Sherlock: The White Dahlia - Murder at Bedford
Murder at Bedford
It was a quiet night and Sherlock and I were in the apartment, watching TV. We were watching 'Catchphrase', I love it. It always gets me thinking hard while I try my best to race to the answer before the contestants do. But before the clue had even been on screen for more than two seconds, Sherlock blurted out the answer and addressing it as if it were a children's show. It really took the fun out of the whole thing, I honestly don't see the point in these things when Sherlock's around. It was around 7PM, and I was listening out for the echo of footsteps clambering up the stairs toward the door; Mrs Hudson, bringing up some tea and biscuits for us both. She always does. I don't think she even realises she does it anymore. The door knocked so I turned to Sherlock, hoping he'd get up and open it. I'd not long sat down after cleaning the sink after finding half a dozen dead rats stacked upon each other like bricks: another one of Sherlock's 'experiments'. Only last week I found a jar full of eye balls in the cabinet next to the sugar.
Sherlock's face was fixed on the TV. Both hands were held together tightly in front of his face while he gently stroked his chin with both thumbs. I let out a loud sigh hoping it would catch his attention (like hell) before getting up reluctantly and doing it myself. When I opened the door, a breeze drifted in, catching Sherlock, 'Close the window, John' he said, still completely oblivious. Mrs Hudson came in, gripping tightly to a small tray with two ready-made cups of tea on it and a small saucer of chocolate digestive biscuits. 'Here you go, boys' she said with a bright smile on her face. She gently laid them down onto the table and within a heartbeat, a loud siren went off outside. Mrs Hudson jumped, dropping the tray onto the table with brute force. The tea splashed out of the cups and onto the biscuits, the heat melted the chocolate having it run down and onto the saucer itself. 'Oh, my!' She exclaimed, waving her hands in front of her like a shield. I ran over to the window to see Greg hopping out of a police car.
'It's Lestrade' I said. He looked up to the window as he fixed his collar, knowing I was looking down. He turned away and walked into the building. His face looked worryingly serious.
'Well, they'll need an ambulance for me if they keep that up' Mrs Hudson sat down to calm herself, hand on her heart while she counted the beats in her head. When I turned to Sherlock, he had already disappeared off into to his bedroom, predictably getting his gloves and coat. He tends to keep his coat hung up on his wardrobe, at the ready for anything. Like an armoury awaiting a reason to be used. Greg entered the room, looking tired and alarmed.
'What is it?' I asked eagerly. I couldn't bare the look of his face. It sent cold chills down my spine. He just looked me dead in the eye, breathing no word, only panting and breathing heavily.
'It's a murder.' Stated Sherlock exiting his bedroom, the tail of his coat flowing behind him. As I turned he was tying his scarf tightly around his neck before slipping on his gloves, pulling them down to his wrists as tightly as possible.
'How do you know?' I asked. He nodded to the TV where a breaking news broadcast was on. Everyone in the room remained completely still as we listened closely.
'This just in: a young woman was found just moments ago in southern London on Bedford Way. Police claim the state of the body is left in a horrific state. Viewers be warned: the following details can be considered disturbing' I couldn't comprehend how bad it would be. Sherlock himself looked quite horrified as the reporter continued to give brief details. He stood there, watching the TV with his eyes blaring fear and confusion. Greg brought him back to Earth by tugging at his arm. Sherlock turned quickly and followed Greg outside, adjusting his gloves comfortably. I turned to Mrs Hudson who stared at me, her hand clasped her mouth expressing her shock and disgust while her eyes glistened wide, her brows almost reaching the tip of her fringe. I snatched my jacket off the couch and ran out after Sherlock.
We were in a taxi, headed for the crime scene. Sherlock was gazing out of the window, watching all of the lights and people whiz by like a flash of light. The reflections of London's soul reflected off of the window and glistened in his eyes. He was deep in thought, you could tell by the way he held himself and the lack of talking. 'Do you ever consider it?' Sherlock asked gently. Breaking the silence.
