Sherlock: The White Dahlia - The White Dahlia
The White Dahlia
It was 2:00pm. I was standing in the apartment staring out of the window - it was pouring down something awful outside. The rain was so fierce that sight was hindered by the soaked exterior of the window. Sherlock was out, god knows where, leaving behind the welcomed peace and quiet I so often desire. In fact, it was so quiet, you could even hear the sound of Mrs Hudson humming a tune from downstairs, just over the sound of the crackle and sizzle of the warm fire. I just stood there - arm rested against the wall with my head pressed tightly against it; staring at the drops of rain plummet against the window and gently run a pattern down to the bottom of the window pane. The sky was overcast and rumbling antagonistically. It really created that cosy atmosphere that could almost send you to sleep. I embraced the moment and took advantage of it's unique presence as much as I possibly could since I knew it couldn't possibly last. I was right. Mrs Hudson suddenly screamed out in fear from downstairs! I dashed out of the apartment without hesitation, made my way downstairs (nearly tripping over my own feet) and into Mrs Hudson's kitchen where she stood holding a frying pan close to her chest staring at a filthy, beat up character leaning in the doorway of the back door, looking down to his feet. He glanced up at us revealing a face that resembled that of a punching bag. He was covered in bruices and cuts. Most noticably, there was blood running down from his brow to his chin. He tried to speak but trembled over his words, failing to make any sense at all. Me and Mrs Hudson stared at him, bewildered.
'Sh-... Sh-..' He took a deep gulp to clear his throat before trying again.
'-Sherlock?' I assumed aloud. 'Is that who you're looking for? Sherlock Holmes?' I began to make very slow, careful steps toward him. He shook his head and looked up at us.
'Sh-' He gulped again 'she's... dead.' He suddenly collapsed to the floor with a painful thud. Me and Mrs Hudson stepped back to stay clear of his uncontrolable flailing arms. We both stared at him for a moment, to grasp whether or not he was actually concious or not. I softly pulled Mrs H. back out of the way before cautiously leaning down to check over him. He still had a pulse but his skin was ice cold. I looked up at Mrs Hudson, 'He just fainted' I said. She raised both hands in the air - nearly knocking herself in the face with the frying pan - and shook her head in disbelief over the situation before turning on her heel.
It had been about an hour since the strange man had come to us and during that time he still remained outcold. Sherlock had not long arrived and was quite surprised, yet thrilled by our unusual guest. I had carried the man upstairs - with difficulty - and laid him down on the couch where he remained. Sherlock was standing over him. 'Fainted?' He asked curiously.
'Yeah' I took a sip from my tea as I sat down. 'All he said was 'she's dead''. Sherlock came over to sit down opposite me. He lounged into his chair and briefly fidgeted around in search for comfort. Satisfied, he tilted his head back so that he was looking to the ceiling. You could tell he was thinking by the way he drummed the chair arm with his fingers. 'Do you think it's them? The White Dahlia killer?' I asked holding tightly to the warmth of my mug. The thought had been lingering in my mind from the moment the strange man spoke. There hadn't been many bodies turn upwith the same M.O. as the White Dahlia killer since the murder of Lisa Bateman, and that was just over a month ago. Sherlock seemed very disappointed over it, actually.
'No.' He stated, so naturally calm. 'Wife beater, killed his wife and came to us to confess' he said. I was lost, I couldn't confess my disunderstanding.
'What? How do you know?', Sherlock sighed heavily.
'His face:' he groaned. 'Small scratch marks on his cheek; sharp nails piercing the skin. The back of his right hand has small traces of blood, but not his. There's no cut for there to be any.'
'His forehead is bleeding... he might have wiped it.' Sherlock shook his head to my clearly poor deduction.
'No! The blood on his forehead is still relatively wet, the blood on the hand is dry. The wound to the head is more recent.' I was failing horribly to piece it together. I looked over to the man, still unconcious hoping it may lend context.
