The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  “How did you find that out?” Morris blinked, then gave Holmes a suspicious glare.

  “From you,” Holmes replied.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Come now, General. When an officer of your distinguished rank arrives at dinner with his loose tie askew, his reading glasses peering out of his pocket and two of the three buttons on his jacket fastened? When he was perfectly put together at lunchtime? I can only assume something occurred during the course of the afternoon to gain your strictest attention.”

  “Yes, well, just a little matter that came to my attention.” Morris harrumphed, straightening his attire as he did so.

  “Little?” Holmes raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

  “Well, you are a detective. Maybe you can shed some light on the thing.” Morris stared at his dinner companion, considering.

  “Please, General, state your case.” Eager grey eyes lit up.

  “It’s really nothing, in my opinion, but the MPs seem to be concerned about morale, and they’ve notified all us senior officers to keep an eye out for warning signs. We’ve had a pair of suicides on the local bases in the last week or so. The first was unusual, in that—well, you probably haven’t seen it yet.”

  “Seen what?”

  “The base perimeter.”

  “Not yet, no.” Holmes’ dry tone was faintly accusatory.

  “Double-fenced,” Morris explained, trying to ignore the tone, “with a no-man’s-land in between. At least, this particular part of it is. Up until the…construction of the facility in which your liaison works, all of the…special parts…of the installation were contained well inside the base perimeter, inside a separate double fence. Certain…” Morris pondered how to explain without revealing anything classified in an open environment, “fundamental structures…made it necessary to add an additional special area contiguous with the outer perimeter.”

  * * *

  Holmes considered this for a moment. He must refer to the underground Chamber. Evidently geological structures beneath the base required them to carve it from an area near the base perimeter. He nodded understanding.

  “Are there snipers stationed along this ‘special section’?”

  “Of course. We’re one of the most secure facilities in the country.”

  “Yes, I can understand why. Pray continue.”

  “Well, last week—late Tuesday night, to be specific—Lieutenant Michaels decided to commit suicide by cop, or by sniper guard, as it were.”

  “Suicide by cop?”

  * * *

  “Yes,” Morris confirmed, wondering if the term had been in existence in Holmes’ time, and doubting it. “It’s when the suicide victim can’t bring himself to the actual act, so he deliberately performs an action guaranteed to force a police or other officer to shoot him.”

  “Mmm,” Holmes murmured, steepling his fingers, grey eyes going distant and becoming heavy-lidded. “Yes. I have heard of such things. Resume, please.”

  “So Michaels drove his truck through the outer perimeter fence,” Morris explained. “A thing like that is automatically considered an attack on the base, and the perimeter guards took him out.”

  “I see. Was Lieutenant Michaels experiencing any behavioral or other symptoms prior to the event that would lead one to believe he was suicidal?”

  “It seems there were a few indications, but not many. A little anxiety. That’s pretty much it.”

  “Hm. Interesting. Were there signs of pursuit?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Might I take a look at the scene of the…incident?”

  “I’ll arrange for it first thing in the morning, if you like. There won’t be much to see. The truck has already been towed away, and the fence repaired.”

  “A look at the truck, and perhaps the soldier’s personal effects, might prove instructive, also.” Holmes nodded.

  “If you say so,” Morris agreed with an amiable shrug. “I’ll arrange that, too. Say, oh-five-hundred hours, tomorrow morning?”

  Holmes blinked, unfamiliar with the military time reference, then considered for a moment.

  “Five o’clock? I do not anticipate Skye—Dr. Chadwick—before seven, or more probably seven-thirty, so that is acceptable.”

  “Good,” Morris remarked, pulling out his blackberry and entering the appointment, instructing it to trigger the appropriate electronic orders to subordinates. “All right, done.”

  “Excellent,” Holmes purred.

  * * *

  Their food arrived, and the conversation halted to allow the waiter to deliver the hot plates. When the server was safely out of earshot, Holmes resumed.

  “Now, please continue. There was another death?”

