Chapter 14

14. "What, what? What did you call me?"

London.

Audley Court.

When he heard there had been another murder, Lestrade immediately set off with us.

After the car passed through an alley enclosed by pitch-black brick walls, a shabby, filthy square courtyard came into view directly ahead.

Homeless people lived there, dressed in rags and with numb eyes. Among them were some children who looked to be only seven or eight years old.

When the children saw us and the group of police officers crowding into the crime scene, they were like kittens confronted by strangers and quickly ran away. Only when we were farther away did they gather again, chattering among themselves.

I instinctively looked over at the noise they made and saw pairs of bright, clear eyes looking up in turn. So I waved at them. A beat later, they waved back in my direction, then quickly ran off.

On the other side, Lestrade's deep voice rang out.

He put on his protective suit and gloves with practiced ease and explained the situation.

"In the interrogation room, all three criminals were especially reluctant to talk about Rhodes, the survivor. They even went so far as to take the blame themselves to divert the police's attention. There must be something suspicious going on, so I came to find Rhodes, who reported the missing property case six months ago. But I never expected that I'd already..."

Lestrade hadn't quite finished, and I was still waiting for him to say "arrived too late," when Sherlock suddenly cut in. "Who are you?"

Startled and confused, Lestrade asked, "What? What's wrong?"

"Scotland Yard wasn't this competent the last I knew."

Lestrade was left speechless. Watching Sherlock walk away, he asked me, "Lanny, have you never thought about punching Sherlock?"

I shook my head. "Inspector Lestrade, when it comes to Mr. Holmes, we have to remain calm, levelheaded, and tolerant..."

Lestrade looked into my eyes as though he were looking at someone who had simply given up on survival. "You're far too tolerant..." he said in shock.

I cut him off. "No, no, no, you don't understand—"

I had to educate him.

In the original work, Sherlock's descriptors included "exceptional physical strength," "a formidable bare-knuckle fighter," "skilled in Japanese wrestling, capable of throwing an enemy into a waterfall," "able to knock apart a plaster bust with a whip," "master swordsman," "expert singlestick fighter," and "an excellent shot."

"When you get angry with him and attack him first, he can beat you into partial paralysis in self-defense without being held responsible or having to pay your medical bills. And because you're disabled but weren't injured on duty, you'll have to give up your current job and live on benefits of only ten to twenty thousand a year. Your family will be too poor to put food on the table, and they'll resent you for picking a fight and indulging your temper without any regard for your family's happiness. Your children won't be able to hold their heads up at school or in the neighborhood, and they won't want to call you Dad when they come home. Finally, your wife will simply take the children and leave, and all you'll be able to do is drink yourself into a stupor all day, as if the whole world has abandoned you..."

"...Wait, stop. That's terrifying."

I patted him on the shoulder and said with great understanding, "As long as you know Mr. Holmes is terrifying."

Lestrade looked a little dispirited. "No, what you said is even more terrifying."

"..."

Before I could speak, Sherlock's voice rang out.

"Come here."

Lestrade and I didn't know which of us he was calling, so we both entered the crime scene. The tall detective made the entire shabby room look cramped and small. With his figure blocking even the dim light, the whole room seemed filled with a black fog.

"He was stabbed fifteen times in total: twice in the neck, five times in the chest, and eight times in the back. Clearly, he was attacked from behind," Sherlock stated.

I was about to look down at the body when I heard Inspector Lestrade quietly ask me how Sherlock had reached that conclusion.

Probably because I had previously explained that my parents also worked in criminal investigation, demonstrated my forensic knowledge in the Workhouse's back courtyard the first time, and then shown my knowledge of interrogation psychology at the police station, Lestrade promptly continued asking me questions.

I felt like a student in class whose deskmate had tugged at me to ask, "What does the problem the teacher explained mean?"

I quickly explained, "That can be explained through criminal psychology. If you've confirmed from someone's face that they're the person you want to harm, and you can kill them face-to-face, you wouldn't deliberately turn them over to stab them in the back. So the killer attacked from behind, made sure the victim was unable to resist, then turned him over and attacked him in revenge. The stab wounds are messy and irregular. Clearly, this was a crime of passion."

"Oh, right."

I suspected he must have been subjected to Sherlock's stratospheric methods of solving cases too many times. As a result, he overcomplicated some simple things and ended up confusing himself instead.

I understood perfectly.

By the time Sherlock looked over, the two of us had already assumed attentive listening poses.

"I have good news for you, Inspector Lestrade." The corners of Sherlock's mouth lifted slightly. "We've already caught the killer."

Inspector Lestrade exclaimed, "Where's the killer?"

Sherlock didn't answer. Instead, he walked around the room.

When Sherlock said nothing, Lestrade turned to look at me again. I kept my eyes fixed straight ahead and reassured him, "Don't worry."

From a position directly facing the body, Sherlock found a hidden camera as if by magic.

I couldn't help being startled when I saw the tiny device.

There was a camera here?!

Only then did I belatedly remember that this was the twenty-first century, not the Victorian era, and realize I was making a bit too much of it.

