The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  * * *

  As all eyes turned to her, Skye flushed, abashed, and waved aside their doubt.

  “I’m fine, Sherlock,” she told her companion, snapping the gloves into place around her wrists and moving to his side. “What do you need me to do?”

  “Help me turn him over.” Holmes was still eyeing her closely.

  “Do you have in situ photos?” Skye glanced at Smith.

  “Done. You can move him.” Smith nodded.

  “Okay,” Skye murmured, crouching beside Holmes, taking shallow breaths and trying valiantly to ignore the smell. “I’ll get his hips and legs, you get his shoulders.”

  “Very well,” Holmes agreed, getting a firm grip on the shoulders of the moldering body, as Skye tried to get a decent enough hold on the legs so the body didn’t come apart under its own weight. He waited as she tried several different positions, her face losing color again as the flesh of the legs squashed and tore beneath her gloved fingers. Finally she got a good grasp, and glanced up at Holmes with a nod.

  “On three,” Skye said. “And one…two…three.”

  The pair lifted and turned the body in coordinated synchronicity; the FBI agents were impressed at their quiet harmony. As they lowered the body to the ground, a clinking sound came from the rocks, and Holmes surveyed the surrounding soil with a hawk-like gaze. Within seconds he’d picked up a small brass key with a numbered plastic key ring from the gravel beneath the body.

  “Hm. What do you make of this, Skye?”

  Skye took the item from Holmes and studied it, turning it about in latex-clad fingers.

  “It looks like a locker key.”

  “Really? I think you solved a little puzzle,” Smith said, holding out an evidence bag for Skye. “Yeah. That’s a locker key, all right—from the Colorado Springs airport. With any luck, you just found Harris’ carry-on luggage for us.”

  “Cool,” Skye grinned, plopping the key into the evidence bag before returning her attention to the corpse and her companion, who had already resumed the inspection.

  * * *

  Holmes studied the clothing first, then lifted the tail of the tattered shirt and examined the back of the body. This released a new wave of odors, and Skye’s stomach reeled. She lunged to her feet and ran several yards away, bending over and retching for a moment, regaining control before she lost breakfast.

  * * *

  Holmes paused in his examination, and he and Smith watched in concern. The rest of the crime scene investigatory team courteously ignored the incident; they’d all been there at some point and could commiserate.

  “S-sorry,” Skye panted, standing up and looking at them with a face now red with embarrassment. “Agent Smith is right. I’ve worked a couple murder cases, and any number of traffic accidents, but I’ve never had to work with a decomposing body before.” Determined, she made her way back to Holmes’ side, and the detective felt intense pride at his beloved’s resoluteness. “Now what do you need me to do?”

  “Observe his clothing, my dear,” Holmes requested, returning his attention to the back and shoulders of the corpse. “I am less familiar with modern clothing styles than I should prefer, and would like your confirmation of the conclusions I reach.”

  “That, I can do,” Skye agreed, standing and circumnavigating the body, scrutinizing it, albeit at a small distance.

  * * *

  When they were finished with the body, they turned the site over to the forensics team and Smith led them back to the trail and up to the top. This was more to Skye’s liking, as the smells were much better. But it took them an additional hour of serious hiking, shoving through heavy underbrush and scrambling over rocks and around boulders to reach the location from which Harris had fallen.

  “I’m taking you up the same way Harris went,” Smith noted, pointing here and there. “Please note the old broken branches on various shrubs. We also found a few bits of thread on some of them that match Harris’ clothes. There’s a possibility we have a sample from a companion, but we’re not certain.”

  “Footprints?” Holmes snapped. “Do not tell me it is all trodden over.”

  “No, we’ve been careful. There’s not a lot to be seen, though. This part of the path is all stone and pine straw. Up near the top, there’s some soil that held prints. Feel free to take a look as we go.”

  So they did. But they both had to admit the pine straw left little permanent impression, being a spongy material and having rebounded in the intervening time. Holmes even took the small brush Skye offered from the forensics kit and swept away the top layer of needles, but found nothing of substance distinguishable as belonging to Harris or any who might have accompanied him. There were a few scuffed areas buried in the needle litter, but it was impossible to tell when, or what, had left them.