  “Yeah,” Morris agreed, delving into his lasagna with enthusiasm. “This one day before yesterday. Lieutenant Davis, Michaels’ best friend. They enlisted together. At first they thought it was heatstroke, but the medical examiner found ecstasy in his system.”

  “Ecstasy?” Holmes murmured, tasting his curry while looking askance at the general.

  “That’s the drug’s street name. 3,4-Methylene­dioxy­methamphetamine or MDMA. It’s a prescription drug gone illicit as a…party drug.” The general scowled in disapproval. The expression on his face told Holmes what sorts of parties were being referenced.

  “Method of administration?”

  “The report I got didn’t say. Usually it comes as a tablet you swallow, but it can be administered lots of ways, including rectally and intravenously.”

  “I see. And so this Davis was an avid participant in bacchanals?” Holmes queried.

  “That’s the strange thing. He wasn’t. Seemed to be a quiet sort. None of his buddies even knew he was a user.”

  “Highly suggestive. May I see the attending physician’s report?” Holmes’ eyebrow rose.

  * * *

  “I’ll get you a copy of the coroner’s report they sent me,” Morris nodded, pleased to see Holmes engaged in what the general privately considered a curious, but inconsequential, matter. It might, he decided, keep the detective happy until Morris could figure out what to do with him. “I’ll send it in the morning when I have Colonel Henry Jones escort you to the crash site. Hank’s head of the base’s security and military police, and a good friend. Oh, and he knows about the project. You can speak freely to him.”

  “That will do nicely, General, thank you,” Holmes smiled, and the conversation drifted off to other, more innocuous, matters. By the time after-dinner drinks arrived, Holmes was patting down his pockets. “Blast it,” he muttered wistfully. “I left it on the stone overlooking the falls. I had not thought to need it again.”

  “Left what?”

  “My cigarette case,” Holmes explained with a sigh. “I had hoped for a smoke with my brandy.”

  Morris signaled the waiter.

  “Could you get Commander Holmes a package of cigarettes and a lighter, or perhaps some matches, please? He seems to have misplaced his own.”

  “Right away, sir,” the waiter said, turning to Holmes. “Do you have a preference as to brand, sir?”

  * * *

  That brought Holmes up short. He had no notions regarding modern brands, but obviously he could not admit to the fact; so he waved his hand dismissively and said, “Not particularly.”

  “Very good.” The waiter bowed and departed, returning a few moments later with a package of Marlboros and a disposable lighter. Holmes opened the package and extracted a cigarette while Morris picked up the lighter.

  “Holmes,” the general muttered, for the restaurant of the club had become busy, “the cigarettes you smoked didn’t have filters, did they?”

  “No,” Holmes noted in a similar tone, unobtrusively studying the cigarette and noting its differences from those of his own day. “But it appears relatively straightforward.”

  * * *

  “Good,” Morris said, watching as Holmes placed the filter end between his lips. He leaned forward and fl
icked the disposable lighter, “accidentally” letting it extinguish. “Here, watch.” He flicked the lighter again, holding it so Holmes could light his cigarette.

  “Hm, quite an advancement over the fusee,” the detective remarked softly. Upon lighting his cigarette, he took the lighter from Morris and surreptitiously examined it before tucking it into his jumpsuit’s breast pocket along with the package of Marlboros.

  “It’s disposable. When it runs out of fuel throw it away and get another.”

  “Very well,” Holmes nodded in understanding, drawing on the cigarette as he reached for his brandy.

  “By the way, smoking on the base is limited. Not at all in the office buildings and…other facilities. You can smoke outside in designated areas, in your quarters, and in the reserved part of the club, here. Other than that, it’s off limits.”

  * * *

  “I see,” Holmes said, surprised, exhaling the smoke and sipping his liquor. “May I inquire why?”

  “Since your time, we’ve discovered smoking tobacco isn’t the healthiest thing in the world, and people that don’t smoke don’t want to breathe the smoke.” Morris shrugged.

  “Ah, yes. Dr. Chadwick and Dr. Wellingford did mention that today. Very well, I shall keep those limits in mind.”

