The Bone Fiddle, Chapter 4/13
Title: The Bone Fiddle
Authors: htebazytook and vulgarweed
Beta Read By: bethbethbeth THANK YOU!
Fandom: Sherlock
Rating: Overall NC-17
Word Count: ~62,000
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Also featuring (in order of appearance): Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan, Mycroft Holmes, Molly Hooper, Irene Adler, several OCs (original characters) and OCs (original corpses).
Summary: Appalachian AU!
For full summary and warnings, see Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
In this chapter: We can't chew tobacco, this is a crime scene!
Chapter 4 - The Boscombe Holler Mystery
John had been in a great deal of depressing places in his life, and he wasn't going to say this dingy little afterthought of a room in the basement of the clinic was the most miserable - it wasn't - but it was right up there. Harsh lighting, buzzing and flickering, making even the living look corpselike.
The smell. God was having a good day when He invented Vicks Vapo-Rub.
Nobody but Sherlock had told John to brace himself for the sight, but maybe they just assumed he'd seen worse. He'd definitely seen as bad as, but this might have been worse because of the context. You expected this kind of thing in the middle of a warzone, not here. John saw pain and horror and gaping wounds, an unrecognizable face and that especially terrible taste in the air of losing someone so young.
John stopped in his tracks for a minute, but Sherlock kept right on going, peering very closely at the body, which was strewn across the table. Strewn was definitely the right word. John had made some flippant comment about Jack the Ripper before, but he was sure the mess in front of them could easily have rivaled one of his victims.
The body was missing a significant chunk of its chest and all of one arm. The nose was alarmingly missing as well, and all the fingers of the remaining hand had been messily severed.
"Hm," Sherlock said impassively. "Well, that's quite a mess. Someone spent a lot of time on that. Both the killing and the knifework. She didn't go quickly and the killer never lost nerve, so it was either very personal or we're dealing with a trophy hunter who enjoys the process as much as the result. Those aren't mutually exclusive, either."
"How do you know she wasn't shot?" John didn't know how Sherlock could tell much of anything from the carnage laid out in front of them.
"Petechiae in the whites of her eyes; she was strangled. No need for that when you have a gun, and obviously the killer wasn't concerned about keeping her body intact. Also the incisions were made post-mortem."
"I didn't do anything yet," said a mousy young woman in a white coat as she emerged from the side door. John looked at her more closely. No, mousy only by mannerism. Pretty, actually, and in a medical field, had to be smart. No wedding ring. John started to flash her a winning smile - probably inappropriate under the circumstances but hey, he could cheerfully admit he was getting desperate - when Lestrade introduced them.
"Dr. Watson, this is Molly Hooper."
"Call me John, please," he said quickly, and then even in her handshake and her eyes looking right through him, he recognized a lost cause when he saw one. Molly's eyes, and therefore her heart and points south, were clearly already given over - to Sherlock. There was no one else in the room as far as she was concerned. Just her and him and a horribly butchered body.
John couldn't remember the last time a woman had looked at him that way, if ever. Still, he supposed Sherlock was pretty damn watchable, so he couldn't rightly blame her. Currently he was all but burying his nose under a flap of torn and mostly-detached skin.
"What are you going to do to her?" Molly asked him.
"So sentimental," he said without taking his eyes from a stretch of dangling connective tissue. "It's hardly a her anymore. It's just dead meat, Molly."
"No," she said. "No, it's a her. Her name was Hannah. She's not a thing, she's got a family who's gonna be glad we found her at least. She still deserves . . . care."
Sherlock rolled his eyes in the most dismissive manner possible. "Well then, Molly, you do your caring and I'll do the thinking."
Then it was John's turn to bristle - there was something in Molly that he instinctively respected, something of the old-time healer, the midwife, the granny women who waited on birth and death.
Taking care of the dead was kinfolks' work, specifically women's, before the men in suits came in with their body-dressers who weren't mothers and daughters and sisters, with their shiny expensive coffins that weren't built by fathers and sons and brothers.