'Consider what?' I asked.
'Whether what you've done with your life matters? Whether you've made any difference at all?' I was curious by what he meant. Sherlock has never asked anything of such a personal and emotional subject before. I was questioning whether it was really him.
'What are you talking about, Sherlock?' I asked hoping he would elaborate.
'Life, John. It goes by so quickly. Like a blur. Do you ever consider that anything you've done in your life will make a difference to anything, whether anything you've ever done mattered?'
'I guess. Sometimes.'
'-And?' Sherlock demanded as he turned to me. He looked at me desperate for an answer that he could make sense of.
'And... I think that I've made a huge difference to other people's lives. Well, me and you! We help people, Sherlock. We restore balance to their lives.'
'But we don't always win. People die, people suffer.' I couldn't believe this was Sherlock I was speaking to. It felt completely alien for him to be so open and deep about something. He looked back out of the window, his hand clenched into a fist and held steadily before his face
'No one can win every game, Sherlock. Not even you. Yes, people die. But we don't let them die without justice or respect.' I said. 'Sometimes caring and doing our best is all we can do, and people deserve at least that much.' Sherlock turned his head slightly and glanced down to his feet. 'Everything we have done and will do matters and it always makes a difference.' He took a deep breath, finding comfort in what I said. We were close to the crime scene by now. It seemed he was questioning whether what he did was worth doing. He genuinely does care about the people he helps, even if it doesn't look like it.
As the taxi came to a halt, the mood changed drastically. Outside was a sight that neither of us were prepared for. We stepped out into the harsh, cold wind and Sherlock marched off toward the scene just ahead in the local park. Greg was already waiting by the main entrance while the area was blocked off by tape and orange cones. A small tent was sheltering the body from the weather and public eye inside the park on a patch of grass while forensics patrolled the area - searching for evidence and clues. At each junction stood a policeman, directing any oncoming traffic. I paid the taxi driver before catching up with Sherlock and Greg who was giving the details as we began to approach the scene. 'She was found around six o'clock this evening by some poor woman walking her dog' Greg said as he led the way. 'Some of the limbs have been decapitated and we're still trying to get an ID on her- look, Sherlock...' Greg stopped us in our tracks, swinging his arm round to halt us. He looked to Sherlock sympathetic and horrified. 'I've never seen anything like this' he paused. 'Catch this sick bastard!' Sherlock looked at him for a moment and then to me. We shared the same intentions: to do just that. He brushed past Greg and made his way toward the scene. Greg looked at me as if to warn me about what our eyes will lay on. I nodded to excuse myself before following Sherlock - who was already half way there. When we reached the tent, a police officer leant his assistance by opening the tent's flaps for us to see clearly. We waited in anticipation, but the thing is, we didn't know what to anticipate. We just could not create such an accurate mental image of what to expect. Instantly, when the flap of the tent was pulled aside entirely, and the body was on display. I almost threw up. The victim was completely naked with both hands cut off and placed neatly on her stomach, and her arms laid out beside her. Her waist was cut half way through with what looked to have been a blunt instrument, leaving her half decapitated. A smile was carved into her face, stretching from the corners of her lips to the top of her cheek bones. Her eyes were still open. The killer didn't even have the decency to close them. I've witnessed death on many occasions. I've dealt with people with missing arms, legs... even heads. But this was something sick. This was done purely out of enjoyment or some twisted way of relieving boredom. Sherlock even turned his head away in disgust, coughing violently as he took in as much clear air as he could. He plucked up the stomach to turn back and examine the body. He reached into his coat and pulled out his toolkit before laying it out on the ground next to him, spreading it wide open so that everything was accessible: his magnifying glass, scalpel, small brush, petri dish and lid etc. all the tools he considers important. First he pulled out his magnifying glass and pulled it up close to his eye - gazing out of it sharp-eyed and with absolute attention. He leaned in close, covering his mouth and nose with his scarf to avoid the stench. I could just about make out what I believed was heaving just as I noticed him coughing into his scarf. I had to step aside to breathe some air for a moment myself. The smell was overwhelming. I looked around the park, well - what I could see of it - leaving Sherlock to it. Forensics were spread out everywhere. Like checkers on a checker board.
