Two Hundred and Twenty-One Baker Streets

by David Thomas Moore (ed)

  “NOW WHAT?” I asked Holmes, once we were done briefing Straude and a rather disappointed Saunders on what had happened. “I mean, when are you going back to New York or London?”

  She looked around. “I rather like it here. Lee’s convinced his superiors that I’m an asset the L.A.P.D. should be holding onto, and they’ve offered a very generous retainer while also allowing me to pursue cases on my own, which is better than the arrangement I had in New York. Did you know that Mrs. Hudson owns a duplex in Santa Monica? She lives in one half and rents the other. Each side has two bedrooms and two bathrooms, with shared kitchen, dining, and living rooms. On Baker Street. Nice little neighborhood, close to everything, but still private.”

  “No, I didn’t. Santa Monica is rent -controlled. The waiting list must be extreme.”

  Holmes shrugged. “It depends on who you are. I quite like her, and she appears to have taken a shine to me, just as she has to you.” She looked at me. “I can afford to rent it by myself, but I don’t enjoy living alone. I lived with my brother in London, which is why I moved to New York. My... roommate in New York didn’t work out, for a variety of reasons. However, I’ve never actually tried living with a friend. That’s how most people do it, isn’t it?”

  “If I’m understanding your insinuation correctly, you realize I don’t have a job anymore, don’t you? I can’t possibly stay here, not after all of this. The moment it comes out that David was doing this to harm me, I’ll be asked to leave for the safety of the girls, just in case another lunatic fixates on me. I’ll be the scapegoat to make New London safe for its students again. And the notoriety isn’t going to help me land another position any time soon.”

  “That depends on what position you’re looking for. And I think you’re selling a campus that gleefully welcomed a reality TV show short.” She shrugged. “However, you’re open to leaving without a fight because you don’t love medicine, Watson. People who love medicine don’t keep files on murders and try to solve them, nor do they enthusiastically participate in the pursuit and capture of a dangerous serial killer.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “However, there are people who do that on a regular basis. We call them detectives.” She smiled. It looked good on her. “And I’d like to offer you the position of partner. From what Lee tells me, I’m going to be very busy here. Your military and medical background will be most helpful to me. And... it’s always good to have someone I can trust watching my back. Plus, it’s just such a relief to hear someone, anyone, who doesn’t murder the King’s English every other sentence.”

  I couldn’t help myself, I grinned. “Then, I’m your man.”

  “And, as you’ll learn, Watson, I always get my man.”

  The Patchwork Killer

  Kasey Lansdale

  Daughter of the celebrated horror author Joe Lansdale, Kasey’s both an accomplished author and anthologist herself and a talented country musician. That she’s also genuinely warm and unprepossessing only adds to my simmering resentment...

  I’m frankly stumped where she finds the time for it all, negotiating and exchanging contracts, writing the story and wrangling edits with me, all in snatched email exchanges while on the road in the US and Europe. But I’m hugely glad she did, as she adds, in ‘The Patchwork Killer,’ a tone of creeping body horror to the collection, as well as finding a decidedly off-beat way to bring the famous detective into the modern world.

  FOR SHERLOCK HOLMES, these matters were immaterial. Annoying, even. Not one for small talk or pleasantries, I only called upon him when I found myself in the greatest of need. Now you have likely heard the stories, but it is less likely that you have received the entire story. Everyone who knew him knew Sherlock was a genius, but at the same time, absolutely useless to carry on a conversation with the lay-person. Fast forward over one hundred years, and across the globe, and I can tell you with great confidence that nothing has changed. The world has changed. The technology has changed. Holmes, however, is the same smug bastard as always. As my great-uncle (well, my great-great-uncle) used to say,

  “For such a genius, he’s a gormless sod.” Sure, I was American by all accounts, my great-uncle Dr. John H. Watson had immigrated to the States just before he died. (That’s what he always told people. The truth was Holmes sent him here for a case, something about a chemist who was cloning other humans, and things had gone wrong. Terribly wrong. While investigating, he’d met a woman who worked at the lab he was there to investigate. His wife Mary had stayed behind, as it was supposed to be a short trip, but love works in mysterious ways.)

