“Indeed,” Holmes agreed. “I have enough here to work with for now, as it is. Go with your husband and satisfy both your curiosities. We will monitor, and dial in late this afternoon.”
“Okay, thanks. I really wanted to know,” Skye admitted, to Sherlock’s private, but intense, satisfaction.
“Later, gator,” Chadwick tossed off. There was a pop, a whiff of ozone, and they were gone.
“And now let us depart,” Sherlock said, fetching coats and mufflers and handing Skye’s to her before donning his own. “I have been awaiting this news for far too long to delay further.”
“Okay,” Skye giggled. “Patience never was your strong suit.”
“On the contrary. I can be very patient,” Sherlock corrected, “but we are talking weeks here, Skye. Let us begone.”
* * *
The coroner, Merriwether, met them at the door of the lab.
“Finally, finally!” he crowed with glee, practically dancing with delight. “I have never worked so hard on a body in my life, but I have it, now! And it was murder, there can be no doubt.”
“So tell us at once, please, and do not prevaricate,” Sherlock had hard work to keep from snapping in his irritability.
“Better I show you,” Merriwether said, taking no offense at the detective’s tone. “Believe me, I understand your impatience, all too well,” he added, leading the way into the autopsy room. “If the poor man hadn’t already been dead, I was ready to kill him again.”
“Which lends a whole new meaning to the phrase, ‘double jeopardy,’” Skye couldn’t help but snicker. Holmes shot her an exasperated glance, and she snickered harder. Merriwether laughed outright, then pulled open the appropriate drawer and jerked back the sheet.
Most of McFarlane’s body hair had fallen out in the intervening time, but the body was still well preserved.
“Now look here,” Merriwether said, raising the cadaver’s right arm and pointing to the inner elbow. “See that?”
Holmes whipped out a lens and studied the area indicated.
“Aha,” he said in satisfaction, handing the lens to his wife. “Skye, do you see it?”
Skye studied the area with the magnifier, then nodded agreement.
“Yup. A bruise, with a puncture wound in its center. McFarlane was injected with something.”
“He was,” Merriwether verified. “Once I had that to go on, I knew there was something rotten in Denmark, as the saying goes—though I’ve been to Denmark, and I rather liked it there. Anyway, I’d long since decided McFarlane’s myocardial infarct couldn’t be normal—especially given everything I’d seen inside the body. There was simply no evidence to point to it. Very little new coronary tissue damage, no old tissue damage, no plaque in the blood vessels, no coronary artery blockages. So I went back and started doing a more thorough analysis of the blood work. Kind of hard by now, but not impossible. And do you know what I found?”
“No,” Sherlock did snap this time.
“We’re good with forensic medicine, Doctor, but not quite as specialized as you are,” Skye noted, by way of avoiding insult to the medical examiner.
“You are indeed, both of you, quite good,” Merriwether complimented them, “and I thank you. But as it turns out, there’s an easy way to murder someone and make it look exactly like a heart attack, when it wasn’t. It’s quite difficult to trace, and you have to be looking for it. I did my research, did my tests—and found high levels of potassium in his blood. He’d been given an injection of potassium chloride,” the coroner explained. “A high dose, too. You see, the tests proved he was badly hyperkalaemic, but his kidneys were perfectly normal, so the hyperkalaemia was induced by the injection, not by any pre-existing medical condition. Hyperkalaemia will upset the electrolyte imbalance of the body and induce ventricular tachycardia. That, in turn, if sustained, can lead to ventricular fibrillation.”
“And that,” Skye finished quietly, “can lead to cardiac arrest and death, if not defibrillated promptly, and proper rhythm re-established.”
“Exactly,” Merriwether nodded. “But it would look like an ordinary heart attack—unless you knew to look for the potassium.” He bobbed his head in the direction of the cadaver’s elbow. “And that puncture mark was the clue to look.”
“Dr. Merriwether, my compliments,” Sherlock noted. “Please write this up as soon as possible, and fax copies to us, and Captain Ryker, as soon as may be.”
