“Really? Watson has a child with the former Miss Morstan?” Holmes looked up, startled. The others saw his eyes warm.
“Yes,” Caitlin confirmed with a smile.
“Boy or girl?”
“Boy,” Caitlin answered, smile widening. “Named, I might add, for a certain detective. And that child’s son goes on to become a key player in genetic research in the middle of the twentieth century, helping to discover the double helix of DNA. He won a Nobel Prize for his work.”
“Oh,” Holmes said, taken off-guard, but seeming pleased.
“Dr. Watson missed you, Mr. Holmes, as much as you miss him,” Caitlin added. “But he honored you in every way he could.”
* * *
Holmes nodded, then looked away, staring at the corner of the room with grey eyes that glimmered more than they ought. Skye tightened the slim hand on his arm, and he swallowed hard. After a minute, he managed to note, in a voice only marginally unsteady, “All the more reason, then, to maintain my current companion.”
“It’s settled, Skye,” Morris declared, as Skye blinked in surprise. “You’re too valuable, too important to us, personally and professionally, to let you go.” He paused, letting the effect of his words sink in. “Besides, I would hardly think you’d want to leave now. Mr. Holmes had been telling me earlier that, now he’s starting to settle in, he was considering how he might pay you back for all your help.”
“Pay me back? No, no. I already told you, you don’t owe me anything, Holmes. I was glad to help. I mean, it was only right—I’m the one who brought you here. You certainly don’t owe me for doing the right thing.” Skye frowned, disturbed.
* * *
Relieved at the change of topic, Holmes noted with satisfaction she was once more addressing him familiarly.
“Oh, I beg to differ, my dear Skye. It is the least I can do, as a gentleman…and a devoted friend.”
He watched without seeming to do so, as that specifically worded, and completely honest, comment settled into her consciousness.
* * *
“Oh, all right,” she sighed, trying to hide her leaping heart behind a veneer of exasperation. “But nothing big.”
“You were lamenting your lack of training last Friday. I thought you might enjoy the opportunity to learn more about investigative techniques. You can assist me with my current investigation once again, by way of an exercise. Is that too big?” Holmes spread his hands before her.
“No,” she breathed, blue eyes widening with excitement. “No, that’s wonderful. But I’m…I don’t think I’d be very good. I might only be in the way.”
“Nonsense. You are a scientist; as such, you are already trained to observe, and to recognise the significance of what you observe. It is a trait I have already noted in your work on the project. It will merely be a matter of my training you how to make better use of what you see. Had I known beforehand how little training you had, my critique of your investigative ability the other day would have carried a wholly different light. In retrospect, you actually did quite well for someone who is essentially a self-trained hobbyist: Out of the entire flat, you observed the pertinent element as soon as I did. You simply did not know how to interpret it. Now I will teach you how to understand that element, and look for the clarifying details.”
“So you really did think I was a highly-trained professional.” Skye flushed with pleasure at his compliment.
“I had the evidence of your badge and your title, your decided skill with firearms, your collection of texts, your comprehending and comprehensible forensic discussions with myself and Colonel Jones, and the knowledge I was over a century in the future. I thought it reasonable to assume investigative techniques had advanced considerably in the intervening time, as indeed so much other technology has done. I said so, if you will recall.”
“It has, I just haven’t had the benefit of much of it. I mean, I know OF it, I just don’t…know it. Not the way I should, and not the way I’d like to. But the basic concepts haven’t really changed.” Skye met his eyes, uncertain, but offering. “I think I can at least tell you when we have those advanced technologies available to help you in your investigations.”
“Excellent,” Holmes nodded, pleased. “In that case, we should probably get started before too much more of the day has gone.”
* * *
As the pair walked back to Skye’s office, Holmes took a deep breath, then plunged in.
“Once again, I fear I owe you a rather considerable apology, my dear.”
“Like I said, you don’t owe me anything, Holmes.”