John wondered if Molly'd ever cared for the mortal shell of her own kin. She was young, but this far out in the hills, it wasn't impossible. There were still families who kept to the old ways. Very likely her mother had, and damn sure her grandmother did.
Sherlock didn't give a rat's ass, and for just a fleeting moment, John was less impressed with him. Unfortunately, those striking eyes of his were lighting up with epiphany just at that moment, and there was no resisting that.
"Can we get back to the fresh corpse two feet in front of us, now?" said Lestrade, clearly not invested in the soap opera dimensions.
"It's not."
"Oh sorry, let me get out my tape measure so we're sure everything's accurate," said Lestrade.
"It's not fresh," Sherlock said. "I told you last night. Two days old."
Lestrade laughed. "All the critters was waiting on you to come and examine the body before havin' at it, huh?"
"The body's traveled, I told you that already, too. Where she was found was not where she was killed. There's water damage but not two days' worth. There's a reason why she was found where she was. Even for you, this isn't complicated!" Sherlock's impatience was starting to cross the line into a manic sort of agitation, and John really really hoped that objects weren't about to start flying.
"Okay," Lestrade said, unfazed. "But how do you know the body was in the water in the first place?"
Very slowly, as if he were talking to a child and not the damn sheriff, Sherlock continued: "Some water damage to the body is evident - even your people can see that - but it's not excessive. Ergo, the body was only in the water for a limited period of time, and certainly wasn't bobbing around for days on end. It wouldn't've remained this intact if that were the case, either."
"So there's no evidence."
"Wrong." Sherlock gestured at the wounds, which were much too grotesque to be so casual about. "This is done by an amateur, of course."
"That doesn't tell us anything," Lestrade said.
"It tells us it wasn't a surgeon, or someone trained as one. But you're right-that's not much help either since the only doctor in an eighteen mile radius is standing right here." He didn't even look at John. "And said doctor isn't clever enough to pull off hiding in plain sight like this. The only other medical professional in town is Dr. Paterson, DDS, and he's at least capable enough to have removed the teeth and prevented us from identifying the body for awhile."
John was planning on being offended, but then something occurred to him: "Maybe the killer made it look sloppier than a surgeon normally would've to throw us off the scent?"
"See? You aren't nearly smart enough to be the killer." Sherlock let out an impatient huff and smeared his wet fingers on a microscope slide. Why the hell had Sherlock dragged John here, anyway? To insult him? It certainly didn't seem like he needed help with any of this.
Molly approached hesitantly and opened her mouth to -
"Shut up and let me think. Don't even breathe stupid, okay? I'm allergic to it."
Three sharp breaths were sucked in. "I'm gonna go get coffee," Molly said resignedly. "Who wants some?"
By the time she'd come back, juggling cups awkwardly and spilling dark brown all over her white coat, Sherlock had his answer.
"Copper Beech Creek," he said. "North end of Boscombe Holler."
"Oh yeah," Lestrade said. "Right by where the old Watson place used to - " and he cut himself off with a horrified look and glance at John. Too late.
John pretended he hadn't heard it, and still looked straight at Sherlock. "How the hell did you know that?"
"Sulfates and manganese. Obvious. Are you coming or not?"
"I guess I am."
"Wait - " Lestrade cut in. "Why are you taking him?"
"I need an assistant," Sherlock said curtly. "He needs a mission."
Ouch. Well, there you have it then, John thought. Sherlock wasn't wrong. Someday he would be, and John hoped he'd be around to see it.
But later, out of earshot of the others, in the hearse, over the sound of rattling gravel and the wind whistling in the window, John brought up the one thing he couldn't let slide.
"You should treat Molly better," John said. "She's a good woman."
"Boring."
"What's boring to you? The 'good' part or the 'woman' part?"
"Both."
"Right." John looked out the window as they drove to the edge of town, suspicion dawning as to just what Sherlock might have meant by that. “So where are we going again?”