  “Blast and damnation! Would that I had access to details such as the rate of deposition of these needles. Skye?”

  Skye shot a glance at Smith, who shrugged; she returned her attention to Holmes and gave him a rueful look.

  “It’ll be dependent on the tree density in the area, as well as a few other factors, like species and stuff. We’ll have to do some experimentation and figure that one out on our own, I guess.”

  “Which does us no good now,” Holmes sighed. “Onward and upward.”

  * * *

  Their success rate changed at the top of the trail, which did indeed hold a scanty layer of soil.

  Holmes promptly became a bloodhound, studying the scene with all the intensity of a scavenging predator. Skye, too, studied the faint signs of human passage.

  “A sheep came through four days ago,” Holmes noted.

  “Yeah, and a bobcat yesterday. Several marmots playing on the edges. For once, I’m glad of the summertime drought.”

  “Indeed. Ah, here are the marks of Harris’ sneakers.”

  “Yeah, but who’s this other set?” Skye pulled out a small measuring tape and examined the imprints.

  “The man with the abnormally mincing stride, and heavily corrugated soles?” Holmes’ lips curved in approval.

  “That’s the one. I’m still trying to decide if the waffle pattern came along with ‘em, or came later.”

  “I should say later. Note how in at least six instances, Waffle overlays both Sneaker and Corrugated.”

  “Yeah, I see that. But I was thinking maybe Waffle was holding a gun on Harris. ‘Cause see, the pattern looks like what you’d find on the soles of combat boots.”

  “Waffle stompers,” Smith chuckled, recalling the military nickname for the footgear.

  “Hm. Possibly,” Holmes considered, crouching and placing his face close to the ground, sighting along it to get a profile of the prints. “But no, I think not. Waffle’s prints are sharper and higher in contrast than either Sneaker or Corrugated. That argues for—”

  “More recent,” Skye agreed, getting on her hands and knees and mimicking Holmes. “Yeah, I see what you’re talking about now.”

  “But there can still be no doubt. Corrugated was holding a gun on Sneaker.”

  “Yeah, his prints lag just that much behind. And always maintain a uniform distance.”

  “So it was murder?” Smith asked.

  “Oh, most definitely. I knew,” Holmes glanced at Skye, who nodded confirmation, “we knew that, before we ever left the body down in the canyon.”

  “How?” Smith wondered, curious.

  Holmes gave Skye the slightest smile, letting her answer.

  “For one thing,” she explained, “Harris was dressed in sneakers, shorts, and a t-shirt. Now we three have gotten up here, which was no easy stroll, and we’re wearing hiking boots, jeans, and chambray shirts, and we’re dusty, dirty, and scratched from the bushes.”

  “Harris,” Holmes observed, his bright eyes letting Skye know he was tag-teaming, “was quite scratched up, rather viciously, in fact. This argues that he was not prepared for the climb, and he was urged along it at considerable speed—as does the condition of the u
ndergrowth, and the presence of threads torn from his clothing.”

  “I’d hate to think I had to climb up here in the worn-out old athletic shoes Bob was wearing,” Skye shook her head, taking her turn. “There were a couple of places back there that were flat nasty, even with my hiking boots. And when Sher— uh, Holmes took the scrapings from his fingernails, it meant there was skin under there. When he was pushed, Harris grabbed for his assailant and took a chunk out of him. So with any luck, we’ll get some DNA from it.”

  “He also clutched at the rim of the ledge. His nails were broken and torn, with dirt and sand wedged in the creases. He did not go willingly, or by accident.” Holmes looked at his lover, a predatorily proud gleam in his eye. “Skye, would you like to describe the murderer to Agent Smith?”

  * * *

  Skye glanced at Holmes, and let him see the uncertainty in her eyes, though it was screened from Smith’s skeptical view. Holmes met her gaze calmly, his grey eyes shining. Skye read the confidence there, and drew a deep breath before turning to Smith.