Although I was still living a twenty-first-century life, thanks to the setting of the Sherlock world, the Holmes in my head was still a figure from a time when the electrical age had only just replaced the steam age.

Meanwhile, a shocked Lestrade took two quick steps toward Sherlock. "Sherlock, you even knew he had a surveillance camera in his home? With this evidence, we'll definitely be able to find out who the killer is."

He was too excited.

If I wasn't mistaken, the footage from this surveillance camera probably wouldn't tell us anything.

"Let's go to the police station, Inspector Lestrade."

Sherlock spoke in a very good mood, then glanced at me.

I was baffled by the look and didn't know what it meant. Then I remembered that Watson wasn't here, and that I was now Sherlock's debtor. Sherlock would very likely remain an ATM in my life for some time to come.

I quickly said, "Mr. Holmes, how did you do it? I was startled when I saw the camera just now too."

That was the truth.

Sherlock gave nothing away as he replied, "You'll find out soon enough."

"All right."

If you really asked whether I wanted to know?

Actually, even if I never found out, it wouldn't matter.

Because I wasn't a particularly curious person. When I read crime novels, I had never grown impatient because I couldn't wait for the truth to come out, nor had I ever gotten angry at being spoiled in advance.

Either was fine with me.

Holmes didn't show his emotions in front of outsiders.

His mysteriousness had made Lestrade so excited he couldn't sit still. Unable to get an answer from Sherlock, he wanted me to spoil some of it for him. What he most wanted to know was how Sherlock had found the camera so precisely, and what clues he had used to deduce its location.

I couldn't knock over a Christmas tree someone else had worked so hard to decorate. All that remained was to put a "Star of Bethlehem" on the tip of the tree. And at the most fitting moment, that star would light up the darkness in other people's hearts, just as it existed to do.

As we left, I saw that the children were still watching.

Ever since my blood sugar had dropped from hunger last time, I had gotten into the habit of carrying candy, so I gave them the milk candies I had on me. After we left, several of the children jumped and skipped about like a flock of happy little larks.

After hearing that Sherlock had used the sudden murder at Audley Court to solve the serial murder case brought to light by the Workhouse explosion, officers from all over Scotland Yard came to watch. Of course, some had come hoping to see him make a fool of himself.

I sat at the computer, helping play the surveillance camera footage.

Lestrade asked me if I knew how to use a computer.

I answered, "No problem."

Sherlock stood in front of the projection and took charge of explaining the whole case.

1. "The explosion at the Workhouse was an accident."

2. "Too much 'evidence'—the bodies—had yet to be disposed of, and since the Workhouse explosion really was an accident, the criminals would keep an eye on developments at the scene."

3. "The criminals would prioritize dealing with people who might solve the case."

As a result, vulnerable people were directly targeted. The police successfully caught three people.

4. "The police needed to determine whether these three were the masterminds."

Even if they confessed, it was impossible to reach a conclusion so simply and crudely. If there really was an accomplice, why were they shielding that person? Was it to protect them, or out of fear?

Like a storyteller, Sherlock varied his emphasis and pace, making his account vivid and engaging.

I really wanted to record this part for people online to hear.

I thought it could be listened to as a bedtime story, provided you couldn't understand that he was actually talking about how the criminals had cruelly abused victims who had no family or friends they could contact, then dismembered and violated them after their deaths.

I saw several police officers with expressions that suggested they wanted to vomit.

Actually, I could only understand the key words. From the context, I guessed he wasn't talking about bloody meat on a chopping board, but corpses. As for the details, I had no idea what kind of horror story Sherlock was telling in that cello-like voice of his. My mind even wandered for a while, and when I looked up again, I met the eyes of Lestrade, who was covering his mouth.

He looked at me with a horrified expression.

"..."

I thought he must have misunderstood me.

More and more people were gathering around the outside.

Everything through the end of the fourth point was interrogation work the police would have done as well: extensive, painstaking tracking and research, taking months to establish the names of all the victims.

"However, I remembered hearing six months ago about a victim named Rhodes, who had just come to London and moved into a London slum. To find his father's clothes, for the past six months or more, he had spent his days as a vagrant, making inquiries on the streets, and worked at a bar at night to earn enough to support himself."

"Rhodes fit the profile of the person we were looking for in the Workhouse serial murders: young, male, living away from home alone, and rarely in contact with family and friends. Even if he disappeared, no one would notice."

"If you investigate the murders connected to the Workhouse, you'll find that in quite a few of them, the bodies were dumped on highways. We can therefore deduce that Rhodes was also once one of their targets."

"Now we come to the questions."

Why couldn't they find the car on London's surveillance cameras?

Why couldn't they find the suspect on the cameras in the bar?

Why, when gunshots had been heard at the time, had they been unable to identify the type of gun?

Why, over six months, after Rhodes asked the police station to make a reward notice, had no one provided a single clue?

"If you want to say it was because Scotland Yard is incompetent, that is certainly beyond doubt."

