“Well? Anything?” the colonel wondered.
“Oh yes. It was Mechanic Thompson. There can be no doubt.” Holmes was confident.
“And your rationale is…?”
“Firstly, he is the only mechanic matching the body measurements we obtained, both by my own observation and by the testimony of his fellow mechanics. Second, there is a distinct trace of that peculiar sand-clay admixture adhering stubbornly to the lip of his boot soles, and he has not cleaned it away. I am surprised his superior officer has allowed it. Do the men see to the laundering of their own garments, or is there a central laundering facility?”
“Well, there’s both, but I think he lives in the bachelor housing over at Peterson, which means he probably uses the base services. We can bring him in for questioning while we search his quarters…” The colonel reached for his telephone.
“No, no,” Holmes shook his head vigorously. “Under no circumstances must he be allowed to discover we suspect him, else all the other fish will escape our net. No, we must do this without his awareness. It has been nearly two weeks since the murder; unless he is a more slovenly man than he appears—despite the evidence of his boots—he will have long since laundered the coverall in question. Contact the laundry services, and see if there is a notation of such muddy coveralls. Surely it would be remembered, unless many of your men make it a habit of rolling in the mud.”
Several phone calls later, Jones had verified Holmes’ suspicions.
“Looks like we’ve got our mole,” the colonel decided.
“One of them, at least,” Holmes agreed.
“One? So you think there’s more than one?”
“Almost certainly. I cannot say positively, of course. But I should be very surprised if there is not. How else might the purported espionage ring have uncovered our double agents? How do they know there are programs on the base worth spying upon? Certainly not from an automotive mechanic.”
“How would you proceed?” Jones looked at him in anxiety.
“How long until Thompson goes off duty?” Holmes pondered momentarily while Jones pulled up the shop duty roster on his computer.
“Mmm, looks like he came on duty right before we got there. He’s in the shop for another eight hours.”
“Good. Let us betake ourselves back to the other base, and see if we may not have a brief look inside his quarters.”
“Umm, I can’t do that yet, Holmes, and I didn’t hear you say it, either,” Jones said uncomfortably. “No search warrant, and insufficient evidence to go to the base commander for one, or invoke NSA immunity.”
“Hm. You would advise me to drop that plan?”
“You’re a civilian. I didn’t hear you say anything,” Jones said pointedly. “Got that?” He looked solemnly at Holmes.
“Perfectly,” Holmes nodded. In that case, I believe Skye and I may make a slight detour on the way home tonight.
“And if you decide to use your liaison for any…assistance,” Jones added, “be careful, and remember she’s already been reprimanded once recently. Don’t get her in trouble.”
“Hm,” Holmes said again, very thoughtfully.
* * *
Holmes left the police chief’s office with the location of Thompson’s quarters in hand, and went back to Skye’s office to think. He found it frustrating that the office complex was a no-smoking area; it would have been a considerable aid to be able to puff on his pipe. But he restrained himself.
After awhile, Holmes rose and moved to the telephone, calling the director’s console in the Chamber.
“Chadwick here.”
“Hello, Skye,” Holmes found himself smiling. The pitch of her voice is so pleasant, wandered through the back of his mind. It is nice to have a reliable companion, even if that companion is not Watson.
“Well, hi there! I didn’t expect a call from you. Is everything going okay? Do you need me for something?”
“Everything is fine, my dear,” Holmes offered, impressed by her instant volunteer of help. “But I was wondering if you might manage to get away a trifle early tonight. The sun is setting behind the mountains and it will be dark soon.”
“Um…I-I dunno,” she stammered, startled. Whatever she had thought he might need, that wasn’t it, he adjudged. “I-maybe, I’ll have to look and see where the next good break is in our test procedure. Why?”
“I require a…” Holmes broke off what he had been about to say, reconsidering in the light of Colonel Jones’ warning. “You would confer a great favour upon me by doing so, my dear Skye,” he said instead. “I request you ask no questions, but that you do as I instruct. Are you willing to do this?”