'Still failing to see how he's a wife beater...' I said taking another sip of my tea. Sherlock leapt up onto his feet and marched over to the man, knelt down by his side and pointed to his left hand which was folded over his stomach. 'He's subconsciously clenching his hand into a fist - he's recollecting the dispute while he's dreaming. Aside from that, there's an overwhelming stench of alcohol on his clothes...' Sherlock leaned forward toward the man's face, turning away in disgust '-And breathe - so he's a drinker! He's got a small tattoo on on the left side of his neck, near to the back, which reads 'Grace'. It's old by now what with the colour fading but despite that, there's been poor and amateur attempts at removing it. Noteably from the scratches and red skin around the letters.' He stood up, returned to his chair and looked at me still unaware that I was still confused. He rolled his eyes in disappointment. 'He's been drinkning since the early hours of this morning, reluctantly returned home to his wife Grace who started an argument over the fact. He got angry so slapped her with the back of his hand. He forced her across the room so she began to scram his face to force him off. It didn't work, so when she was cornered, she used something to hit him over the head - hoping it would do enough damage to defend herself. It didn't work, it only angered him more, so he began beating her brutally until she eventually stopped breathing entirely.' I was horrified, whereas Sherlock tilt his head back again to relax, as if the whole thing was entirely unimportant. 'He realised what he had done and immediately came to us to confess. Weak, drunk and frightened, he fainted in Mrs Hudson's kitchen.' We suddenly heard the man grumble as he began to awake. He picked himself up while holding his head in pain. I looked to Sherlock - who was looking back at me - and conveyed my anger in silence. I stood up, did a brief stretch before marching over to him as he looked up at me, dazed and confused, like a lost puppy.
'What is it?' He asked in a voice that shook with fear. I could feel the demanding anger errupting inside of me, and he saw it. 'Oh' He squealed. 'Look- I'm sorry. I'm so sorr-' I punched him with all my strength and anger - knocking him out instantly. I looked over at Sherlock who was staring at me in shock and also admiration. He nodded his head slightly with tolerance for my actions immediately as Lestrade walked into the room unannounced. Me and Sherlock were surprised to say the least.
'Sorry to barge in, but we need y-' He stopped instantly when he noticed the man laying on the couch. The room fell silent while an awkward atmosphere flooded its way around us as we all just glanced at each other. 'Who's that?' He asked.
'Scum' I declared as I returned to my chair. I dropped myself down and snatched my tea off the table.
'Right...' Lestrade took a step closer to look.
'He's a wife beater,' Sherlock stood up and straightened his jacket, ridding it of any creases 'he's scum. You need to be looking for a woman's body. There's probably a wallet or something in his coat that should-'
'-Actually, we've already found a woman's body. That's why I'm here' Lestrade approached Sherlock. 'There's another one!'
'Where?' Sherlock asked, already storming for his bedroom in a rushed manner.
'An abandoned warehouse, just outside of London. We got a call in just over an hour ago.' Sherlock dashed out, flapping his collar up over the back of his neck - this time disregarding the scarf.
'Leave me an escort. You find the dead wife.'
'Forensics are being arranged.'
'I prefer to examine the scene without a load of ghosts wandering around, contaminating everything. I'd like to be there first!' Lestrade looked at me, gob wide in confusion. Sherlock had already left the room.
'That's Sherlock talk for: 'I want to prove I'm better without a load of professionals pointing things out first.''
We managed to track down the wife beater's house. When we got inside... there she was. There it was; the entire fight right in front of us, just as Sherlock had described. The wife, Grace, was laying on her side on the floor, one arm outstretched beneath her head and the other crossed over her waist. Being a doctor, Lestrade allowed me to examine the body before the other lot! It was difficult trying to focus when all I could think about was the low-life piece of scum currently sitting in a jail cell. It was too good for him. I felt privelaged to have had the opportunity to knock one into him myself. I managed to overcome the boiling hatred inside enough to piece together everything - although I confess I was mainly searching for what Sherlock had described. I pulled her hair back slightly revealing blue marks around her neck and throat - presumably from the bastard's attempt at strangling her. Further examining her, I lifted her shirt a little to see bruises all around her stomach. The beating that ultimately ended her life. Just aside of her head was small shards of smashed china, some large, some tiny. The bottom half of a small vase seemed to have rolled under their coffee table further correcting Sherlock's presumption of her attempted defense. Lestrade was the one who noted the small specks of blood around the tips of her finger nails - from the scratches she pierced into his cheeks. I felt as though I'd done everything I could have. Well, there wasn't much to do anyway. I let the pros take over while I stepped back out of the way.
'How'd he know about this?' Asked Lestrade. I simply looked up to him, silent, and expressed whether the question need answering. 'Yeah, yeah. Forget I said anything.' I was then alerted to my phone vibrating. A text from Sherlock.
'FIND THE BODY? S.'
'YES. FORENSICS TAKING OVER NOW.'
I dropped the phone back into my pocket, wrongly timed as it vibrated again immediately. I groaned and reached for it again.
'GRACE?'