'Ah!' Sherlock shouted behind me. I looked back and saw him removing one of her hands gently, placing it just aside of the other.
'Sherlock, you can't do that! That's contaminating-'
'-Look!' He said. I bent down to get a closer look and noticed a small white flower that was hidden beneath her hands. Sherlock didn't touch it. He simply examined every inch of it, observing every petal. He took out a small scalpel from his tool kit and lifted one of the petals very carefully. There were tiny traces of blood on it, like small drips just about noticeable with the human eye. Blood must have been dripping onto it from the hand. Sherlock picked up the hand he just removed and looked at it's palm. There were small words engraved into it. 'It's a message' he said.
'SHE SHOULD HAVE KEPT HERSELF LOCKED UP BACK HOME - WD'
'What does it mean?' I asked, puzzled. Sherlock placed the hand back in its original place and stood up.
'She should have locked herself up back home'...?' He said to himself. 'We need to find a positive ID on her now!'
'-Lisa Bateman!' Shouted Greg overhearing our conversation. He was coming our way waving his hand in the air, trying to show off something he was holding. I couldn't quite make it out, but it was nothing big. 'Her mother reported her missing last night. And this was just found on one of the benches at the other side of the park.' He handed me a small evidence bag with a driving licence inside for a Miss Lisa Bateman, 31. The picture resembled that of the victim, but it was still quite hard to tell. 'The mother's on her way now, she wants to identify the body to be sure.' I looked to Sherlock who was reciting the message to himself.
'Sherlock?' I said. He stopped and looked at me.
'W.D'. What does that mean?' He asked removing his gloves and stuffing them into his pockets. 'Perhaps it's the killer's initials?' I asked. Sherlock shook his head. Greg turned to me while Sherlock did his thing.
'The press are already comparing the murder to the Black Dahlia, back in nineteen forty seven.' He said, trying to create a topic of discussion. Sherlock was pacing back and fourth, trying to work it all out in his head as Greg and myself stood back and watched. 'No!' Sherlock yelled, fingers pressed at his temples. 'That's too easy. Too foolish. The killer would never give his own initials, he'd just be helping us narrow it down.' I was about to say it could have been over-confidence, but he seemed to already know I was going to. 'If he was confident, he'd be more revealing - he'd be trying to show off. No, he's having fun with us. He left a flower, it's a clue or-' He stopped himself instantly and looked up into the distance. 'What did you say?' He asked, pointing and looking at Greg. 'The Black Dahlia?'
'Yeah' Greg replied. 'They're saying that the state of the body has some similarities. They love to cause a fuss and create panic.' He said, looking at me with a - rather inappropriate - smirk on his face. Sherlock looked both me and Greg in the eyes. 'What if they're right?' He said. 'That's what he's done! He's left us an insignia.'
'What are you going on about?' Asked Greg, completely lost. 'It's a copycat!' Replied Sherlock. 'Somebody's trying to create a copycat murder. Think about it; the decapitation, the carved face, the message. It's all connected.'
'Are you trying to say that we're dealing with a killer from sixty six years ago?' Asked Greg, assuming Sherlock was speaking nonsense.
'-No! A copycat! They're trying to reenact the murder, create an identity for themselves in the public eye. The flower underneath the hands was a white Dahlia flower, 'W.D': the White Dahlia!?' Sherlock smirked. I know that smirk. He was enjoying this. 'This is just the start' he said. The words didn't sound comforting.
'What? What do you mean?' I asked eagerly.
'There will be more- more bodies. He wants to test us.'
'-Who does?' I demanded.
'The Dahlia. The White Dahlia.' Me and Greg shared a look of discomfort. 'The game is on!'