“Actually, I do. Had I acknowledged a friend’s need, instead of fretting over offended, outmoded sensibilities, she would have trusted me with an important part of her life. Instead, I cut her off, wounded her gravely in the doing, and ended up finding out about it from the general.”
Skye shot him a perceptive, questioning glance. Holmes nodded in answer.
“I know about your nightmare, Skye. I know what happened to—”
“Not here,” she ordered sharply, interrupting him. Her voice sounded brittle.
A startled Holmes uncharacteristically obeyed without protest, and followed as she entered their office. She waved him past, locking the door behind them.
“Okay,” she said in a subdued tone, moving to the coffeemaker in the corner and brewing a fresh pot; she hadn’t bothered with it earlier. “So General Morris told you?”
“Yes.”
“How much did he tell you?”
“A very basic description of events. The accident with the lorry, your parents’ physical condition, your finding—” He stopped quickly when he saw her hands clench the edge of the table, knuckles whitening. Holmes grabbed the nearest chair and shoved it behind her. “Sit down, Skye, before you fall down, my dear,” he murmured, laying a hand on her shoulder and applying firm but gentle pressure until she sat.
Holmes got two mugs and poured coffee for both of them, setting the mugs on the table; then, in a casual display of the strength for which he had been known, took a firm hold on her chair arm and with a quick jerk, reoriented it to face him. He retrieved his own chair and brought it to sit close, silently offering the comfort of his presence. He picked up his coffee, then nodded at her mug.
“Drink,” he commanded softly. He watched until she obeyed, then sipped his own coffee. “Now, if you still wish to confide in me, you have my word I will listen with undivided attention. If it is more than you can face at the moment, you have only to say so, and I shall find another topic of conversation. But if and when you are ready to speak of it, I will be here.”
Skye nodded, staring down into her coffee cup.
* * *
“Mom and Dad were great,” she began softly, and Holmes realized she was going to try to explain. “I loved them to pieces. They were the only people in my life who always supported me, no matter what. They encouraged my scientific interests, and never once said I wasn’t ladylike for wanting to exercise my brain.”
Holmes nodded. I was right. She HAS experienced pressure to suppress her intellect. Fortunately, said pressure did not come from her family. At least she had that support.
* * *
Skye paused to sip her coffee, taking comfort in the hot, creamy beverage as well as the knowledge that Holmes’ aloofness had evaporated.
“My dream is pretty much the same every time,” she said, deliberately omitting the previous night’s modifications, lest he infer too much. “It’s always the accident itself. So if I tell you about the accident, you’ll know about the dream.”
“Very well,” Holmes murmured, settling back in his chair and crossing his long legs, cradling his mug in his hands. “Tell me.”
* * *
Skye thought for a moment, then dropped into a very basic discussion of the accident. It dawned on Holmes, as he listened to her terminology, that she was quoting the accident report she had herself written. As her tale went on, her voice lost inflection, becoming an
emotionless monotone.
“The accident occurred on Bartlett Road near the Katy city limits, at approximately 7:45 PM. A fully-loaded westbound semi rig approached the S-curve from the north, where it turns to become eastbound. The speed limit in this area is forty-five miles per hour. Estimate of the semi’s velocity, based on evidence at the scene, was approximately sixty miles per hour.”
Holmes nodded, listening intently.
“Simultaneously northbound on the same road, on the far side of the S-curve and traveling at the speed limit, was a blue Toyota Camry sedan,” Skye continued, deadpan, eyes glazed in memory. “Two occupants, one male, one female.”
Her parents, Holmes realized.
“The semi successfully negotiated the first half of the S-curve with difficulty, but his speed was excessive entering the second, tighter half of the curve. Consequently the entire rig swung wide as the driver attempted to prevent his rig from jack-knifing. At this point, the semi crossed over into oncoming traffic.”