  Soon thereafter, Holmes decided cigarettes had not improved since his own time. Compared to those to which he was accustomed, these seemed bland, with a hot, unpleasant bite despite the filter. Nevertheless, he decided with a sigh, they were nicotiana, and would serve for the time. Perhaps I should consider locating a decent pipe instead, he thought, then shrugged to himself. It looked like it would be awhile before he had that opportunity.

  In relatively short order, Holmes found himself well fed, with brandy and tobacco in his system, the former more than acceptable, the latter, less so; and back in his nondescript officer’s quarters, alone. Noting its similarity to a computer screen, he turned on the television and watched a few minutes of some inane situation comedy, then turned it off in impatient annoyance. A wave of exhaustion swept over him, and he suddenly realized Skye had been correct: It had been an excruciatingly long, painful day, and the best place for him was, undoubtedly, bed.

  Five minutes later, he was between the sheets, sound asleep.

  * * *

  At precisely five in the morning, a knock sounded on the door of Holmes’ quarters. Holmes had risen some time earlier and was now clad immaculately in an RAF dress uniform. The U.S. Air Force officer who waited on the other side stared suspiciously at the detective.

  “Yeah, this is some sorta joke, isn’t it?” Colonel Henry Jones, head of the base’s Security and Military Police force, promptly decided, scrutinizing Holmes from head to toe. “Only Bill Morris would, or could, pull a stunt like this.”

  “Come in, Colonel Jones,” Holmes invited. “I can assure you, there is no joke. Am I to assume General Morris has filled you in on my true identity?”

  “He told me some malarkey about Sherlock Holmes really being here,” Jones scoffed in annoyance. “And wanting to investigate my two apparent suicides.”

  Holmes disappeared into the bedroom momentarily, returning with the tweed suit he had been wearing when he confronted Moriarty.

  “Are you an investigator, Colonel?” he queried, handing the garments to the police chief.

  “Of course,” Jones snapped. “I…”

  * * *

  Jones broke off immediately, studying the suit in his hands. The cut, the style; the signs of wear, the pattern of weave, all spoke to the military investigator’s mind. And the word they spoke was not modern. Yet the suit was plainly in excellent shape, with none of the feel of aged, disintegrating fabric. He blinked, then glanced up at Holmes, asking his question with his eyes.

  * * *

  “Two words, Colonel,” Holmes remarked quietly. “Project: Tesseract.”

  “Shit,” Jones said, deadpan. “Are you saying…”

  “Dr. Chadwick is my…personal liaison, as I acclimate myself to this…continuum.” Holmes nodded.

  “They did it. Hughes and Chadwick really did it.” Jones’ eyes went wide in astonished disbelief.

  “They did, indeed. Unfortunately, due to unforeseen circumstances, they are unable to return me to my own universe. So,” Holmes added, almost managing to hide the sigh, “I had thought to make myself as useful as possible here. General Morris says you have some doubts about the veracity of your two suicides.”

  “All the evidence looks like suicide to my boys and girls. I can’t put my finger on it, but…” Jones shook his head. “Call it what you like, but my gut says things don’t add up right.”

  “It has been my observation, when an experienced investigator’s ‘gut’ is involved, it implies the mind, not the belly, has subconsciously deduced conclusions not immediately apparent. Let us examine the clues together and see what two such experienced detectives may uncover.” Holmes nodded in approval.

  “First things first,” Jones said, pulling something from his pocket. “Bill said to bring these.” He took Holmes’ visitor badge and added a CAC to it, then stooped.

  “What, pray tell, is that?” Holmes wondered, leaning back to look as Jones shoved Holmes’ sock down, then wrapped a small plastic-covered metallic strap securely around his ankle and fastened it in a zip-tie before covering it with the sock.

  “Tracking device,” Jones answered.

  “A tracking device?! Colonel, I am insulted! What do you consider me to be? I am neither laboratory rat, nor a common—or uncommon—criminal!”