"The mud in Hannah's hair," Sherlock said, and John got the impression he'd be talking to himself whether John was there or not. "There's only one place it could have come from."
"Correct me if I'm wrong . . ." John was regretting this already. ". . . but how different can mud be, anyway? Isn't it all pretty much the same, around here?"
"Acid rock drainage isn't exactly uncommon, but there are some very specific areas where it occurs."
"And we're going to one of them?"
"Obviously." Sherlock took a shortcut down an unpaved alley to get them out of Stanger proper. The town was still and silent, everyone probably still in church, at this hour. Silent houses adorning choppy hillsides looked down on them watchfully as they passed the closed-for-Sunday post office, an elementary school with construction paper turkeys in all the windows.
It was an overcast day, which made the occasional yellow ribboned tree even more brightly brilliant. They should've made John feel appreciated, probably, but all they did was remind him he didn't have anything waiting for him at home other than joblessness and a drunk of a brother.
The hearse bumped sluggishly over a set of train tracks and traversed a rusting bridge before they were finally free of the town. Sherlock didn't seem to feel like talking now, and when John glanced over at him he was using the same scrutinizing stare for the road ahead of them he'd used for that poor girl's body not ten minutes ago.
"From strip mining?"
"Hm?"
"Acid . . . stuff. It's from all the strip mining run rampant, right?"
"Nah," Sherlock said, speeding perilously on the narrowing road. "It occurs naturally, but any mining disturbs the earth so much that the sulfides oxidize from exposure and . . . that really bothers you, doesn't it?"
"What?"
"Strip mining. You're a doctor, not a miner. I don't understand. Why would it upset you?"
"You're kidding, right? My family's home is gone, now."
"Ah, of course," Sherlock said unconvincingly. "I see."
"Oh come on, don't tell me you wouldn't be pissed if suddenly everything you knew was turned on its head and you found yourself stuck in a place you didn't want to be all because your idiot relatives couldn't be bothered to stop and think about what they were doing and . . . like . . ." John unclenched his hands and remembered you weren't supposed to rant at a relative stranger. "Well, you know how it is."
"In fact I do know how it is," Sherlock said. "Mining corporations have been soliciting me for years trying to get at my land. Easton-Bolan Coal Miners is just the latest in a long line of failed attempts."
"See, there you go! And I mean, why the hell are people still interested in this area after that fire? That was nearly twenty years ago - you'd think all the coal would've burned up, right?"
"Coal fires can burn underground for hundreds of years," Sherlock pointed out. "There is a lot of fuel."
"Yeah, I guess."
Sherlock watched him for longer than John would've liked, considering the lack of railing on the cliff they were on, but when he turned his eyes back to the road John thought he caught a hint of a smile. John was determined to get a full blown grin out of Sherlock if it killed him.
John could only assume this was how Sherlock affected everyone, and it was probably the reason why they gave him such a wide berth - it wasn't just the rudeness. He demanded your attention whether you liked it or not, and he made a home there in your mind, sitting atop your perfectly serviceable brain and pointing out how wrong your every fleeting thought was, but you still ended up wanting to see if you could make him smile.
Once you'd . . . experienced the force of nature that was Sherlock, it was a struggle not to keep considering him in the back of your mind, what he might say or do, what sort of snide comment he'd have for the way you brushed your teeth or the laughable inefficiency of how you organized your silverware. And it had been, what, less than twenty four hours since John had even met him?
"We're here," Sherlock announced. They were at another creek, on much higher ground this time. The bank was muddy and less clogged up with leaves, and judging by the flattened grass at the water's edge a lot of people had come here over the years. Nice spot for fishing or swimming. Tubing, maybe.
Sherlock drove a little ways into the clearing, slammed on the brakes more forcefully than was strictly necessary. John was pretty sure this wasn't the wisest way to approach a crime scene, but he wasn't the expert, here.