“I’ve already started, while I was waiting for you to get here. I’ll have it on your fax machine this afternoon.”
“Capital,” Sherlock rubbed his hands together eagerly.
* * *
On their way back to Gibson House, Skye turned to Sherlock. “So the two guys whose footsteps you found carrying McFarlane into the field are the most likely suspects for the murder.”
“Precisely. And since there were exactly two sightings of the nonexistent UFO that night, we may be certain they were telephoned in by our two suspects.”
“True. Which means we need to locate them, right away.”
“That, or determine what they want in McFarlane’s land and prevent their obtaining it, in any fashion.”
“One or the other.”
“I suspect I shall be spending a good deal of time in the next few days, checking out the locales from which the sighting calls were made,” Sherlock concluded, “in addition to meandering about the McFarlane farm.”
“Works for me. I’ve got an experiment to design, anyway, or the whole thing becomes moot.”
“True,” Sherlock replied, subdued.
* * *
The next morning, while Skye returned to her calculations, Sherlock dug out the reports of the UFO sightings. He headed to the location of the first report, a hotel lobby in Woodbridge. Pulling into the Tennyson Inn, he parked his vehicle and casually wandered into the hotel, gazing around the lobby like a tourist might.
“Interesting,” he murmured to himself. “The lobby faces in nearly the opposite direction from the McFarlane farm, with the main body of the building between the car park and the farm. In addition, per the map, I am a good eight miles from the farm as the UFO flies. Obviously the sighting did not occur here, at the hotel.”
He spent a few moments talking with the receptionist, inquiring after a “friend.”
“One Louis Micheaud,” Sherlock explained, “from across the Channel. He was here, oh, maybe a week ago, on business? I was supposed to meet him, but the baby was dreadfully ill, and the wife and I had to rush him to hospital. I was wondering if he left an itinerary, in case I tried to catch up to him.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the receptionist apologized, “I was not on duty that day. Perhaps you’d like to speak with our manager. Oh, Mr. Waters?” she called, as a middle aged man emerged from a nearby office. “This gentleman has a question.”
“Yes,” Sherlock offered a hand, and Waters shook it. “Stephen Frazier. My friend Louis Micheaud was through a week or so back on business, and I was kept from meeting him by a family emergency. I hoped he’d left an itinerary for me, so I might meet with him.”
“Oh, yes, the Frenchman,” Waters noted. “I recall him. Medium height, dark complected, moustache, brown eyes?”
“The very one.”
“No, sir, he left no schedule, I’m afraid,” Waters shook his head. “Made a few telephone calls from the front desk, probably trying to locate you, but he didn’t say anything about his destination the next day.”
“So he stayed overnight?”
“Actually, he didn’t. Got a pint in the hotel pub, then moved on. I suppose, when he realised you weren’t able to come, he kept going.”
“Ah, well, Louis always was a workaholic,” Sherlock chuckled. “I’ll try to contact him on his way back home, then. Perhaps we can still meet up.”
“Good luck,” Waters called, as the detective left the hotel.
* * *
Much the same thing happened at the Rushmere Hotel And Club in Ipswich.
Not only was it even further out of view of any sighting, due to increased distance, but John Grainger, a tall American with brown hair and blue eyes, also moved on after making a few telephone calls. As Sherlock left the hotel, his lips compressed grimly.
“Now,” he said to himself upon getting into his car and starting the engine, “let us determine some travel times.”
He consulted the map, then took the most direct route from Ipswich to Orford, taking the Main Road to the A12, then getting off on the B1084 and driving until he was within Rendlesham Forest, keeping an eye on the digital clock on the dashboard the whole way.
“Hm,” he noted, “the McFarlane and Carver farms are a scant mile and a half yonder,” he gazed into the northern section of the wood. “And I came right past Woodbridge, and have the time there, as well. Given the established time of death of McFarlane, and the times recorded on the police reports…” A wicked grin lit the aquiline features. “Skye shall be most interested in this.”