To be continued with 'The White Dahlia'...
It was a quiet night and Sherlock and I were in the apartment, watching TV. We were watching 'Catchphrase', I love it. It always gets me thinking hard while I try my best to race to the answer before the contestants do. But before the clue had even been on screen for more than two seconds, Sherlock blurted out the answer and addressing it as if it were a children's show. It really took the fun out of the whole thing, I honestly don't see the point in these things when Sherlock's around. It was around 7PM, and I was listening out for the echo of footsteps clambering up the stairs toward the door; Mrs Hudson, bringing up some tea and biscuits for us both. She always does. I don't think she even realises she does it anymore. The door knocked so I turned to Sherlock, hoping he'd get up and open it. I'd not long sat down after cleaning the sink after finding half a dozen dead rats stacked upon each other like bricks: another one of Sherlock's 'experiments'. Only last week I found a jar full of eye balls in the cabinet next to the sugar.
Sherlock's face was fixed on the TV. Both hands were held together tightly in front of his face while he gently stroked his chin with both thumbs. I let out a loud sigh hoping it would catch his attention (like hell) before getting up reluctantly and doing it myself. When I opened the door, a breeze drifted in, catching Sherlock, 'Close the window, John' he said, still completely oblivious. Mrs Hudson came in, gripping tightly to a small tray with two ready-made cups of tea on it and a small saucer of chocolate digestive biscuits. 'Here you go, boys' she said with a bright smile on her face. She gently laid them down onto the table and within a heartbeat, a loud siren went off outside. Mrs Hudson jumped, dropping the tray onto the table with brute force. The tea splashed out of the cups and onto the biscuits, the heat melted the chocolate having it run down and onto the saucer itself. 'Oh, my!' She exclaimed, waving her hands in front of her like a shield. I ran over to the window to see Greg hopping out of a police car.
'It's Lestrade' I said. He looked up to the window as he fixed his collar, knowing I was looking down. He turned away and walked into the building. His face looked worryingly serious.
'Well, they'll need an ambulance for me if they keep that up' Mrs Hudson sat down to calm herself, hand on her heart while she counted the beats in her head. When I turned to Sherlock, he had already disappeared off into to his bedroom, predictably getting his gloves and coat. He tends to keep his coat hung up on his wardrobe, at the ready for anything. Like an armoury awaiting a reason to be used. Greg entered the room, looking tired and alarmed.
'What is it?' I asked eagerly. I couldn't bare the look of his face. It sent cold chills down my spine. He just looked me dead in the eye, breathing no word, only panting and breathing heavily.
'It's a murder.' Stated Sherlock exiting his bedroom, the tail of his coat flowing behind him. As I turned he was tying his scarf tightly around his neck before slipping on his gloves, pulling them down to his wrists as tightly as possible.
'How do you know?' I asked. He nodded to the TV where a breaking news broadcast was on. Everyone in the room remained completely still as we listened closely.
'This just in: a young woman was found just moments ago in southern London on Bedford Way. Police claim the state of the body is left in a horrific state. Viewers be warned: the following details can be considered disturbing' I couldn't comprehend how bad it would be. Sherlock himself looked quite horrified as the reporter continued to give brief details. He stood there, watching the TV with his eyes blaring fear and confusion. Greg brought him back to Earth by tugging at his arm. Sherlock turned quickly and followed Greg outside, adjusting his gloves comfortably. I turned to Mrs Hudson who stared at me, her hand clasped her mouth expressing her shock and disgust while her eyes glistened wide, her brows almost reaching the tip of her fringe. I snatched my jacket off the couch and ran out after Sherlock.
We were in a taxi, headed for the crime scene. Sherlock was gazing out of the window, watching all of the lights and people whiz by like a flash of light. The reflections of London's soul reflected off of the window and glistened in his eyes. He was deep in thought, you could tell by the way he held himself and the lack of talking. 'Do you ever consider it?' Sherlock asked gently. Breaking the silence.
