalized for the popular press, of course, rather than that pure abstract and learnéd account which I would have preferred. But they are accurate insofar as they go, which is rather far.” He paused and shook his head in bemusement. “The puzzling thing to me is how they came to be written, almost verbatim, by a man in a different spacetime continuum, a continuum in the which I do not—did not,” he corrected himself, “even exist.”
“That’s a good one,” Skye admitted. “And I don’t have an answer for it yet. I’m considering consulting with my old post-doctoral advisor about it, if I can figure out how to do it in the clear.” She pointed at the stack of papers in Morris’ hands. “But those stories should give you some idea of how well Holmes can be trusted. His brother Mycroft worked in British Intelligence, and—I can tell you from the tesseract records—is one of the men responsible for the formation of the organization that went on to become Her Majesty’s Secret Service—both MI-5 and -6—in his world. Holmes worked several important assignments from his brother. There are also several cases he worked involving European heads of state.”
“There were several cases Mycroft directed my way,” Holmes interjected, “of which Watson knew nothing, as well. And a few more of which he did, but that shall never be set to paper.”
“I suspected as much. So we wouldn’t have any paper records of those cases at all.” Skye nodded emphatically.
“My point exactly.”
“Hm. This looks interesting. I should’ve done more reading as a boy.” Morris flipped through several pages, perusing them.
“They’re hardly children’s stories, General. I find them fascinating to this day. Take those, and read ‘em. I’ve got the complete collection if you want to know his history better.”
Holmes managed to keep his eyebrows in place at the remark. Devotee, indeed.
“Okay, I will.” Morris nodded, still reading the page.
“Meantime…can I take him out this Saturday?”
* * *
Morris raised his head from the photocopied stories.
“You want to go horseback riding, right?”
“Yeah. I thought he’d enjoy it if I trailered a couple of my horses down and we spent the day riding through the Garden of the Gods. I can even swing by the front gate and pick him up, then bring him back later. Maybe after some dinner,” she added casually, knowing she was pushing it. Morris looked at her askance, then sighed.
“Oh, all right,” he huffed. “Go on your damn trail ride, and have something good to eat after. But get him back before he turns into a pumpkin.”
“Done,” Skye said, delighted.
“He’s already got a CAC, right?” Morris queried.
“The…what was it…Common Access Card?” Holmes recalled. “Yes, Dr. Hughes arranged for that at the same time as this,” Holmes fingered the visitor badge clipped to his lapel, then flipped it up to reveal the CAC. “She said I would need it to move around, on, and off, the base. Colonel Jones brought it today.”
“Good,” Skye nodded.
“On your word, I’ll authorize a T-badge for him: No escort required. Go get it when you’re done here. You better damn well be right, Doctor, because it’s your ass on the line. And I will nail it to the wall if you’re wrong.” Morris fixed Skye with a stern glance.
“I’m not worried,” Skye grinned. “Sherlock Holmes won’t let me down.”
Holmes merely nodded austerely. But when he glanced at Skye, she saw the gratified silver glimmer in his grey eyes.
* * *
The rest of that day was spent familiarizing Holmes with the layout of the base and its security measures, followed by reviewing and analyzing the records from the tesseract jaunt. Hughes got Holmes read into the security access listings for Project: Tesseract as an interim team member, then she and Skye showed him how to access the Chamber, as well as move through the various parts of the base.
“Quite complex,” he noted of the security measures.
“Yeah,” Caitlin agreed. “Given the potential for abuse—you explained about manipulating the continua, Skye?” Skye nodded, and Caitlin continued, “Given the potential for abuse, we’ve got the tesseract in the most secure facility in the country, arguably in the world. It’s one thing to study it, another altogether to damage spacetime.”
“Agreed,” Holmes said, considering, then added, “I believe I have this well in hand now.”
“I think so,” Caitlin grinned, as Holmes readily swiped his badge, entered his PIN for the airlock into the Chamber, then passed through. “C’mon back out and we’ll get on with the other stuff.”
“Very well,” Holmes remarked, returning through the airlock. “What ‘other stuff’ is there?”
“Skye?” Caitlin queried.
“Well, I’ve called the team in to do a ‘look-see’ run,” Skye said. “Like I told ‘em yesterday, I want to make sure we didn’t…want to make sure I didn’t…mess things up.” She turned away, casually averting her face.
Caitlin and Holmes exchanged glances, both understanding what Skye could not quite bring herself to admit aloud—she was dreadfully worried she had herself caused irrevocable damage to Holmes’ original cont
inuum. Holmes studied Skye’s back for a moment, then made a subdued, but sincere, offer.
“Skye…if it should be necessary, I will voluntarily return to Meiringen and allow Moriarty to kill me, in order to prevent damage to…spacetime.”
Skye spun, and Holmes suddenly found both women staring at him in shocked horror.
“No, no, no,” Skye declared emphatically. “That isn’t what I’m worried about. You disappeared from that continuum, so everything will be fine as far as that’s concerned. I’m worried I might have left something behind, something that wasn’t supposed to be there, and changed the timeline.”
“Fine, let’s go look,” Caitlin said pragmatically. “The sooner we check, the sooner you’ll settle down about it. I assume,” she added, as the trio worked back through the security airlocks, conversing via video monitors, “you wanted to wait until today to give any discrepancies time to materialize.”
“Yeah,” Skye agreed. “I mean, we’re dealing with spacetime itself, so who can say? But I did think it might want…‘time’ to propagate through the strings, or the branes, I’m not quite sure yet which.”
* * *
They entered the main room and were promptly greeted by the team. “Hi, Dr. Hughes, Dr. Chadwick! Hi, Mr. Holmes! Good to see you again!” In the corner, DSS Investigator Welker sat silent and alert, notebook and pen in hand, ready to observe firsthand the project’s operations. Caitlin and Skye issued cheerful greetings to all and sundry, and Holmes nodded affably, somewhat surprised by the friendly welcome.
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” Caitlin announced gravely, walking to the director’s console, “we all know what we’re here for.”
“Yeah, we’re here to make sure Dr. Worrywart knows she didn’t screw up!” one of the hardware technicians, Chad Swann by name, called affectionately, and Skye blushed as the room laughed.
* * *
“Holmes, sit here with us,” Skye offered, trying to ignore the fond jibe and subsequent snickers as she picked up her clipboard. “You can watch and help us check to see if anything’s different from yesterday.”
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 7