“Is it important?”
“It is of the gravest import.”
There was a pause. Holmes could barely hear Skye whispering something, and Caitlin’s faint voice responding, before Skye came back on the line.
“Okay, I’ll be there in half an hour. Will that be soon enough?”
“Capital!” Holmes exclaimed with a glad smile. “I shall await you.”
He hung up the phone, made fresh coffee, and waited for Skye.
* * *
Skye was prompt, and Holmes had a cup of coffee waiting for her when she arrived. A quick check of emails and phone messages, then Holmes filled two travel mugs with the last of the coffeepot while Skye packed her laptop, and they were off.
After they were well away from Schriever, Holmes turned to her. “We are stopping by Peterson Air Force Base.”
“We are?” Skye stared at him.
“We are.”
“Tell me where on the base, so I’ll know what gate to take.” Skye nodded thoughtfully. Holmes held out a scrap of paper, containing an address. Skye took her eyes off the road long enough to register the address. “Oo-kaaay. Base housing?”
“No further questions, my dear.”
“Why not?” Skye wondered, anxious; her eyes widened. “What are you protecting me from, Holmes?”
Holmes raised both eyebrows, evidently impressed at her conclusion, but said only, “Please take me there, then wait in the automobile while I see to a few matters, if you don’t mind.”
In point of fact, she did mind, but knew better than to press the issue. A worried Skye did as the detective requested, driving him to the bachelor housing on the Peterson base, then waiting in the car while he went inside.
* * *
The building in which Thompson lived was an older structure, cinder block and concrete, with metal frame windows and doors. Some of the apartments had sliding glass doors opening onto tiny enclosed patios or balconies. Holmes made his casual way inside the building, as if looking for an acquaintance’s residence; coming across Thompson’s ground-floor quarters, he knocked and waited, already knowing no one was within the single-person dwelling. Then he shrugged and went back outside.
Strolling around the side of the building, he located the apartment from the outside, and ascertained it had a sliding door. Holmes approached the apartment’s exterior, pulling an envelope and pen from an inside pocket as if desiring to leave a message in the door. He eased inside the gate of the patio’s privacy fence and moved to the sliding glass door, studying it.
Thompson had the door braced with a section of broom handle in the track, but it was not firmly wedged, and was in fact several inches too short; evidently the mechanic liked having the door cracked open when he was home, to get fresh air. Holmes thoroughly inspected the top, bottom, and edges of the sliding portion of the door before his grey eyes lit up.
He extracted a pair of latex gloves, requested and obtained from Colonel Jones earlier. He thrust his hands into them, crouching before the door. Working his fingertips under the weather-stripping on the bottom of the door, Holmes exerted the wiry, unusual strength which had so impressed his old friend Watson. The door rose an inch or so, right off the latch and out of its track. Delicately, Holmes tipped the door to one side, then rocked it back and forth, walking it slowly out of its frame.
When it w
as free, Holmes eased it to one side and leaned it against the wall, bracing it in position with a handy flowerpot. He studied its positioning, ensuring at first glance it appeared merely to be partly open, so as not to draw attention from any passersby. Then he slipped inside the darkened apartment.
Inside, he found little had changed in the more than a century since his day: Bachelor flats were still much the same. Technology be damned, this was something he could do in his sleep. And so he began a swift, methodical search.
Fifteen minutes later, he found what he was looking for. The handwritten document in the desk drawer was an interesting study. Holmes scanned it, memorizing it in detail before returning it to its place in the desk.
He continued his search, but found nothing more telling. Just then, voices passed by outside the patio fence, and Holmes decided it was time to exercise discretion. He retreated, moving back to the patio. It was more difficult to replace the sliding door than it had been to remove it, but Holmes could be very patient and meticulous, and soon enough the door was in place, on its latch.
He peeled off the latex gloves, returning them to his trousers pocket, and sauntered back to the waiting black Infiniti and its anxious driver.