'Consider what?' I asked.
'Whether what you've done with your life matters? Whether you've made any difference at all?' I was curious by what he meant. Sherlock has never asked anything of such a personal and emotional subject before. I was questioning whether it was really him.
'What are you talking about, Sherlock?' I asked hoping he would elaborate.
'Life, John. It goes by so quickly. Like a blur. Do you ever consider that anything you've done in your life will make a difference to anything, whether anything you've ever done mattered?'
'I guess. Sometimes.'
'-And?' Sherlock demanded as he turned to me. He looked at me desperate for an answer that he could make sense of.
'And... I think that I've made a huge difference to other people's lives. Well, me and you! We help people, Sherlock. We restore balance to their lives.'
'But we don't always win. People die, people suffer.' I couldn't believe this was Sherlock I was speaking to. It felt completely alien for him to be so open and deep about something. He looked back out of the window, his hand clenched into a fist and held steadily before his face
'No one can win every game, Sherlock. Not even you. Yes, people die. But we don't let them die without justice or respect.' I said. 'Sometimes caring and doing our best is all we can do, and people deserve at least that much.' Sherlock turned his head slightly and glanced down to his feet. 'Everything we have done and will do matters and it always makes a difference.' He took a deep breath, finding comfort in what I said. We were close to the crime scene by now. It seemed he was questioning whether what he did was worth doing. He genuinely does care about the people he helps, even if it doesn't look like it.
As the taxi came to a halt, the mood changed drastically. Outside was a sight that neither of us were prepared for. We stepped out into the harsh, cold wind and Sherlock marched off toward the scene just ahead in the local park. Greg was already waiting by the main entrance while the area was blocked off by tape and orange cones. A small tent was sheltering the body from the weather and public eye inside the park on a patch of grass while forensics patrolled the area - searching for evidence and clues. At each junction stood a policeman, directing any oncoming traffic. I paid the taxi driver before catching up with Sherlock and Greg who was giving the details as we began to approach the scene. 'She was found around six o'clock this evening by some poor woman walking her dog' Greg said as he led the way. 'Some of the limbs have been decapitated and we're still trying to get an ID on her- look, Sherlock...' Greg stopped us in our tracks, swinging his arm round to halt us. He looked to Sherlock sympathetic and horrified. 'I've never seen anything like this' he paused. 'Catch this sick bastard!' Sherlock looked at him for a moment and then to me. We shared the same intentions: to do just that. He brushed past Greg and made his way toward the scene. Greg looked at me as if to warn me about what our eyes will lay on. I nodded to excuse myself before following Sherlock - who was already half way there. When we reached the tent, a police officer leant his assistance by opening the tent's flaps for us to see clearly. We waited in anticipation, but the thing is, we didn't know what to anticipate. We just could not create such an accurate mental image of what to expect. Instantly, when the flap of the tent was pulled aside entirely, and the body was on display. I almost threw up. The victim was completely naked with both hands cut off and placed neatly on her stomach, and her arms laid out beside her. Her waist was cut half way through with what looked to have been a blunt instrument, leaving her half decapitated. A smile was carved into her face, stretching from the corners of her lips to the top of her cheek bones. Her eyes were still open. The killer didn't even have the decency to close them. I've witnessed death on many occasions. I've dealt with people with missing arms, legs... even heads. But this was something sick. This was done purely out of enjoyment or some twisted way of relieving boredom. Sherlock even turned his head away in disgust, coughing violently as he took in as much clear air as he could. He plucked up the stomach to turn back and examine the body. He reached into his coat and pulled out his toolkit before laying it out on the ground next to him, spreading it wide open so that everything was accessible: his magnifying glass, scalpel, small brush, petri dish and lid etc. all the tools he considers important. First he pulled out his magnifying glass and pulled it up close to his eye - gazing out of it sharp-eyed and with absolute attention. He leaned in close, covering his mouth and nose with his scarf to avoid the stench. I could just about make out what I believed was heaving just as I noticed him coughing into his scarf. I had to step aside to breathe some air for a moment myself. The smell was overwhelming. I looked around the park, well - what I could see of it - leaving Sherlock to it. Forensics were spread out everywhere. Like checkers on a checker board.