Ignoring the instantly hostile atmosphere around him, Sherlock continued, "There's another possibility: the killer is a police officer himself. He used his authority to threaten thugs into helping him commit his crimes, and also used it to cover his tracks."

Lestrade was standing closest to me, and his expression changed at once.

Officer Donovan's voice was the first to rise, full of anger. "Sherlock, keep your conspiracy theories about Scotland Yard to yourself! Don't think you're so great! You're not welcome here!!"

One person set the tone, and the others were roused too.

I hurriedly stood up, but before I could speak, Sherlock spoke first.

Unmoved by her remarks, he said, "I really don't think it's such a great feat to stand ten meters away from you and notice that you were intimate with that forensic examiner over there before coming here."

Officer Donovan was indeed silenced.

The young forensic examiner across from her even lowered his head, effectively confirming Sherlock's statement.

The surrounding officers' expressions shifted from anger to curiosity about the gossip, wavering for a few seconds.

I seized the opportunity to speak first. "Officers, please hear me out."

"If anyone remembers, I'm an international student who has received a great deal of care and help from the police these past few days. Inspector Lestrade gave me a great deal of help when I first arrived. Later, when criminals targeted me, I escaped disaster only because of your timely and effective rescue. Like all citizens, I have a positive and trusting attitude toward the police. If Mr. Holmes were maliciously slandering Scotland Yard, I would certainly be the first to object, and I believe it would also provoke protests and dissatisfaction from City of London residents who have received a great deal of help from the police."

All of that was nonsense.

But at least no one suddenly spoke harshly to me.

Because I had flattered them from a moral standpoint, they wouldn't suddenly ruin their own image by coming at me with verbal or physical violence.

I continued, "Please consider one thing first. If Mr. Holmes really wanted to spread a conspiracy theory, he could easily pass this information to the news media. Reporters are more interested in this sort of subject, and Mr. Holmes might even receive a substantial fee. He came here to say it because he wants to protect Scotland Yard's reputation. If this case got out, it would affect the public's trust in the police and put considerable pressure from public opinion on many of you here."

"Isn't that right?"

Lestrade's voice rang out at just the right moment. "So Sherlock believes the killer is among the police. Because the three criminals reacted excessively to this person during interrogation, the killer wanted to strike first. And the surveillance footage we're about to play will show the killer's face, is that right?"

"There's a major problem with that." A police officer's voice came from the crowd. "If the killer knew where Rhodes was all along, why didn't he deal with him at the beginning? Why did he have to come out and kill him to silence him now? Isn't that unreasonable? Couldn't those three have faked it?"

After he spoke, he clearly regretted the last thing he had said.

Because that last question was too elementary.

I saw a cold smile appear on Sherlock's lips and, afraid he would start mocking him mercilessly, explained in his place, "The three were interrogated separately. They couldn't possibly have reached an unspoken agreement to react to that name at the same time and deliberately mislead the police. The reason all three reacted so strongly was that they were afraid the police would investigate Rhodes. That shows they all knew Rhodes existed."

"As for why he didn't deal with Rhodes at the beginning, it was because of the missing property case. Rhodes was very concerned about the missing items. If he died in the meantime, he would very likely attract police attention, so the killer temporarily stopped. During that period, I believe the suspect deliberately changed his appearance and style of dress six months ago, both to let the investigation cool down and to avoid being recognized."

After I said that, the expressions of more than a dozen officers suddenly turned strange. Clearly, they were mentally matching people to the description, but they kept their necks stiff and didn't turn to look at anyone around them.

I happened to be standing opposite them and saw every change in their expressions.

At that moment, the only sound in the screening room, filled with more than fifty people, was the hum of the computer's cooling fan.

"Since you're so certain, play it."

The speaker was Qiaosen.

I remembered him.

I could count the officers I knew on one hand, and he was one of them.

He broke the undercurrent running through the entire screening room.

I was nervous too.

After all, someone who dared to say that was either an upright beacon of justice or the person involved, who knew the camera definitely couldn't have captured anything.

My intuition told me he was the latter.

You wouldn't believe how creeped out I was at that moment.

It was like learning that my next-door neighbor was actually a deranged serial killer, while I lived right next to him.

That belated realization froze me in place, unable to move.

Sherlock's voice rang out again. He was clearly speaking in my direction. My attention was quickly drawn to his words, and I completely forgot my fear.

Sherlock had said a very strange word.

English words are usually multisyllabic, unlike the monosyllabic characters of Chinese. As I listened to the word, my brain automatically broke it apart and rearranged it, trying to piece together a word I knew, while also wondering whether it was some kind of phrase. But English wasn't my native language, and my vocabulary was very limited. I just couldn't work out what it was.

But I was used to reading people's expressions and body language, and I had the feeling he was calling me.

I just couldn't understand what he was saying, so I looked at him blankly.

Finally, Sherlock clearly enunciated, "Lanny."

Only then did I react and ask, "Were you calling me just now?"

Sherlock didn't answer that question. He merely said casually, "Play the surveillance video."

Only then did I discover that I did have some curiosity after all.

He had definitely been calling me by my Chinese name just now!

I really wanted to know what he had said.