  He would at first send word he was making progress and needed more time. It turned out he was actually making quite a bit of progress and nine months later came my Cousin (once removed, I suppose; I never much understood all that) William. Aunt Caroline knew about John’s other life—other wife, even— but she had decided at almost forty there was no room to be picky. She wanted a family, even if it was all a façade. Needless to say, my bloodline started off with lies and deception. Par for what has been my life.

  My uncle was a military man, something I, too, became. I could imagine Sherlock standing over me now as I tell you this saying,

  “Boring.” And he would be correct. My story was no different from that of dozens of other families who immigrated and began a new life.

  Sherlock Holmes however, was never boring. Never dull. And most definitely, never ordinary.

  Much of the original information I had about Holmes and the friendship he’d shared with my great-uncle came from shoddy, incomplete notes that had been passed down through the generations. Sherlock himself would later fill me in on their many great adventures.

  You may wonder how that’s so, but first thing’s first, you see. Right now, I was staring at the mutilated, lifeless body of Darlene Jenkins, a local star in her own right. Her face had been slashed, and at one point during the brutal murder, the skin meticulously removed. Her body flat, drained of all its fluids, and—based on the resealed wound that traveled from naval to sternum—her insides harvested.

  A thick, purplish bruise had formed around her throat, and though I hate to say it, none of that was the shocking part. The thing that had me stumped, and Detective Michaels besides, was the flesh of the body which had been removed, appeared to have been cut into squares and sewn back together with surgical precision. Several pieces were missing.

  It made no sense why the murderer would take the time to kill her, cut her up, drain her, and then build her back together, save a few pieces.

  It looked like something my grandmother might quilt for a baby gift, if she were in the business of gifting human skin. It didn’t take long before the media had dubbed the murderer, ‘The Patchwork Killer’.

  A silly name, no doubt. But they never did ask for my input on those matters. I was called in only to assess the situation when Michaels was at a loss. It had become widely known that I was a go-to guy for strange events. I was not a doctor like my dear uncle, not in the traditional sense. I’d had medical training, but that which you get through dental school.

  For the most part, people in town felt safe. It was a small community, and this appeared to be an isolated incident, one that Miss Jenkins likely brought on herself, being an entertainer and all.

  Of course, no one said that out loud, but none had to. It was pretty clear that six months from now, no one would remember this or her, and if they did, they likely would not care.

  Until it happened again.

  This time to a young girl leaving her shift at the yogurt shop downtown near the Blue Moon Cabaret where Miss Jenkins worked.

  This murder, executed in the same manner, brought everyone up in arms. This was no harlot who may or may not have had it coming; this was one of life’s innocents.

  No one was safe. No longer could they brush off Miss Jenkins’ death as a lifestyle casualty. Someone who drew attention upon herself, so she must have surely been asking for it (I didn’t agree with that, of course,
but you might be surprised at how many around here did).

  It was a mystery, alright. I reviewed my notes, tried to glean something about why these murders had occurred and by whom. The profile offered by the local police department was the same as it always was. Likely white, mid-forties, ill relationship with their mother. But that was almost everyone I knew. Several days later, with me no closer to any leads, the body of another victim was found. This time a man, throwing off some of my original theories.

  Why a man, in broad daylight? A drifter, at that, found with nothing more than a lighter in his pocket. This didn’t seem to fit.

  He was discovered by a blind man, of all people, out on a morning stroll with his guide animal.

  “The dog became intolerable. And he always obeys. That’s how I knew something weren’t right.”

  “The dog?”

  “Correct, sir, something clearly weren’t right. Even a blind man like myself could see that.”

  “What do you make of it?” Detective Michaels asked me.

  “It is undoubtedly the same killer. This I’m certain. But again, this act of resealing the flesh has me puzzled. If he killed them at the location of their bodies, there’s no way he would have the time to execute such clean lines, such amazing—”

  “Doctor Watson, please. You sound more like an admirer than a doctor.”

