"IT'S A metaphor. Obviously, the culprit chose people with larger shadows so they could fit in their life without anyone else knowing aside from the victim, all poisoning executed in public—a secret lover in a picnic area where nobody would recognize them, a John Doe living on the street, and a taxi cab that no one would pay attention to. So now, what's so special about the fourth victim?"
Inspector Lestrade sighed. "The bastard himself left a note."
Finally, after almost an hour trip, the car stopped in front of an ordinary one-story house in a neighborhood street. There was that signature yellow and black tape that ran around the house. There were police cars parked around too, and each of their lightbars were illuminating the street and the faces of people around, some of them wearing those vivid blue gowns, the one they call crime scene protective gear I guess. Forensic people are really easy to spot.
Inspector Lestrade was the first to hop out of the vehicle. He was greeted by a few men, possibly those who work under him and was about to be ushered inside but he turned to us first, to Sherlock and I who stayed behind in the car, telepathically telling us to move.
"Will you get out?" I asked.
No answer. He was simply staring at the house with a blank expression.
"I'm your plus one. So . . ."
Sherlock removed his eyeglasses and handed it over to me. "Stick close to me and don't talk to anyone. Most of the adults here are douchebags."
Both of us finally got out of the car and followed Inspector Lestrade inside. Few men blocked our way in, telling us we can't go further, but the moment then they recognized Sherlock, they voluntarily stepped away before the Inspector could command them to.
We made our way inside a neat home that I wouldn't be able to tell if it's actually a crime scene or what. Some forensic people were still examining around, taking pictures and stuff. I made certain I took my steps carefully to not cause any trouble.
"Where's my real crime scene?" Sherlock asked impatiently, roaming his eyes around.
"In the basement."
Inspector Lestrade made me wear the same protective gear—from a head to shoes, all covered by this disposable blue stuff. I hanged the eyeglasses that Sherlock made me carry to my collar, but it was still covered by this lab gown. It'd be hard to get it if he asked for it. Why'd he even give it to me? He even only wore gloves and proceeded to the basement at once. Won't he get reprimanded for that?
Aah~ Honestly, I wish I could take a photo of myself wearing these. It's a once-in-a-lifetime thing!
I followed Sherlock and climbed the stairs down. Nobody's calling out to me, so I guess I'm doing just fine. It got dimmer as I take one step after another, and the rotten smell was getting stronger. Am I about to witness a dead body?
The basement was spacious than I imagined, and creepier than it could ever be. My eyes couldn't even land on one thing because there were too much stuff in the room, every corner was crowded with something. There wasn't anyone but the three of us. But to sum it up, sculptures of human mostly filled the room.
"A stinky unhygienic studio," Sherlock blurted out, craning his neck left and right as he thoroughly observes around.
There were two tables around, and from each side of the basement. Different materials were scattered all over the floor. In the middle, there was a while outline of how a human body was positioned, and there wasn't any trace of blood. But I could argue that the creepiest thing in this room was the sculpture of a life-sized man, about the same height as Sherlock, standing in the farthest side of the room and covered with the eerie color of scarlet.
"They'll perform the autopsy tomorrow. Oh, I mean, later at 6 AM," Inspector Lestrade broke the silence.
Maybe it's the extra shot that Sherlock bought for me that I don't feel the time at all.
"The victim is male, 23, and a sculptor named Victor Rodin. He's already an orphan and lives alone. He was found dead in the basement by his neighbor last night, 6PM. She testified that she lives nearby and came to share her family's dinner as per usual, but he wasn't answering the door. He also wasn't answering her calls, which was unusual for Victor who takes his smartphone everywhere, even in the toilet. She noticed the door was left unlocked, so she took the liberty to roam in the house and found the basement."
"You haven't done the autopsy?" Sherlock sounded so surprised. "How'd you know he's the fourth then?"
"The body's physical condition gave it. Respiratory failure from poison. He smelled like garlic, dead giveaway."
"But the pattern was different, wasn't it? He was murdered in his own house," Sherlock argued as he walk around the room, inspecting everything. "Though a note indicates it's not their first time . . . Where's the note?"