* * *
“So there’s no way they could have been in the vicinity per the times in the reports,” Skye observed from her desk in the study, “but reversing the travel times would put them both on or about the McFarlane farm at the time of death?”
“Precisely,” Sherlock nodded from his seat in the wing chair nearby. “According to the report from Ipswich, Grainger saw the UFO a mere twenty minutes prior to phoning it in. Yet it took over half an hour to travel from there to Orford. And Micheaud supposedly reported it in less than ten minutes of observation, although the hotel in Woodbridge is more than twenty minutes out. Which means we have our two murderers, complete with descriptions.”
“But we don’t know where they went.”
“No, but it is almost certain they are still somewhere in the vicinity, all things considered, though I am sure ‘Louis Micheaud’ and ‘John Grainger’ are merely so much fiction.”
“You think the descriptions are accurate?”
“I suspect so. Not only do the heights match the footprints in McFarlane’s pasture, in all likelihood, they expected not to be noticed. In addition, unless they donned disguises of some sort before proceeding to murder McFarlane, they would not have had sufficient time to do so before arriving at their reporting destinations.”
“So we’re looking for a medium build, dark Frenchman with a moustache, and a tall, blue eyed brunet American,” Skye verified.
“Indeed. Two needles in a very large haystack called Suffolk.”
“Well, yell if there’s anything else I can do. Meantime…” Skye gestured to her notebook with a sigh.
“Of course, my dear. I shall retreat to the sitting room so we may not disturb each other. I suspect I have at least a two-pipe problem.”
“Sounds okay,” Skye decided, bending over her notebook once more.
* * *
“All right,” Skye told Holmes and Chadwick as they sat together through the inverted tesseract, “some basic particle physics, here. My educated hunch is we’ve got tachyon condensation in a slightly unfocused string beam. So, if that’s the case, the tachyon condensation will produce Higgs bosons in quantity.”
“And those,” Chadwick continued for her, “in turn will decay into W bosons, which then decay into neutrinos and electrons.”
“With very high momentum,” Skye amended. “Inside the wormhole.”
“But the only one of that entire lot which is detectable without much more rigmarole than we have available,” Holmes protested, “is the electron.”
“Exactly,” Skye confirmed. “Therefore, we have to look for high momentum electrons suddenly appearing, INSIDE the wormhole.”
“Which means between the monoliths,” Chadwick realized.
“Right.” Skye nodded.
“A spark chamber, perhaps?” Holmes queried.
“I’d say so,” Skye considered thoughtfully. “Set it up between, but just outside, the monoliths—maybe more than one, between several monoliths. But there’s one kinda bad part of the experiment.”
“We have to leave the tesseract running for a long time,” Chadwick noted.
“Yup,” Skye sighed. “Which ups the danger factor for all of us. But it’s the only way to know for sure.”
“Perhaps we should use continuum 451,” Holmes suggested.
“The one where there’s no life on Earth?” Chadwick verified.
“The very one,” Holmes nodded. “That way, should something… happen, at least we will not be putting anyone else in…imminent… danger.”
“Yeah,” Chadwick agreed. “Good idea. Let’s do it.”
“How long?” Holmes asked Skye.
“Mmm…” Skye scanned her calculations intently. “You ought to have a really good data set after about four days, according to my estimates. If you haven’t seen anything by that time, tachyon condensation ain’t our problem, and we drop back and punt. Meantime, I can start working on how to fix the tachyon condensation, and formulating any other hypotheses, if the experiment results are negative.”
“Got it,” Chadwick said. “We’ll pop back in later this evening to let you see the setup, and get any updates you might come up with, before we start the experiment. After that, we’ll catch you in four, the good Lord willin’ an’ the creek don’t rise.”
“Godspeed, Sis,” Skye called, and the wormhole departed for the time.
* * *
“Skye,” Sherlock murmured late that afternoon, coming into the study and finding his spouse hunched back over her calculations on the desk, “it is tea-time, my dear, and you skipped lunch, had very little breakfast, and worked through most of last night. It is high time you stopped and took a rest. If you do not, as God is my witness, I shall tie you to your chair and force-feed you.” This was said in a whimsical tone, with crinkles around the grey eyes; but there was a look deep in those same eyes bespeaking a seriousness founded upon concern.