'YEAH.' I held tightly to my phone awaiting for a reply. Half a minute went by without anything but I felt obligated to wait a little longer. I looked over to see forensics placing the body carefully into a body bag and dropping any vital evidence into small plastic bags. My phone vibrated again.
'NO.' I didn't understand. I turned to Lestrade in hope that he'd help make sense of it. As I turned, he had, unnoticed by me, already left for the kitchen and was rather disrespectfully making a cup of tea. I stepped aside again as two men were carrying the body out of the house and to the van, ready set for the morgue.
'WHAT DO YOU MEAN NO?' I sent the message, eagerly awaiting a reply. Alas, nothing. Greg was coming toward me holding two mugs in his hand, both emitting boiling steam and handed one out to me. I felt bad to accept it, but I did.
'Sherlock?' He asked nodding to my phone as he raised the mug to his mouth.
'Yeah...' I replied, rather out of the moment. I still couldn't figure out what Sherlock meant. Greg reacted instantly to the boiling hot tea hitting his lips, flapping his free hand round like a clown while rushing around the living room looking for a place to lay the mug down. 'You alright?' I asked, trying to peel back my laughter. He responded by waving his hand in the air as he noticed the coffee table. I couldn't hold it; I blurted out with laughter, quite inappropriately given the circumstances of our presence in the house. My phone vibrating once again in my hand distracted me from the free comedy show before me. I looked down to the screen while attempting to sieze the laughter with a cough. There, in front of my eyes was a picture and it's horrifying caption. 'Greg? Greg! Take a look at this!' I held the phone out in front of me as he turned, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. At first glance alone he'd already forgotten about the boiling pain his mouth had endured. His eyes were stretched wide, utterly shocked and worried. I knew I wasn't imagining it! Now, we'd both seen the terrible predicament we have now yet to face.
Sherlock layed with shut eyes and blood watered within his hair beside a woman's body. Scatterd all over and around the two were white dahlia flowers. There must have been dozens and dozens. The caption read:
'I HAVE MY PRIZE! WHO DARES TO RECLAIM IT? WD'
My mind was blank and all I could feel was worry and fear for my friend. I knew Greg felt the same! It seems we'd reached the penultimate part of one of the most gruesome and tricky cases we'd ever faced.
To be continued with: The Man With The Twisted Mind
It was 2:00pm. I was standing in the apartment staring out of the window - it was pouring down something awful outside. The rain was so fierce that sight was hindered by the soaked exterior of the window. Sherlock was out, god knows where, leaving behind the welcomed peace and quiet I so often desire. In fact, it was so quiet, you could even hear the sound of Mrs Hudson humming a tune from downstairs, just over the sound of the crackle and sizzle of the warm fire. I just stood there - arm rested against the wall with my head pressed tightly against it; staring at the drops of rain plummet against the window and gently run a pattern down to the bottom of the window pane. The sky was overcast and rumbling antagonistically. It really created that cosy atmosphere that could almost send you to sleep. I embraced the moment and took advantage of it's unique presence as much as I possibly could since I knew it couldn't possibly last. I was right. Mrs Hudson suddenly screamed out in fear from downstairs! I dashed out of the apartment without hesitation, made my way downstairs (nearly tripping over my own feet) and into Mrs Hudson's kitchen where she stood holding a frying pan close to her chest staring at a filthy, beat up character leaning in the doorway of the back door, looking down to his feet. He glanced up at us revealing a face that resembled that of a punching bag. He was covered in bruices and cuts. Most noticably, there was blood running down from his brow to his chin. He tried to speak but trembled over his words, failing to make any sense at all. Me and Mrs Hudson stared at him, bewildered.
'Sh-... Sh-..' He took a deep gulp to clear his throat before trying again.
'-Sherlock?' I assumed aloud. 'Is that who you're looking for? Sherlock Holmes?' I began to make very slow, careful steps toward him. He shook his head and looked up at us.
'Sh-' He gulped again 'she's... dead.' He suddenly collapsed to the floor with a painful thud. Me and Mrs Hudson stepped back to stay clear of his uncontrolable flailing arms. We both stared at him for a moment, to grasp whether or not he was actually concious or not. I softly pulled Mrs H. back out of the way before cautiously leaning down to check over him. He still had a pulse but his skin was ice cold. I looked up at Mrs Hudson, 'He just fainted' I said. She raised both hands in the air - nearly knocking herself in the face with the frying pan - and shook her head in disbelief over the situation before turning on her heel.
