The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  Skye took his hand and allowed herself to be tugged to her feet, her own blue eyes beginning to twinkle once more.

  * * *

  That afternoon, Jones stopped by and requested they visit the quarters of the two murdered lieutenants.

  “We’ve maintained it as a crime scene, so it should be just as it was when they left it.”

  “It?” Skye wondered. “There’s only one?”

  “Yeah,” Jones noted. “They were best friends since childhood, so they were roommates all the way through the Academy right on up until now.”

  “Their joint quarters are on Peterson?” Holmes queried.

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes,” Jones confirmed. “There are a few apartments for buddies. Not in the same quad with Thompson, though. These are more recent in design.”

  “What is the rationale for our…visit?” Holmes asked.

  “Adrian’s superiors were expecting a report from them,” Jones explained. “It never arrived. We’ve examined their quarters, and come up empty-handed. We hoped maybe you could turn up where they stashed their information.”

  “I see,” Holmes murmured, considering options. “It is possible they never got the opportunity to compile a report.”

  “True, except their previous communiqué indicated it was already in process.” Jones glanced at Holmes’ casual attire, a pair of black twill trousers and a pale blue long-sleeved shirt, open at the neck. “Do you have one of those UK uniforms with you?”

  “I do. I have taken to keeping one here, out of sight in the office, so on the days when I do not wear a uniform, there is still one to hand should it be needed. Do you require me to wear it?”

  “It’d be good. You’d look more official.”

  “Very well, that is easily managed.” Holmes glanced at his liaison. “Skye? I should be glad to have a friend along. Especially one with the background and experience you bring to the matter.”

  “Sure. I’ll come along if you want me to. But I don’t know about the experience part.” Skye shrugged diffidently.

  “Let us go, then.” Holmes said. “Jones, do you have the address?”

  “Here you are,” Jones said, handing him a slip of paper. “The guards on duty know to expect you. Happy hunting.”

  * * *

  The pair arrived on Peterson Air Force Base shortly thereafter, Holmes in RAF uniform. They found Jones had indeed prepared the way: The guards greeted them by name and let them right into the apartment. Temporarily abandoning his usual gentlemanly ways, Holmes led the way in, his grey eyes darting about as he surveyed the flat.

  “Keep your eyes open, my dear. Not only may we find the desired item, we may encounter clues enabling us to shed light on our particular matter.”

  * * *

  So Skye turned her attention to scrutinizing her environ, trying to take in every detail she could and analyze it for possible inferences.

  “Good grief,” she noted, feeling overwhelmed as she stared at the disaster area of an apartment; she hadn’t an idea where to start in all the chaos. “Holmes, surely you and Watson were never this messy?”

  “We could be, my dear. From time to time, at least. I sometimes think it is a natural consequence of two or more men living in close quarters.”

  “I’m almost afraid to touch anything,” Skye grumbled in distaste. “How on earth are we supposed to find anything in this shambles? Well, where do you want me to start?”

  “Nowhere, as yet, Skye,” Holmes ordered sharply. “Touch nothing. OBSERVE.”

  Skye understood the injunction, coming from this man. She was to use her powers of observation, coupled with her intellect, to make sense of what she saw.

  The problem is, I don’t have many “powers of observation.” Not like what he’s got. Well, I’ll follow him and pay attention. Maybe I’ll get somewhere, and won’t embarrass myself too badly. I’d ask him to teach me, but he’s already absorbed in it. If I ask now, I’ll only annoy him.

  So they moved through the small quarters, Skye shadowing Holmes. The den contained a beat-up couch with sagging springs; two equally shabby armchairs; a laminated coffee table that had lost most of its finish; and a large-screen television with a DVD player and Playstation. The whole of the room was inundated in magazines, newspapers, beer and soda cans, and empty pizza boxes.