"It was already taken to the forensics lab. But I have a photo."
Inspector Lestrade took his phone out and showed us a photo of a yellow sticky note inside a zip bag.
You're welcome.
It was written in a red marker with a neat penmanship.
When Sherlock saw the photo, he burst out laughing. The Inspector and I were too stunned to speak upon seeing his reaction. If that was a joke, Sherlock is terrible at it. Nobody would ever do that in a crime scene—somebody just died!
"They thought they had done something worth of your gratitude, Lestrade," Sherlock said while keeping the wide smile on his face. "I love the misplaced confidence."
Misplaced confidence? Is he talking about himself?
He went to the farthest side of the basement, and stood next to the life-sized sculpture of a man. He lingered his eyes at it for almost a minute, and subsequently started to touch it with his two hands.
Wait.
Isn't he going a little too far?
I checked on what he was doing once again, paced near him, and observed his actions carefully.
I'm not mistaken.
It seemed to me . . . that his hands were slowly, weirdly running through the entire sculpture with his eyes closed, and his nose sniffing it as well. He ran his hands like he was feeling everything, every curve, every space—from the sculpture's head down to its toes.
Watching him made me uncomfortable. Misplaced behavior too.
"Made of marble, then covered it with red paint about a year ago . . ." Sherlock said after he had finished groping the sculpture.
"Do you like men?" I asked out of curiosity that felt the need to be filled right away.
He turned to me with his eye devoid of any light. "No."
"Do you like sculptures then? Art?"
"Hmm? Yeah? I like art." He then turned to Inspector Lestrade who was standing on the basement's doorway, watching us. "Have you questioned his blind girlfriend?"
Eh?
"The victim has a blind girlfriend?" the Inspector asked, visibly shocked as well. "None of his neighbors testified so."
"This sculpture is the victim himself, isn't it? Why else would he do such a thing? If you looked him up online, you'd find his name associated with at least two to three awards. However, his walls upstairs had no displays of any kind of achievements despite having this much of talent, nor there wasn't even a picture of him anywhere in his own house—might be a down to earth man, selfless or just really low self-esteem. Why did he sculpt himself?"
I pulled my smartphone out of my pocket to check the name. Victor Rodin. And Sherlock's right, he won three awards from his sculptures. Others were even displayed in a museum.
"Also, as someone who lives alone, he always had a pair of everything, taken out for often use—indoor shoes, toothbrushes, umbrellas on the stand, utensils. Most of the other halves of the pair have feminine designs. A woman frequents here then. There were braille stickers on the shampoo bottles and medication labels. His workspace here in the basement is messy and disorganized, while upstairs are maintained to be neat. There were even smart speakers everywhere for voice assistant to control thermostat and other smart appliances, which could only mean that someone . . . Someone here needs to operate without relying on sight. His furniture had been arranged for free movement and orderly walkways. The rug corners are taped down to prevent tripping—people don't usually do that on a whim."
Sherlock had observed and concluded those already?! We aren't even here for half an hour yet!
"I love how humans would go to such lengths for sentiments. Sweet. The victim didn't tidy up for neatness, but to make his blind girlfriend's world predictable."
For the nth time, I was stunned. I could only stare, caught between disbelief and delight. He's so brilliant that I had to refrain myself from clapping.
He walked towards Inspector Lestrade and pulled him away from the basement's threshold. Sherlock held the door and closed it. "Tightly sealed," he murmured as he lifted his gaze up to the door's top and then to the bottom. Without a warning, he suddenly crouched down and stared at the door, and his fingers ran at some spot on it, seemingly feeling its texture.
I crouched down next to him and realized he noticed a little horizontal scratch on the door, about on the height of my thigh. What's his deal with this?
He swiftly stood up and roamed his eyes around the basement again, as if looking for something this time. Meanwhile, Inspector Lestrade already climbed upstairs to instruct his colleagues to look for the blind girlfriend. Sherlock and I were left alone in the basement as he roam around one more time. Then finally, he stood before the life-sized sculpture again, turning his back on me. That immovable scarlet sculpture of a man taller than me could still send chills down my spine.