* * *
On the way up the mountain, Holmes pulled his notepad from his pocket and scribbled down a transcription of the document he’d found inside Thompson’s desk. Skye shot him several curious, worried looks, but he was absorbed in transferring the contents of his memory to paper, and she didn’t interrupt. When he was finished, he put away pen and paper and turned to his companion.
* * *
“So, my dear, how did your day go?”
“Long, boring, and uneventful,” Skye noted in evident dissatisfaction. “Everything about the apparatus is functioning perfectly normally.”
“But this is what you expected, is it not?” Holmes verified, mildly puzzled.
“Yup. All systems go.”
“Ah. So you are merely tired.”
“Yeah. How’s the investigation going?”
“Quite well,” Holmes decided, but did not elaborate. He was mindful of Jones’ injunction to avoid getting Skye into further trouble, and had determined the best way to accomplish that was to ensure she could deny all knowledge of his little escapade. “I have the end of a thread in my hands already. Now I must trail the thread to its end, and see what I find.”
* * *
The next morning, detective and scientist shared breakfast in their pleasant cabin on the mountain, then drove down the pass to Schriever, where they also shared coffee before going their separate ways for the day. Skye buried herself in the Chamber, and Holmes called Colonel Jones’ office to schedule an appointment. Just over an hour later, Holmes sat in Jones’ office, showing him the reproduction of the document he’d found in Thompson’s quarters.
“What do you make of that, Colonel?” he asked the military police chief.
“Odd,” Jones remarked quizzically. “Where did you get this?”
“Ah, well, you have your classified information, Colonel, and I have mine,” Holmes noted calmly. “It seems to be a list of components, but I am not familiar with them.”
“I agree, it’s components of some sort. I’m not sure what they belong to, but they’re pretty high-tech.”
“And they appear to be ranked in order of some priority. ‘Quantum harmonic oscillator,’ for instance, ranks above ‘optical amplifier.’”
“Which in turn seems to outrank ‘carbon dioxide laser.’ Yeah, I see your point.”
“And then there is the secondary, correlated list to its right. Something called ‘C-4’ figures quite highly. Then there is this ‘Trojan horse virus’ listed…” He glanced up and saw the grim expression on Jones’ face. “Obviously these mean something to you.”
“Hell, yeah,” Jones growled. “Whatever it belongs to, and however you got it, you’ve found an important document, Holmes. This is a list of high-tech components…and the most effective method to disrupt or destroy each one. This is a sabotage menu. Someone wants to take out a project really bad.”
“The question then becomes, what is the target?” Holmes decided.
* * *
The two men spent most of the morning reviewing the document and comparing it to the information Jones had on the classified projects at Schriever, but initial attempts at identification were unsuccessful.
“Let me contact some…‘associates,’ who may be able to help us,” Jones suggested. “In fact it might be worthwhile to introduce you to them. Meanwhile let’s see what else we can find out about our mechanic.” Jones made a couple of phone calls, then turned to his computer, composing and sending an email. “All right. Now we wait. Let’s go get lunch. Do you want to call Dr. Chadwick and see if she’s available to join us?”
“That might be rather nice,” Holmes agreed readily. “If I might borrow your telephone, I shall call her and ask.”
* * *
He did, she was, and she did indeed join them. Due to the sensitive nature of their work and the open design of the cafeteria, however, conversation was light and avoided anything of a technical nature. But Skye was delighted to see the glow in Holmes’ grey eyes, and knew he had launched himself wholeheartedly into the investigation; moreover, it was obviously of sufficient complexity to hold his interest.
* * *
Holmes, on the other hand, surveyed Skye and found himself perturbed. Despite her protestations that testing was progressing nominally, there was a look of strain around her eyes telling him all was not well. Yet it was patently obvious to the detective that his liaison was not lying, nor, he knew, would she do so to him: Testing therefore was going well. Ergo, he reasoned, Skye was having difficulty dealing with the realization that her life’s work was about to be shut down, with no timetable available for when it would resume—if it ever did.