  The bedrooms were adjacent, with a “Jack-and-Jill” bath between. Each was equipped with a very basic double bed, one nightstand, and a dresser. And both bedrooms were, if anything, messier than the den: the beds unmade, clean clothes folded in a laundry basket but dirty clothes piled beside the hampers—or scattered across the floor. The threadbare carpet looked as if it had not been vacuumed in months. A faint odor of funk hung in the air like fog on a chilly morning, clinging to everything and saturating one’s clothing. The bathroom was disgusting, with rust stains on the sink and in the toilet, soap scum thick in the shower, toothpaste spatters on the mirror, and shed hair everywhere.

  “Don’t these guys ever clean?” she muttered under her breath.

  “Unlikely. Perhaps once every six months or so. They haven’t a Mrs. Hudson.”

  “You’ve been on the ranch for weeks, and I don’t see your bedroom or bathroom looking like this.”

  “Pay attention, Skye. My personal habits are not in question here. Neither are the deceased lieutenants’. Observe, please.”

  “Sorry,” she muttered, following him out of the bedroom area.

  Their next stop was the kitchen. As expected, it was a household disaster as well, with dirty dishes stacked in the sink, filthy counters, a nearly unused stove, a microwave whose interior was spattered with dried foodstuffs of unknown origin, and biological experiments growing in the refrigerator. But as Skye scanned the room, trying not to cringe at what nasty, virulent pathogens were likely swirling around them, her eye caught an area of the counter, and she perked up.

  * * *

  “Well, whaddaya know. There’s a relatively clean spot.”

  “Indeed,” Holmes observed, his lips twitching. “Rather out of character, wouldn’t you say?”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” she declared, staring at the neat area surrounding the coffeemaker and accompanying can of fresh ground coffee. “These boys must have loved their java.”

  “You disappoint me, Skye. You see, but you do not observe. I should have thought a former police investigator, in this day and age, would have grasped the significance.” Holmes shot her a hard glance through narrowed lids.

  Skye stopped and stared, her face taking on an odd, mottled tone as she first blanched in the shocked realization that her friend and idol had just castigated her, then blushed in bewildered embarrassment.

  * * *

  Her face burned and her eyes stung as Holmes turned toward the sole tidy spot in the entire apartment and commenced a detailed search. He expeditiously opened cabinets and drawers, took a peek into the kitchen trash, then turned to Skye.

  “You are correct to observe the significance of this area of the counter,” Holmes lectured, “but you fail to connect its appearance with its cause. Had you looked closer, you would have noticed the coffeepot itself in no better shape than the rest of the flat. It has not been cleaned in months, and while there is an accumulation of dust over all which is commensurate with the elapsed time since the deaths of the occupants, the dust on the coffeemaker is considerably thicker, indicating it has not been used since well before their deaths. There also are no clean filters to be found; nor are there used filters or grounds in the kitchen waste. No, it was not their coffee these two junior officers loved and used often; it was their coffee container.”

  And with that, Holmes peeled off the plastic lid of the coffee can and shoved his hand inside, digging with his fingers before coming up with a zippered plastic bag…

  …In which was a data stick.

  * * *

  Skye was silent as she drove them back to Schriever. She felt utterly disgraced. Humiliation seethed inside and she had all she c
ould do to keep from squirming awkwardly in the driver’s seat. Holmes rode, slouched indolently in the passenger’s seat, a faint air of disapproval emanating from him, but otherwise uncommunicative. They remained thus all the way to Colonel Jones’ office, where Agent Smith awaited with the colonel.

  * * *

  “Well, well,” Jones grinned when they came in. “Back already. Were you successful?”

  “Indeed,” Holmes said, producing the data stick, still in its coffee-fragranced protective bag, from a jacket pocket. “Skye, perhaps you would care to place this in the Colonel’s computer and use your skills to read our hard-won report?”

  Skye’s countenance brightened, hoping to be able to prove herself once more in front of Holmes.

  “She can’t,” Smith said, reaching for the drive. “It’s encrypted, and neither her computer nor Hank’s has the security code. For that matter, there isn’t a computer on Schriever that’ll do it. I’ll take it. I can open it and print out a copy for you. I should get it to you in a day or two.”