  “The murderer stands below six feet, say roughly my height; has an exaggerated, dainty, almost feminine stride, and is right-handed. He—”

  “He? If the murderer is your size and has a feminine stride, how do we know it wasn’t a woman?” Smith queried sharply. “A gun is a big equalizer to size.”

  Skye shot a deferential look at Holmes, who sketched a half-bow and swept his hand toward Skye. “Pray continue, my dear. You are doing quite well.”

  “Sherlock, you’re the expert here.”

  “And you are becoming one.”

  “No, I have to agree with Dr. Chadwick,” Smith insisted. “I want to hear it from you.”

  * * *

  Holmes scowled, nettled by Smith’s lack of faith in Skye. “You will have to accept Skye’s expertise at some point, Agent Smith,” he said brusquely, his peevish tone indicating his annoyance. “You fought for it sufficiently. It is very unbecoming of you to refuse to accept it now. Very well. If you desire my assessment directly, you shall have it. The footprint evidence indicates the stated height, even in the absence of what can be termed a ‘natural’ stride length, because there is a proportional relationship between the size of the foot and the size of the body to which it belongs. As a rule, the length of the foot is roughly fifteen percent of the overall height. This must be modified somewhat in order to accommodate shoe styles, but it is an excellent rule of thumb. So we have that elementary little piece of information quite readily.”

  Smith nodded; as a senior FBI agent, he was aware of the correlation.

  “Also, these prints have a wide straddle. Now, one might argue, since women have wider hip structures in order to afford for the female function, a wide straddle would be indicative of a feminine suspect. However,” Holmes continued, “it is also true, even in this day and age, that women are more likely to deliberately adjust their walk to a much narrower straddle, as being appropriately ‘ladylike.’ In addition, because of the difference in pelvic width, the angle of the thigh to the calf is different for men and women, being larger in women; thereby causing an additional narrowing of the female straddle. A wide straddle is therefore far more indicative of a male with a stocky build.

  “As to the final point, I really must add that it was Skye who brought this to my attention during our training exercises, as a detail manifested in footwear only in recent years, though the anatomical difference has been known for some time. It is very simple: The genders do not have the same shape feet, and this is now being reflected in their shoes.” Holmes gazed calmly at the FBI agent.

  * * *

  “What?” Smith exclaimed, startled. He had been mildly bored up until then, but this information took him aback: Despite his FBI training, he’d not heard of the change in shoe manufacture.

  Holmes turned to Skye, who explained.

  “I’m sure you already know the basics, Agent Smith. Men’s feet tend to be more or less straight-sided, whereas women’s feet are wedge-shaped: narrower at the heel, wider at the ball.” Smith nodded, and Skye continued. “More and more footwear manufacturers are now making their shoes anatomically correct per the genders. When you use these prints to look for the manufacturer, you’ll probably find they use different lasts for men’s and women’s shoes. The corrugations on these prints point to a hiking boot, and hiking boots have to fit snug, so they’ll almost certainly be using the proper lasts for the gender. Look at Holmes’ and my boots: Same manufacturer, same style, different shape. These boot prints are straight-sided, not wedge-shaped. They’re men’s boots.”

  “How did you know that?” Smith wondered. “About the manufacturers, I mean.”

  “I’ve had a few pairs of riding boots custom-made for me. I’d tried for years to wear men’s cowboy boots, because so many ready-made women’s boots are all frou-frou fashion stuff, and I don’t play at horsemanship.” Skye shrugged with a wry grin. “So when I finally gave in and had a pair made, the bootmaker told me why the men’s boots always hurt my feet, and that’s how I learned about the foot shape. Then, when Sherlock was training me, I started noticing how many of the shoe prints I saw were wedge-shaped, and invariably I could trace ‘em to women. A couple of casual conversations with shoe salesmen at the mall confirmed my suspicions: The manufacturers were changing their lasts.”

  “Sonuva…Mind if I pass this on to the lab people, just to make sure they know?”