Unfortunately, there was little Holmes could do about the matter. So he set it aside for the time and concentrated on the discussion of horse training she had initiated.
* * *
“So your friend George needs some assistance with his horse, eh?” Holmes noted.
“Yeah,” Skye nodded. “His mare’s not paying attention to him like she ought to, and is getting pretty barn-sour into the bargain. I keep telling him he needs to get a round pen and school her in it, but he won’t listen. I told him to bring her over either this weekend or some night after work and leave her for a week, and I’d take care of it.”
“Do you know when you expect them?”
“Aw, George will probably show up Saturday morning, way the heck before I’m ready to get up,” Skye grimaced, then laughed. “That’s George. He’s a ‘crack of dawn’ sort of person.”
“I see. Well, assuming I am not occupied on my case this weekend—”
“No, no, let’s not start working overtime so soon,” Jones suggested. “We have enough other…personnel on the matter for now. I’ll set a clandestine watch on our bogey and if we get suspicious behavior I’ll notify you at once. Go ahead and have your weekend.”
“Very well,” Holmes agreed. “In that case, Skye, if you would tell me where you wish George’s horse placed, I will ensure matters are taken in hand while you sleep. Then, when you awaken, we can work the horse.”
“Oh, that sounds perfect, Holmes. Bless you,” Skye said gratefully. “This testing downstairs is really whipping my behind.”
Holmes looked mildly askance at the phrase, and Jones laughed.
“She could’ve put it a lot more crudely, Holmes. The correct phrase is ‘whipping my ass.’ At least Skye was more delicate in her terminology.”
“Er, yes, I would have to agree,” Holmes concurred, lips twitching in amusement. “Skye did use a marginally more acceptable wording.” He wondered ruefully, “Shall I ever get used to modern colloquialisms?”
“I think you’d find you had a lot less trouble if you were in Great Britain,” Jones observed. “From what I’ve seen, the slang th
at’s tripping you is pretty much all ‘Americanisms,’ turns of phrase unique to the States. A few of ‘em have caught on overseas, but I bet you’d understand a fellow Brit a lot easier, despite the ‘time difference.’”
“I agree,” Skye noted confidently.
“That may be,” Holmes mused. “Perhaps I shall have opportunity to find out. Skye informs me it now takes mere hours to travel many thousands of miles. An aeroplane journey to London is worth planning.”
“I’d say so,” Jones said shrewdly. “In fact, once you get your feet under you, you’ll probably want to move there to live. After all, that’s home turf for you, even if it’s not…” he glanced around, “exactly the same.”
* * *
Skye’s insides flip-flopped at that remark. She’d finished eating several minutes earlier, and had been merely chatting with the two men. Now, perturbed and confused, she stood abruptly, glancing at her watch. Startled, the two men looked up at her.
“I hate to do it, guys, but I’ve got to get back downstairs. No, sit,” she told Holmes, who was getting up from his seat. “Finish your conversation. I have to scoot. The team will be waiting.”
“No matter. Jones and I can finish our discussion on the way back to his office. We will see you out.”
So the three rose, discarded their trays, and parted at the cafeteria door.
* * *
During lunch, while Skye’s office was empty, a short, stocky male form wandered casually down the corridor outside, carrying a paper. Pausing at her door, he knocked; when no one answered, he opened the door and slipped in.
Once inside, he hastily folded the paper and jammed it out of sight in his hip pocket. Then he produced a tiny device from his shirt pocket and surveyed the room quickly.
Dragging a chair to the tall bookcase in the corner, he clambered onto it and reached up to place the device on the top of the bookcase, facing the desk. Then he climbed down, brushed off the chair seat, returned it to its original position, and left.
* * *
Holmes accompanied Jones back to his office. Upon arrival they discovered two encrypted emails awaiting them. One contained information on Thompson’s service record.
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 17