  It was not the first time such an accusation had arisen, it had been a nightmare trying to explain to a room of detectives why I found it impressive that a kidnapper could abduct children in the light of day only feet away from their caregivers. Or how a delayed poisoning scheme was sheer brilliance. Holmes understood, of course, but he was a sociopath.

  “It’s just baffling. Usually if the skin is removed, it’s for a souvenir or for something cannibalistic in nature. To just remove it for the fun of reassembling it, this makes no sense to me. It’s as though the killer was just... curious. I shall think it over, Michaels, and report back my findings.”

  Detective Michaels was in his mid-forties, with greying orange hair and unruly brows. Sallow-faced, with a look of no good about him, save his piercing blue eyes.

  He certainly didn’t know my secret. In fact, only one person was aware, and even that had happened by accident.

  Mrs. Hernandez, my landlady. She was a busybody and notorious neat freak. I knew only that her name was Maria because she would follow me around the house with a handy vac saying, “It’s always Maria who must clean. Why does Maria get stuck with this? Who takes care of Maria?”

  I had found her apartment through a client. I took great joy in asking my patients questions when they went under the gas, mouth full of utensils. It’s quite a position of power, dentistry. That’s what I told my lady friends, at least.

  Anyhow, I had this fella who had quite a mouth full of work needed and he said in exchange for part of the cost, he could fix me up with a great rental apartment, since I’d mentioned I was looking. We arrived not long after at 221B Baker Street.

  I found it to be quite suitable, and I never thought too much one way or another about why it was so affordable until once, by accident, a bit of mail addressed to Maria Turner appeared in our mailbox. This caused me to question some things, but I only did so to myself, never aloud. Based on the price of the rent and the way she moved her hips to the music as she cleaned, I was certain this was not her first life. I’d never mentioned this to Holmes, though I have no doubt he already knew. He was impossible about most things, but he had a soft spot for Mrs. Hernandez, or Turner, whoever she may be. Women were drawn to him in a way that even Sherlock Holmes could never understand. He dismissed their affections, all of them, save ‘The Woman,’ as he called her. She’d since passed years ago, and though he spoke of her rarely, it was always with great admiration. I never asked further.

  Back in the confines of my quiet apartment, which overlooked a small patch of grass that masqueraded as a dog park, I locked the doors and pulled the shades closed. I waited until I heard the sound of the Mariachi blaring from Mrs. Hernandez’ apartment and pulled out the small wooden box concealed inside my inner coat pocket. It was under number lock, but I never used it. I’d decided if anyone could get out of there what they thought they wanted, they could have it, and deal with the consequences.

  There had been a case, several years back, where the services of a dental professional were required. Detective Michaels had, by sheer coincidence, chosen John Watson, D.D.S. from a random billboard sign near downtown where a jumper had been found.

  Mysteriously, said jumper could not be identified through finger print analysis, so I was called in to access the dental records. Easy enough, and quite a standard procedure.

  However, the lab tech who conducted the usual x-rays in my office was on holiday at that time, so I was reduced to the menial task of reviewing the slides and taking the photographs. Being careless, as I was in all honesty a bit snockered—I’d been called away middate with a gorgeous hygienist I’d met at a conference the weekend before—I examined and photographed the teeth for hours without wearing the proper gear, assuming my only risk was radiation.

  Upon cleaning the lab and making my final notes, I placed everything into a manila envelope and filed it away under J, for Jane Doe, back in my office a few doors down. It was the only file there, save my own. The practice had begun to take a hit from the economy. I suppose people were more worried about the cost of food than what that food might do to their teeth. Just as I had convinced myself that I should have gone to school to be a medical doctor, I heard an unfamiliar noise.

  “Anyone there?” I asked.