It had been about an hour since the strange man had come to us and during that time he still remained outcold. Sherlock had not long arrived and was quite surprised, yet thrilled by our unusual guest. I had carried the man upstairs - with difficulty - and laid him down on the couch where he remained. Sherlock was standing over him. 'Fainted?' He asked curiously.
'Yeah' I took a sip from my tea as I sat down. 'All he said was 'she's dead''. Sherlock came over to sit down opposite me. He lounged into his chair and briefly fidgeted around in search for comfort. Satisfied, he tilted his head back so that he was looking to the ceiling. You could tell he was thinking by the way he drummed the chair arm with his fingers. 'Do you think it's them? The White Dahlia killer?' I asked holding tightly to the warmth of my mug. The thought had been lingering in my mind from the moment the strange man spoke. There hadn't been many bodies turn upwith the same M.O. as the White Dahlia killer since the murder of Lisa Bateman, and that was just over a month ago. Sherlock seemed very disappointed over it, actually.
'No.' He stated, so naturally calm. 'Wife beater, killed his wife and came to us to confess' he said. I was lost, I couldn't confess my disunderstanding.
'What? How do you know?', Sherlock sighed heavily.
'His face:' he groaned. 'Small scratch marks on his cheek; sharp nails piercing the skin. The back of his right hand has small traces of blood, but not his. There's no cut for there to be any.'
'His forehead is bleeding... he might have wiped it.' Sherlock shook his head to my clearly poor deduction.
'No! The blood on his forehead is still relatively wet, the blood on the hand is dry. The wound to the head is more recent.' I was failing horribly to piece it together. I looked over to the man, still unconcious hoping it may lend context.
'Still failing to see how he's a wife beater...' I said taking another sip of my tea. Sherlock leapt up onto his feet and marched over to the man, knelt down by his side and pointed to his left hand which was folded over his stomach. 'He's subconsciously clenching his hand into a fist - he's recollecting the dispute while he's dreaming. Aside from that, there's an overwhelming stench of alcohol on his clothes...' Sherlock leaned forward toward the man's face, turning away in disgust '-And breathe - so he's a drinker! He's got a small tattoo on on the left side of his neck, near to the back, which reads 'Grace'. It's old by now what with the colour fading but despite that, there's been poor and amateur attempts at removing it. Noteably from the scratches and red skin around the letters.' He stood up, returned to his chair and looked at me still unaware that I was still confused. He rolled his eyes in disappointment. 'He's been drinkning since the early hours of this morning, reluctantly returned home to his wife Grace who started an argument over the fact. He got angry so slapped her with the back of his hand. He forced her across the room so she began to scram his face to force him off. It didn't work, so when she was cornered, she used something to hit him over the head - hoping it would do enough damage to defend herself. It didn't work, it only angered him more, so he began beating her brutally until she eventually stopped breathing entirely.' I was horrified, whereas Sherlock tilt his head back again to relax, as if the whole thing was entirely unimportant. 'He realised what he had done and immediately came to us to confess. Weak, drunk and frightened, he fainted in Mrs Hudson's kitchen.' We suddenly heard the man grumble as he began to awake. He picked himself up while holding his head in pain. I looked to Sherlock - who was looking back at me - and conveyed my anger in silence. I stood up, did a brief stretch before marching over to him as he looked up at me, dazed and confused, like a lost puppy.
'What is it?' He asked in a voice that shook with fear. I could feel the demanding anger errupting inside of me, and he saw it. 'Oh' He squealed. 'Look- I'm sorry. I'm so sorr-' I punched him with all my strength and anger - knocking him out instantly. I looked over at Sherlock who was staring at me in shock and also admiration. He nodded his head slightly with tolerance for my actions immediately as Lestrade walked into the room unannounced. Me and Sherlock were surprised to say the least.
'Sorry to barge in, but we need y-' He stopped instantly when he noticed the man laying on the couch. The room fell silent while an awkward atmosphere flooded its way around us as we all just glanced at each other. 'Who's that?' He asked.
'Scum' I declared as I returned to my chair. I dropped myself down and snatched my tea off the table.
'Right...' Lestrade took a step closer to look.
'He's a wife beater,' Sherlock stood up and straightened his jacket, ridding it of any creases 'he's scum. You need to be looking for a woman's body. There's probably a wallet or something in his coat that should-'
'-Actually, we've already found a woman's body. That's why I'm here' Lestrade approached Sherlock. 'There's another one!'
'Where?' Sherlock asked, already storming for his bedroom in a rushed manner.