  Holmes’ eyebrow rose; Skye’s face fell, and she dropped her gaze.

  “I’m sorry, Holmes,” she murmured. “I’ll go back to the office now and get out of the way. You can come get me when you’re ready to go home.”

  * * *

  The detective suddenly realized it was the first thing she’d said since he’d deduced the location of the drive. Studying her from the corner of his eye, he grasped she was horribly embarrassed and, at least mentally, in full retreat. And trying hard to effect a physical retreat as well, he noted, watching her stand. Jones and Smith started in surprise.

  “What’s wrong, Dr. Chadwick?” Jones asked, concerned.

  “Nothing of significance, Colonel. Merely a difference in…style,” Holmes interjected.

  * * *

  Skye swallowed and shot a grateful glance at Holmes, who obviously was trying to avoid further humiliating her in front of the other men. But Jones was shrewder than that; he knew Holmes’ traits from Conan Doyle’s stories, and he knew Skye’s history. It didn’t take a rocket scientist for him to infer what had happened.

  “Dr. Chadwick, haven’t you told him?”

  Skye shook her head, staring at her feet.

  “Are you going to?” Jones pressed.

  She shrugged.

  “Tell me what?” Holmes’ eyes narrowed.

  “Let’s go back to the office,” Skye said huskily. “I’ll tell you there.”

  * * *

  Skye led the way into their office and closed the door. She hadn’t said another word during the entire walk back, and Holmes didn’t need a fraction of his observational skill to understand she considered herself in utter disgrace. He recalled her declaring him her personal hero less than twenty-four hours prior to his expressing disappointment in her skills, and he winced to himself.

  It cannot be helped. She is a professional, and as such should be held to a higher standard. Sloppy work in an intellect of her calibre is inexcusable.

  Skye turned to him and opened her mouth to speak. She met his look for the first time in almost an hour; but she managed only a brief glance into steely grey eyes before that azure gaze faltered and fell away again. She turned away and stared unseeingly out the window at the late afternoon sky, and Holmes watched a delicate pink creep up her throat into her cheek.

  She does not know what to say, he grasped. There is more here than I am aware, but I have no clues on which to theorise. And until she speaks, I will likely have none.

  “Skye,” he broke the ice in search of those clues, “what is it you must tell me?”

  “That…that Watson is a better detective than I am, because he’s had more training?” Skye offered. She gave him a wistful glance, her lips curving in a half-smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

  “What?!” Holmes ejaculated. “Watson had no training.”

  “Yes, he did. He had you. Holmes, I was a police officer, yes. I was duly sworn. I carried a badge, I was qualified on my weapons and equipment. I was, in name, an investigator. But I was a volunteer, Holmes. I didn’t get paid. I did it because they needed someone to do it; I wanted to help, and I had the scientific background to understand the forensics. Native American reservations are often poor, and this one was a case in point. It was very small, there wasn’t enough money to send me for training, and I didn’t have the time or the money to get a lot of training myself.” She shrugged. “I did the best I could with what I had available, and tried my darnedest to teach myself the rest. I took some online courses and worked with the police chief and a couple of cop friends who were police-academy-trained. That was about it.”

  “You were a volunteer?”

  “Yeah,” she admitted, stilted and apologetic. “That’s why I’ve tried so hard to stay in the background on this investigation. I knew from the beginning I couldn’t keep up with you. Oh, I can collect evidence, and read the lab reports with the best of ‘em. I can even perform a few of the lab tests. But…I can’t do what you do. I can’t even come close.”

  “Why did you not say so in the first place?”

  “Do you remember what I told you last night, about how I looked up to you?” Skye sighed and ran her hands over her face in frustration.

  Holmes nodded, a hint of warmth flooding his cheekbones at the reminder of her admiration.

  “Well, I can’t imagine you ever having had this consideration, so I’ll just explain it bluntly: Nobody likes to admit to her idol that she’s incompetent,” Skye confessed.