Here it comes, Holmes recognized, setting aside his mug in preparation for whatever reaction she might have. Gently he extracted the mug from Skye’s clenched grip and set it aside as well. He studied her face, seeing a vacant, glazed, haunted stare.
“The resultant head-on collision occurred at a closing speed of approximately one hundred five miles per hour,” Skye reported dully. “The force of impact drove the engine of the passenger vehicle into the passenger compartment. It was found resting in the front seat, between driver and passenger, resting partly on the lower limbs of both, causing multiple compound fractures of said limbs.”
Holmes grimaced.
“At the same time, the semi tractor overran the front of the Toyota, due to forward momentum and the height discrepancy between the vehicles. The front bumper of the tractor came to rest atop the passengers in the other vehicle before rebounding an estimated three to four feet. The driver of the passenger vehicle was decapitated via blunt-force trauma and his shoulder girdle crushed; the left arm was partially amputated. The left front wheel of the semi tractor came to rest on the chest of the passenger. The significant increase in hydrostatic pressure resulted in the expulsion of the passenger’s internal organs through available orifices.”
Dear God in heaven, Holmes thought in horror, her father was beheaded and her mother literally vomited her own entrails. And Skye found them like that.
“The first response officer happened upon the scene approximately five minutes later. She encountered the accident scene, initiated the light bar on her vehicle, and first ascertained the condition of the semi driver, who was ambulatory though emotionally distressed. She reported the accident to emergency dispatch, requesting backup, fire, and EMT ambulance. Then she went to assess the condition of the occupants of the passenger vehicle. Both occupants were declared…” her voice shook for the first time during her tale, “dead at the scene.”
Skye raised tortured blue eyes to Holmes.
“First response officer then initiated traffic control until the arrival of backup.”
The office fell silent for a long moment.
* * *
“General Morris said you acquitted yourself bravely, Skye, maintaining a professional response throughout.” Holmes’ eyes narrowed against the sympathetic pain he felt.
“At a time like that, everything goes numb, and you act on training and instinct,” she noted, voice neutral, almost monotone. “I may not have had enough training to be a good investigator, but I got enough to do what I needed to for…that. There were no secondary accidents.”
“But you are still numb. Have you let go these emotions, the grief and the shock?”
“You mean have I broken down and had a screaming, crying fit? No.” She shrugged again.
“Have you at least wept?”
“A little. Not much. Mostly I try not to think about it.”
“No, no. This will not do. No wonder you continue to have nightmares. The mind and heart must release such things.”
Holmes’ compassion emerged and instinctively he reached for her, intending only to offer comfort while she vented her grief. But Skye pulled back, rising from her chair, slipping past him.
“Maybe later,” she said, her tone brusque, husky. “This is a work environment, and we have work to do. C’mon, tell me how to help you on this case, instead of tagging around like the tail of a dog.”
With a sigh, Holmes moved to his safe and opened it, extracting the case documentation before spreading it across her desk and familiarizing her intimately with its details.
* * *
Holmes found that Skye now threw herself into the investigation with an intensity bordering on obsession. Given her level of intelligence, it was nothing short of superb to see. It was obvious she intended to do everything she could to redeem herself in his eyes—and most likely, and possibly more importantly, her own.
She soaked up the forensics reports, memorizing them as quickly as he had, then insisted he take her to the various crime scenes after lunch. So Holmes called Jones and arranged for her to see the perimeter site, as well as the tamper site down the road. It had rained more than once since the last time Holmes had seen the sites, and they were no longer in the relatively pristine shape they had been. Nevertheless, she pleaded with him to show her what to look for, and Holmes obliged. And if she can see it and learn from it in its current condition, then she will indeed become an excellent detective.
As Holmes pointed out and explained in detail the various features and their concomitant deductions, features now long since softened and slumped, she crawled over the two sites, perfectly willing to get down in the mud to satisfy herself on some detail. Skye’s bright blue eyes first became hard, scrutinizing everything, then languid to the point of dreaminess, as her imagination endeavored to fill the gaps in knowledge of the event which had taken place there. Holmes leaned against the car and watched with interest, wondering if he was seeing a reflection of himself in the midst of an investigation. Recalling some of Watson’s descriptions, he concluded he probably was.