'An abandoned warehouse, just outside of London. We got a call in just over an hour ago.' Sherlock dashed out, flapping his collar up over the back of his neck - this time disregarding the scarf.
'Leave me an escort. You find the dead wife.'
'Forensics are being arranged.'
'I prefer to examine the scene without a load of ghosts wandering around, contaminating everything. I'd like to be there first!' Lestrade looked at me, gob wide in confusion. Sherlock had already left the room.
'That's Sherlock talk for: 'I want to prove I'm better without a load of professionals pointing things out first.''
We managed to track down the wife beater's house. When we got inside... there she was. There it was; the entire fight right in front of us, just as Sherlock had described. The wife, Grace, was laying on her side on the floor, one arm outstretched beneath her head and the other crossed over her waist. Being a doctor, Lestrade allowed me to examine the body before the other lot! It was difficult trying to focus when all I could think about was the low-life piece of scum currently sitting in a jail cell. It was too good for him. I felt privelaged to have had the opportunity to knock one into him myself. I managed to overcome the boiling hatred inside enough to piece together everything - although I confess I was mainly searching for what Sherlock had described. I pulled her hair back slightly revealing blue marks around her neck and throat - presumably from the bastard's attempt at strangling her. Further examining her, I lifted her shirt a little to see bruises all around her stomach. The beating that ultimately ended her life. Just aside of her head was small shards of smashed china, some large, some tiny. The bottom half of a small vase seemed to have rolled under their coffee table further correcting Sherlock's presumption of her attempted defense. Lestrade was the one who noted the small specks of blood around the tips of her finger nails - from the scratches she pierced into his cheeks. I felt as though I'd done everything I could have. Well, there wasn't much to do anyway. I let the pros take over while I stepped back out of the way.
'How'd he know about this?' Asked Lestrade. I simply looked up to him, silent, and expressed whether the question need answering. 'Yeah, yeah. Forget I said anything.' I was then alerted to my phone vibrating. A text from Sherlock.
'FIND THE BODY? S.'
'YES. FORENSICS TAKING OVER NOW.'
I dropped the phone back into my pocket, wrongly timed as it vibrated again immediately. I groaned and reached for it again.
'GRACE?'
'YEAH.' I held tightly to my phone awaiting for a reply. Half a minute went by without anything but I felt obligated to wait a little longer. I looked over to see forensics placing the body carefully into a body bag and dropping any vital evidence into small plastic bags. My phone vibrated again.
'NO.' I didn't understand. I turned to Lestrade in hope that he'd help make sense of it. As I turned, he had, unnoticed by me, already left for the kitchen and was rather disrespectfully making a cup of tea. I stepped aside again as two men were carrying the body out of the house and to the van, ready set for the morgue.
'WHAT DO YOU MEAN NO?' I sent the message, eagerly awaiting a reply. Alas, nothing. Greg was coming toward me holding two mugs in his hand, both emitting boiling steam and handed one out to me. I felt bad to accept it, but I did.
'Sherlock?' He asked nodding to my phone as he raised the mug to his mouth.
'Yeah...' I replied, rather out of the moment. I still couldn't figure out what Sherlock meant. Greg reacted instantly to the boiling hot tea hitting his lips, flapping his free hand round like a clown while rushing around the living room looking for a place to lay the mug down. 'You alright?' I asked, trying to peel back my laughter. He responded by waving his hand in the air as he noticed the coffee table. I couldn't hold it; I blurted out with laughter, quite inappropriately given the circumstances of our presence in the house. My phone vibrating once again in my hand distracted me from the free comedy show before me. I looked down to the screen while attempting to sieze the laughter with a cough. There, in front of my eyes was a picture and it's horrifying caption. 'Greg? Greg! Take a look at this!' I held the phone out in front of me as he turned, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. At first glance alone he'd already forgotten about the boiling pain his mouth had endured. His eyes were stretched wide, utterly shocked and worried. I knew I wasn't imagining it! Now, we'd both seen the terrible predicament we have now yet to face.
Sherlock layed with shut eyes and blood watered within his hair beside a woman's body. Scatterd all over and around the two were white dahlia flowers. There must have been dozens and dozens. The caption read:
'I HAVE MY PRIZE! WHO DARES TO RECLAIM IT? WD'
My mind was blank and all I could feel was worry and fear for my friend. I knew Greg felt the same! It seems we'd reached the penultimate part of one of the most gruesome and tricky cases we'd ever faced.
To be continued with: The Man With The Twisted Mind