  As though that ever truly worked. It was half past one in the morning, so I was most certain to be alone at this hour. The noise did not return, so I resumed my daydreaming until once again the unfamiliar sound from the lab rung out, louder than before. Now, certain it was more than the imagination of a middle-aged man who’d had one too many, I followed the sound down the narrow corridor and into the workroom.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  There, in the far corner of the room, wearing only my dress jacket and a smile, was a tall, thin man with dark hair and a beak-like nose. He seemed alert, though dazed, and when I entered the room he glanced my way, then seemed to become disinterested just as quickly.

  “I say again, sir, who are you? What are you doing in my office with my coat on?”

  His eyebrows rose, as if surprised that I would dare ask such a question at all, let alone twice. I saw the wooden box that had been sealed and inside my coat pocket broken open and upside down on the floor, several feet away.

  “What did you do to my uncle’s box? How did you open it?”

  The man skimmed me up and down, and a light presented itself in his eyes.

  “That’s it, I’m calling the police,” I said.

  As I turned, the man spoke.

  “Dr. John Watson was your relative. He was your great-great-uncle, not your ‘uncle’ as you say, and I would recommend not drinking when you come into work so late.”

  “How did you—?”

  “You made the correct decision, though, to leave your date, as she is married, and it would be nothing but trouble for you had you remained.”

  At this point, fear was no longer a factor.

  “That’s incredible; how did you know that?”

  “It’s fairly obvious, isn’t it?”

  I looked around, as he surely couldn’t have been speaking to me.

  “Not for me, it isn’t.”

  “It must be dreadful to be you,” he said.

  The strangeness of it all was lessened by my intrigue and desire to know just who this man was. He took a step towards me, and I reached for my belt; though it had been years since the military, old habits die hard.

  “Relax, Doctor, you are in no danger. Are you still having the nightmares?”

  “Nightmares?”

  He sighed, seemingly exasperated by this line of questioning.

  “Yes, Docto
r, the nightmares. Are you still having them?”

  “Now and again,” I said.

  “Fascinating,” he said.

  “Is it?”

  He didn’t answer, and instead stepped closer in my direction. Though his appearance was a bit overbearing, I couldn’t say I felt threatened. The man acted as though he was fascinated by everything around him, and yet his eyes said he was already over it. There was something familiar about him, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

  “I feel like I know you. Like I’ve seen you before. Did my ex- wife send you? Are you her most recent fling that’s now been flung?” I chuckled to myself, but was cut off by the sharp tone of the mystery man.

  “Oh, you would like that, wouldn’t you? An easy answer, something simple like yourself. Well it is quite simple actually, Doctor; quite simple indeed. I knew your great-great-uncle.”

  His accent was British, so it seemed plausible for a moment, until I realized that there was no way this gentleman could have been alive when my uncle was, based on his middle-aged appearance now.

  “Whatever trick you are trying to pull, I think I’ve had enough. You’ve had your fun now. There’s no money here, and you wouldn’t make it far if you tried to sell the equipment. Everything has a serial number, and—”

  “Oh, Dr. Watson, I’m not here to rob you. I’m here to help you.”

  YOU CAN IMAGINE how all of this must have looked to me, but I can assure you that whatever scenario you have drawn up in your mind would not be comparable to the confusion I felt. His voice was cold, articulate, and he sighed with exaggeration as each moment passed.

  “There is no other answer, Dr. Watson. I knew your great - great-uncle—knew him quite well, actually—and the longer we waste here, the less we know about this jumper.”

  “Now, how did you know about that?” I asked.

  “I’ve heard everything. Do you want me to explain why I am here, or do you want to catch a killer?”

  BY THIS POINT, I had tweaked the technique, such that I did not require all of the equipment from my lab, only the portable x-ray unit, a few petri dishes, and a process similar to somatic cell nuclear transfer, but rather than needing a surrogate of sorts to fertilize the cells, a way was discovered to warm them using the radiation from the x-rays. This process was discovered by accident by my great-uncle Dr. John Watson. Apparently, he was working on something, when he’d refused to return from America; other than my great-aunt. That was what had been on those notes, and similar to the way he had discovered it, the right combination of radiation and lighting and all around odd luck had been exactly what had happened for me.