'Ah!' Sherlock shouted behind me. I looked back and saw him removing one of her hands gently, placing it just aside of the other.
'Sherlock, you can't do that! That's contaminating-'
'-Look!' He said. I bent down to get a closer look and noticed a small white flower that was hidden beneath her hands. Sherlock didn't touch it. He simply examined every inch of it, observing every petal. He took out a small scalpel from his tool kit and lifted one of the petals very carefully. There were tiny traces of blood on it, like small drips just about noticeable with the human eye. Blood must have been dripping onto it from the hand. Sherlock picked up the hand he just removed and looked at it's palm. There were small words engraved into it. 'It's a message' he said.
'SHE SHOULD HAVE KEPT HERSELF LOCKED UP BACK HOME - WD'
'What does it mean?' I asked, puzzled. Sherlock placed the hand back in its original place and stood up.
'She should have locked herself up back home'...?' He said to himself. 'We need to find a positive ID on her now!'
'-Lisa Bateman!' Shouted Greg overhearing our conversation. He was coming our way waving his hand in the air, trying to show off something he was holding. I couldn't quite make it out, but it was nothing big. 'Her mother reported her missing last night. And this was just found on one of the benches at the other side of the park.' He handed me a small evidence bag with a driving licence inside for a Miss Lisa Bateman, 31. The picture resembled that of the victim, but it was still quite hard to tell. 'The mother's on her way now, she wants to identify the body to be sure.' I looked to Sherlock who was reciting the message to himself.
'Sherlock?' I said. He stopped and looked at me.
'W.D'. What does that mean?' He asked removing his gloves and stuffing them into his pockets. 'Perhaps it's the killer's initials?' I asked. Sherlock shook his head. Greg turned to me while Sherlock did his thing.
'The press are already comparing the murder to the Black Dahlia, back in nineteen forty seven.' He said, trying to create a topic of discussion. Sherlock was pacing back and fourth, trying to work it all out in his head as Greg and myself stood back and watched. 'No!' Sherlock yelled, fingers pressed at his temples. 'That's too easy. Too foolish. The killer would never give his own initials, he'd just be helping us narrow it down.' I was about to say it could have been over-confidence, but he seemed to already know I was going to. 'If he was confident, he'd be more revealing - he'd be trying to show off. No, he's having fun with us. He left a flower, it's a clue or-' He stopped himself instantly and looked up into the distance. 'What did you say?' He asked, pointing and looking at Greg. 'The Black Dahlia?'
'Yeah' Greg replied. 'They're saying that the state of the body has some similarities. They love to cause a fuss and create panic.' He said, looking at me with a - rather inappropriate - smirk on his face. Sherlock looked both me and Greg in the eyes. 'What if they're right?' He said. 'That's what he's done! He's left us an insignia.'
'What are you going on about?' Asked Greg, completely lost. 'It's a copycat!' Replied Sherlock. 'Somebody's trying to create a copycat murder. Think about it; the decapitation, the carved face, the message. It's all connected.'
'Are you trying to say that we're dealing with a killer from sixty six years ago?' Asked Greg, assuming Sherlock was speaking nonsense.
'-No! A copycat! They're trying to reenact the murder, create an identity for themselves in the public eye. The flower underneath the hands was a white Dahlia flower, 'W.D': the White Dahlia!?' Sherlock smirked. I know that smirk. He was enjoying this. 'This is just the start' he said. The words didn't sound comforting.
'What? What do you mean?' I asked eagerly.
'There will be more- more bodies. He wants to test us.'
'-Who does?' I demanded.
'The Dahlia. The White Dahlia.' Me and Greg shared a look of discomfort. 'The game is on!'
To be continued with 'The White Dahlia'...