"Luce." Sherlock's voice was gentle that it almost felt like a whisper. "Would you be able to understand as to why this sculptor of ours . . . sculpted himself for his lover?"
"For his lover?" I echoed his last few words, confused how he concluded it that way.
"Come here."
I did as he told me but I was more surprised when he promptly grabbed my hand. "Hey, what are you—"
Then he placed my hand on the sculpture's face. For something made of marble, it's surprisingly warm.
"Close your eyes," he whispered.
I pressed my eyes closed and recalled the moment earlier when I noticed him acting strange on the sculpture. I retraced his movements and I let my sense of touch take the liberty of feeling every curve of it as if I'm touching a real human being—from the cheeks, nose, up to the eyes and the shape of the hair.
"He really was talented," I said and glanced over my shoulder. "Do you think he was touching his face the whole time he was sculpting this?"
Sherlock only replied with a fake sheepish smile, dismissing my question. "If this was for his lover, isn't giving himself, body and flesh, better and preferable? Did Victor Rodin know this sculpture will serve as his replacement when he's gone?"
I have zero idea. Instead, I wondered how Sherlock's train of thoughts work, and how it must've too noisy inside his head carrying all that genius. When I didn't answer his question, nor speak of anything else, he didn't seem to bother as he was too engrossed with his mind, staring at the sculpted face of the victim. It was an amusing to watch because he's like talking to it.
I climbed out of the basement and spotted Inspector Lestrade coming back after a phone call. My arrival back in the light caught the attention of the remaining people in the scene, and for a brief moment, I noticed their eyes filled with prejudice and judgement.
Whatever! I'm the special guest's plus one—I shouldn't be shaken.
I blocked Inspector Lestrade's way with the intention of talking to him in private. "Sir, can I ask you a question about Sherlock Holmes?"
"Sure," he replied and nodded but with a hint of skepticism. "I guess you're just a random person he dragged here to show us he doesn't like to be back. But he had no choice after all, so now he's breaking some rules. Typical of him. So ask away, young lady."
I was taken aback. Is that what kind of person he is? Wait, yeah. He's weird in many ways.
"I was wondering if you could tell me what happened at the Reichenbach building? Last year? It wasn't really clear to the public . . ." I paused to observe his reaction and waited if there'd be anything negative to show up on his expression. I continued when I sensed none of it. "Uhm, there was this . . . conspiracy rumor against Sherlock where he intentionally pushed the other student from that rooftop."
"Ah! That case!" Inspector Lestrade's face unexpectedly lit up and his eyes showed signs of recognition. If I wasn't exaggerating, I'd say he's happy to talk about it. "I remember that case like the back of my hand. That was Sherlock's last case that he handled, he was such a huge help. Shame he wanted to quit afterwards."
Last case? Oh, yeah . . . I heard he got a one year hiatus until tonight.
The Inspector continued. "You must've heard of Jerediah Moriarty from Doyle, didn't you? He was a celebrity then. But it turned out, he was doing a lot of illegal activities. Sherlock found out but another surprise was that it took us three months to catch and arrest that guy."
Of course I've heard of Jerediah Moriarty. He was the campus heartthrob from the Math department. But after the Reichenbach Fall, he vanished into thin air.
"You heard what Sherlock said earlier, right? Oh, please, even if he has such a punchable face that he's tryna disguise now, he wasn't lying when he said this case could've been solved within three days if it's him. That's why when Moriarty's case lasted for months, I realized that Sherlock had met his match. Moriarty's genius was on par with his. For one last time, they met on the rooftop, Sherlock pulled some strings so we could arrest Moriarty. But a tragedy occurred and both of them fell from the rooftop."
There's another person like Sherlock?! A criminal version?!
"But I'm telling you, young lady. If someone had pushed somebody in that rooftop, it'd be Moriarty to Sherlock. Yeah, no—our detective might be the most annoying high-functioning sociopath, but he doesn't go for the kill. Especially not Moriarty."
"They survived that fall?"
"Yeah, I mean, look at Sherlock. It had been a year but he's still keeping those bandages. As for Moriarty . . . well, he's doing quite great in prison."