  Holmes’ shining eyes were the only indication of the pride he felt in his protégé and paramour as Skye shrugged. “Feel free. They probably already know, but it’s good to make sure.”

  “So we have a below-average-height male with a swishy walk, right-handed, with hiking boots,” Smith remarked, scribbling notes in a pocket pad.

  “And one less mole,” Holmes added.

  “And the count drops to eight,” Skye observed.

  * * *

  By the time they finished at Dome Rock, it was late in the afternoon, so Smith hurried the pair home in case Skye was still in danger. He called Ryker, who sent a surreptitious escort to the crime site to get the pair home. By the time they arrived at the ranch, they had long since missed lunch, and even tea was running behind schedule. Skye still wasn’t hungry; her insides continued to be queasy from dealing with the rotting corpse. Holmes also suspected the retching had hurt her incisions; he noticed her subconsciously holding her side occasionally. But she said nothing.

  Later that day, Ryker notified them that Smith’s people had located Harris’ carry-on luggage in an airport storage locker, thanks to the key Holmes and Skye found. Moreover, this set of luggage contained his cellphone; Smith was extremely pleased.

  But Holmes watched his companion the rest of the evening to ensure Skye was not ill. Her nausea disturbed him, and he was concerned she might be developing a virus—or something else. He suspected, however, that it was much too soon for “something else,” not to mention the fact that her medication should have rendered it moot.

  And as the evening progressed, Skye improved and ate a hearty dinner.

  The next morning she was back to normal. Skye spent the morning trimming the landscaping shrubs with Holmes’ help, while they waited for the forensics report on Harris.

  * * *

  After lunch, Holmes was called to the bunkhouse. He came in some half-hour later, a reflective look on his face, and took up a position in the corner of the sofa.

  “What’s up?” Skye asked, before his thoughts got too involved.

  “Hm? Oh—Ryker relayed a message. Approximate time of death on Harris has been confirmed, as well as cause of death due to the fall, specifically a crushed skull. DNA analysis on the skin samples under his fingernails is complete, but they have no match as yet. Colonel Jones has also requested my assistance on a matter. It seems Sergeant Thompson was known to carry a cellphone, which Jones hoped to…I believe the term is ‘mine for data.’ But it cannot now be found. It was not on the body, and they can find it neither in his quarte
rs nor his workstation. Nor was it in his vehicle when it was searched. As I have been in his work area and in his quarters,” here Holmes shot her a quick, uncomfortable glance, “Jones requested I give consideration to the matter.”

  “Okay,” Skye said, ignoring the querying glance. She knew its source and its reason; knew, too, she had no proof of anything untoward on Holmes’ part, and didn’t intend to look for any. For all Skye knew—or cared—Holmes had wangled an invitation into Thompson’s living quarters while nosing around the automotive shop at Peterson. “Did they find the original of a certain document?”

  “They did.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “So are you going down to the base this afternoon, or in the morning? And do you want me to come along?”

  * * *

  “Neither,” Holmes said, startled that Skye would put forth the notion. “It is not desired that either of us should be seen in public anytime soon. Jones was especially clear upon that point.”

  “Well, but as you’ve pointed out before, you’re an unknown quantity. And now I’ve got the ‘ranch hands.’ If you need to go, go. I’ll be fine.”

  “Even so, I should prefer not. In any event, I think it unnecessary. It is simply a matter of recalling my previous observations and determining where he would have hidden the item in question.”

  “Still, my much vaunted teacher is fond of telling me it is a serious mistake to theorize without all the data. You weren’t in Thompson’s quarters long. What if they’ve uncovered something since then?”

  “Then I would need to see it, certainly,” Holmes noted, both annoyed and impressed that Skye was debating from his own principles so well. “But Jones informs me nothing new has been discovered since my little visit.”

  “Okay. But if you don’t have it by dinner, I think you should go down tomorrow.”

  “Do you have reason to believe I will not?” Holmes asked acerbically, nettled.

  “Not especially. Knowing you, it won’t be a problem. But I don’t like the idea I’m keeping you here when you need to be down on the base investigating. Promise me you’ll go down if you think you need to.”