At the tampering site, which was still very muddy from a rainstorm two nights earlier, Skye rose with the knees of her jeans in a sorry state, and Holmes bit his lip to stifle his chuckle. Fortunately, she was still studying the ground and didn’t see his amused expression.
“Holmes?”
“Yes, Skye?” Holmes pushed away from the car fender and came to stand beside her on the grass. She pointed to a depression in the mud.
“So this was Thompson’s…” she paused, scrunching up her eyes in deep consideration, “his left shoulder, I think?”
“It was,” Holmes nodded, then pointed. “And there—”
“No, wait,” she grabbed his arm and pulled it down. “Let me see.”
Skye slunk through the tall wet grass, came to a stop; dropped into a squat and studied the area, running her hands through the air a couple of inches over the contours in the mud.
“I wish it wasn’t so collapsed now. Everything melted in the rain. Did he…did he roll onto that shoulder to reach something under the truck, maybe? It looks a little deeper than the right side…”
“He did. And why do you think he did so?”
* * *
Holmes’ eyes gleamed, but Skye frowned. Her eyes grew distant, and after a few moments’ thought, she twisted her shoulders from side to side, her body instinctively mirroring her mental attempts to reconstruct the scene. As she turned to the left, her right hand floated up. The blue eyes blazed with understanding.
* * *
“Oh! He was right-handed, wasn’t he? He had to reach…” she remembered the forensics report on the truck, “the kingpin in the left wheel, and he couldn’t sabotage it properly with his left hand.”
“Excellent, my dear Skye!” Holmes applauded. “That was the way of it. And you have just deduced for yourself one of the characteristics of our principal prey from this site: right-handedness. Moreover, you have done so correctly, for if you
will recall our surveillance of Thompson from the bar—”
“He drank his beer in his right hand,” Skye nodded, then beamed. “Did I…did I do well, Holmes?” she asked timidly.
Grey eyes softened, still glowing with light.
“Skye, take me down from this pedestal upon the which you have placed me, my dear. I neither need nor want to be there, and sooner or later, should you leave me there, I shall topple of my own account. I have been accused of arrogance many times in the past, and even Watson thought me egotistical from time to time. And I suppose I am. It is false modesty, in my opinion, to deny or denigrate one’s own abilities, especially when they are unique and considerable. But that does not mean I am not also well aware of my own shortcomings and foibles. I am not infallible, and I know eventually there will come a time when I will likely bitterly disappoint myself—and you.”
“Oh, I doubt it.” Skye pinched her lips together in an effort to hide the gentle smile that creased her mouth, dropping her gaze to study Holmes’ shoes so he wouldn’t see the tenderness in her eyes.
“I do not,” Holmes noted emphatically. “Despite my reputation and my best efforts, there are times when I patently fail to use what brains with which God has blessed me. You have already seen, many times over, I can be decidedly…difficult.”
“No more so than I am, in similar circumstances.” Skye brushed the comment aside.
“Skye, please,” Holmes said firmly, waving his hands through the air in exasperation. “I am not some Greek god of deduction, nor do I wish to be. I desire neither a drudge, nor an idoliser. We are nearly of an age; I would much prefer a simple friend and companion. And if she also happens to be a promising student, that is more than acceptable—provided she does not view herself as inferior because of it.”
Skye studied the earnest, aquiline face of her teacher and understood. Holmes wanted an equal, not a subordinate. Warmth flooded her, as she realized he appreciated her for her own sake, and not for any particular skills or knowledge she brought to the table. Impulsively, she flung her arms around him and gave him a fierce, affectionate hug—a split-second before she remembered whom she was hugging. Instantly she released him and tried to back off.
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 34