  Holmes stared at her in shock. Skye was not arrogant by any means, but he did know she held a kind of quiet pride in her intellectual abilities, and worked hard to set and maintain a standard for herself. Calling herself incompetent implied a level of disregard and disdain for her ability he’d not seen before.

  Well, this IS surprising. This will take some consideration. I had thought I knew Skye quite well, but it seems there are a few matters she has managed to hide. Not, he considered, that she is so very different from me in that respect.

  Before he could decide how to approach the issue, Skye noted, “It’s getting late. We should probably go home.”

  “I had thought ‘Charlie and Susie’ should make an appearance at The Low Buzz tonight,” Holmes suggested, mentally observing another of Skye’s diversions of topic. “I have it to understand neither Thompson nor Harris has been seen there since the night we observed them together. It is worth a reconnoitre.”

  But even as he spoke, Holmes’ mind was busy with another discouraging thought. I am beginning to think she will never accept me as fully as Watson did. Then again, she is not Watson. She partakes of many of his characteristics, but I suspect she is also far more like me than either of us would prefer to admit. Whether that is good, or bad, I have yet to determine.

  * * *

  “Oh, Holmes,” she protested, “I don’t think so. I…after today, I don’t think I’ve got the guts to attempt it. Not tonight, anyway.”

  “You did quite well the other evening.”

  “Yeah, and you gave me grief about not blowing our cover by laughing, too,” she reminded him in a subdued tone. “I’m just not up to it tonight. If ‘Charlie’ wants to go, I’ll be happy to drive him there and back, but I believe ‘Susie’ will stay in the truck and wait for him. If you think we need to, I’ll call Agent Smith to come by with a body microphone and wire you up. Then I can listen in, and if you should need backup, I’ll be there in seconds.”

  “A body microphone?”

  “Yeah. A tiny sound device that can be hidden somewhere on your body—in your clothes, your hair—and connected to a little transmitter pack that fits on the inside back of your trousers waistband. I’d have a radio receiver, and I can hear whatever you hear and say. I can even record it.”

  “Ingenious. A wireless, used for detective work.” Holmes nodded, a twinkle of admiration in his eye.

  “Exactly,” Skye agreed, then stopped. “Wait a minute. I thought radio was invente
d after 1891?”

  “That may be what the history books say. It is not what Mycroft’s ‘accounting office’ said.” Holmes chuckled slyly.

  “Oh,” Skye said, nonplused. “So what do you think?”

  “I do not believe we need a wireless. I only plan to observe, and should not require distant support for that.” Holmes looked at her, and there was wistfulness in his gaze. “Are you certain you will not come, Skye?”

  “Yeah. I’ll just stick to doing what I know. I should probably get Colonel Jones to redo the fee schedules on your contract, too, to be more in line with what my actual job is.”

  “And what is that?” Holmes frowned.

  “Glorified chauffeur.” Skye chuckled ruefully.

  Holmes sighed, disappointed.

  * * *

  That evening, “Charlie” arrived alone at The Low Buzz. He snagged a booth commanding a decent view of the entire bar, ordered a Coors on Skye’s recommendation, and watched, occasionally flirting mildly with Sally the waitress. When she asked him about his girlfriend, he sighed despondently and remarked that they’d had an argument. Sally took one look at his face and brought him another beer on the house.

  Holmes found the service excellent the rest of the night. He considered it amusing to speculate on whether the solicitous waitress was being attentive because she felt sorry for him, or because she was trying to cut out “Susie.” He gave the two choices roughly even odds, slightly weighted in favor of pity. He also discovered his stake-out was more boring without a companion with whom to discuss his observations.

  But neither Thompson nor Harris showed up.

  Around eleven in the evening, “Charlie” packed it in, paying his tab and staggering out of the bar and down three blocks. Once he rounded the corner, he sobered in seconds. Glancing around to ensure he was unobserved, he ducked down a dark alley.

  Several minutes later a diesel engine came to life, and a dually pickup eased out of the far end of the alley. “Charlie” found his way home in the company of an attractive blonde.