“Oh,” Skye said blankly, turning and looking at him vaguely. “Okay, I’ll take a few minutes. I didn’t know it was so late. It was getting hard to think, anyway, which probably means it’s time to eat. I’ll go fix—”
“No need; I already have a tray in the hall. I was only waiting to ascertain if I should need to restrain you first,” he chuckled, going to fetch the tray. “Here we are,” he noted as he carried it back in. “It is simplistic, but more substantial than usual, because you did not get lunch. Tea and club sandwiches, with fruit and cheese for dessert.” He sat the tray on the coffee table and took a seat in the center of the loveseat, facing the fireplace.
“Sounds yummy,” Skye decided, scooting her desk chair over to the coffee table and reaching for one of the sandwiches, which were loaded with several different varieties of cold cuts and cheeses, as well as generous portions of lettuce, tomato, pickle, and onion, between two slices of rye.
* * *
“No, that will not do, Skye,” Sherlock chastised before she could grab a sandwich, and she gave him a surprised look. “Get your body out of that damned chair and come sit beside me on the sofa. If you sit in that thing any longer, it will become permanently affixed to your, um…” His voice tapered off as he wondered how to delicately put the matter.
“Butt,” Skye giggled, rescuing him from having to conclude his statement, as she stood stiffly and moved to sit beside him.
“Yes, that,” Sherlock nodded, lips quirking slightly with amusement. “And I should not like to see so aesthetic a portion of your anatomy so deformed,” he added, letting his eyes twinkle mischievously.
“Well, at least you noticed,” Skye fired back and giggled again as he handed her a sandwich and poured tea for them both, adding cream.
“I notice a great many things,” he retorted, picking up his own sandwich. “I am, after all, a consulting detective; it is my business to notice things. That does not automatically mean I instantly verbalise a comment upon what I notice, but I am capable of appreciating it, nonetheless.”
* * *
Skye wisely decide
d not to wage a war of words upon so astute a tactician, so she immediately began wolfing down the sandwich and making pleased, contented sounds, knowing full well she was giving Sherlock private satisfaction in the doing.
“Where are the other Holmes and Chadwick?” he wondered, taking a more sedate bite of his own sandwich.
“Working at things from their end,” she noted around a mouthful of lunchmeat. “Because they can go into and out of this continuum, it saves them time if I tell them when to come back, because I can work as long as necessary on solving the equations, and to them it’s maybe only a minute gone by.”
“Ah, well thought out. And how is that solution progressing?”
“Two steps forward, one step back, but it’s progressing. They should be setting up for an experiment we devised at our last tag-up. The results will give us a good notion of whether or not that,” she jerked her head at the notebook on the desk, “has any chance at working.”
“May I ask you a question, my dear?”
“Of course, sweetheart.” Skye brushed crumbs from her fingers, which were now all that was left of the large sandwich, and reached for her teacup.
“If they can use the tesseract to compensate for the amount of time it takes you to work, why are you working so very hard, so continuously, on this, to the exclusion of almost all else?”
“Are you feeling neglected after all?” Skye shot him a sad, repentant glance.
“No, not at all. What little spare time you allow yourself has largely been devoted to me; how could I feel neglected? I am simply concerned for your health. You are pushing yourself quite hard, and frankly, I do not see the need, especially as they can compensate for the time it takes you. I know sometimes it takes a bit to find a proper stopping point, but really, my dear. It is simply too much.” He handed her a small plate, on which he had placed several chunks of Cheshire and Gloucester cheeses, a large cluster of grapes, and a substantial wedge of melon.
“It’s hard to explain,” Skye acknowledged, nibbling the cheese and fruit. “For one thing, time doesn’t progress at the same rate in both continua. It’s complicated, especially when you get into the math, but there’s only a certain amount of compensating they can actually do. Remember when we couldn’t go back and stop Professor Haines from entering the tesseract?”
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 100