  “I know, Holmes,” Jones soothed. “And I’m sorry. It’s not really because of YOU that you have to wear it. It’s…security,” he offered lamely. “In case you get lost, or someone…swipes you,” he added, even more unconvincing.

  “You mean kidnaps me?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “You realise the probability of someone kidnapping ME?”

  “Um, yeah…” Jones looked wry. “It’s…um, kinda the rules, Holmes. Well, it’s not the rules, exactly, because we haven’t ever had this situation before, but…”

  “This new world is decidedly going to take getting used to.” Holmes rolled his eyes in disgust.

  “Well…let’s go, then,” Jones sighed, gesturing toward the door.

  * * *

  As Morris had warned, there wasn’t much to see at the eastern edge of the base, where the truck had invaded the boundary. Jones arranged with the guard contingent to take Holmes into the no-man’s-land between the perimeter fences, and the two men walked for some distance until they came upon the scene.

  The outer fence had been repaired, but the marks of the collision weren’t entirely erased. Jones stood and watched as Holmes darted about, hither and thither, intently observing.

  “The vehicle dislodged a fence post?” Holmes queried, suddenly standing and pointing at a mound of dirt beside a post.

  “Yes,” Jones confirmed.

  “Does that not strike you as rather odd? If I should desire to crash through a fence of this type…” Holmes placed a light hand on the chain link. “I believe I should prefer to strike between the posts, where the structure is at its weakest, rather than strike at a point guaranteed to be one of the stronger regions of the fence.”

  “He was committing suicide. What did it matter if the guards, or the impact, took him out?” Jones shrugged.

  “As you say,” Holmes said, expression bland, eyes twinkling. “There appears to be no sign of an attempt to stop.”

  “No. No skid marks, no evidence of brakes or even downshifting.”

  “I also note the impact site is precisely at the point where it would be expected had the driver continued straight, when the road curves away from its approach to the perimeter.”

  “Yeah. Build up speed on the straightaway, then keep plowing through. That’s another piece of evidence in favor of his suicidal mindset.”

  “Oh, do you think so?” Holmes replied innocently. “Well, I belie
ve we have seen all that needs seeing here. Might I take a look at the vehicle, please?”

  “Of course,” Jones nodded, leading the way back toward the gate. “I’ll drive you over to Peterson…”

  “Drive?” Holmes queried, perking up. “Horses?”

  “No, cars,” Jones explained. “Automobiles.”

  The conversation lasted all the way to Peterson.

  * * *

  Despite the automobile discussion, Holmes was completely unfamiliar with the modern pickup truck, but he had been unfamiliar with specific technologies in previous cases, and it had never stopped him. So the detective fairly swarmed over the truck, noting the copious marks along the front bumper and the side panels, mute evidence of the fence impact.

  “Excellent,” he murmured. “Now for the more difficult…”

  Commandeering the base’s chief mechanic, First Master Sergeant Hynes, he crawled under the vehicle to study the undercarriage, with the mechanic explaining the unfamiliar components. By the time Holmes wormed his way from beneath the truck, he looked satisfied, and the mechanic looked dumbfounded.

  “Now to the coroner,” Holmes said gleefully.

  * * *

  In the morgue at Peterson, Holmes got down to basics, scrutinizing personal effects and finding them of disappointingly little import, then studying Lieutenant Michaels’ body under the close supervision of the medical examiner. In short order, Holmes’ long thin finger was pointing at a discoloration near the base of the right side of the skull.

  “Tell me about this bruise,” he requested.

  The medical examiner glanced at Jones, puzzled.

  “Odd you should mention that,” he addressed Holmes. “Lieutenant Michaels has a fair amount of bruising from the collision of his truck with the fence, not to mention the gunshots which killed him. But this is a reasonably substantial contusion that doesn’t quite appear to correlate with the others, either in terms of impact patterns, or apparent time of infliction.”

  “It is older, is it not?” Holmes pressed.

  “By some amount, maybe,” the examiner admitted, surprised. “I would normally estimate perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes, maybe as long as half an hour, although I believe the statistical response must be skewed for this particular cadaver. How did you know?”