Sherlock leapt out of the hearse like it'd burned him, and by the time John caught up to him Sherlock was in observation mode once again, pacing around with his arms vague and anxious or randomly ducking to study something from inches away. John could see Sherlock's face better here in the daylight - his lips moved with half-formed words and his eyes flicked back and forth so quickly John was surprised he wasn't dizzy with it.
There was a lingering fog still anchored to the water, but they were mostly clear of it due to the steepness of the creek bank. Nearly bare tree branches swept downward and intruded on the space, and even John could tell some of them had been broken off - shards of branches and untrampled leaves scattered on the ground. The creek itself was wider here, too, with little broken off twigs making gentle dents in the water. John couldn't put his finger on why the place felt familiar. Maybe he'd come here in the distant recesses of his youth. He'd definitely recognized bits of the road on the way up, and as Lestrade had said, it really wasn't that far from his family's land at the other end of Boscombe Holler. Well, former land.
"Find anything?"
Sherlock made a dismissive little noise and continued in his pacing. John felt like he was in the way. He reached into his pocket for some chew and -
Sherlock was gaping at him.
"I . . . normal people do this." This was going to be his catchphrase, wasn't it? "Look - are you serious? You don't at least smoke?"
"Not at a crime scene."
"It's relaxing!"
"I guess. I took up smoking to quit chewing, but honestly I prefer Benzedrine over both."
"I . . . wait, is that even legal?"
But Sherlock was done listening. He squinted at something on the ground, picked it up and stowed it in a tiny container that he produced seemingly from thin air, then shoved it back in his pocket. Sherlock wasn't wearing gloves, John realized, and he had to be freezing. Long bony hands that were really very graceful in an artistic sort of way, but they couldn't be much good for warmth.
Sherlock walked up to a large tree branch that hung out over the creek, studying it from all angles. After a minute of silence he said, "I've written extensively on the properties of the various tobacco products currently on the market, you know."
"For what, your dissertation?"
"No . . . I wrote my dissertation on cryptography. Well, the first time . . ."
"I'm sorry, where did you go to college?"
"Ah!" Sherlock patted the tree branch fondly before wheeling on John. "I was right! Hannah Hartman was definitely killed here, at the swimming hole, with the rope."
"What is this, Hillbilly Clue?"
"Don’t get me started on Clue and its so-called 'mysteries'," Sherlock said warningly before settling back into detective mode: "The murderer must have been someone she was close to, or at least someone who wasn't obviously intimidating. The shoes, John, remember?"
"No?"
Sherlock huffed. "We've been over this."
"Okay, you just said 'shoes' and then stranded me in the woods."
"There was a footprint where the body was found. Timberlands. Hannah's body wasn't dumped in the woods, she was killed here. Warm, practical shoes. She wasn't just in the wrong place at the wrong time, she was prepared for a lot of walking.
"There used to be a tire swing, here. There had been for years, in fact, look how it warped the tree branch. The rope used to strangle Hannah was noticeably thick, unnecessarily thick to get the job done. The mud in her hair is the bigger giveaway, though. The soil in this part of the hills has much higher manganese content, and the mines a few miles upstream create significant runoff, which is more concentrated here than it is down where the body was found. And the sulfates, obviously. Simple."
John let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. "Simple . . ."
"The tire swing is important, too. I saw the tracks when I was with Deputy Donovan, those unexplained single tire tracks, but it's even less carefully hidden, here."
"What is?"
"Look at the ground, John. Really look."
"I . . . oh. Tire tracks. God, they're everywhere."
"The murderer made a halfhearted effort to cover them up by sweeping a branch over them - eastern white pine, from the look of it - but there's only so much you can do with mud like this. It was easier to conceal where the body was found because of the leaves, but the tire tracks were still there. Also the police weren't looking for tire tracks - small wonder why they need me to point out the obvious to them. The murderer used the rope from the tire swing to strangle Hannah, and then used the tire itself to transport the body to somewhere it was sure to be found, which also indicates they're not physically strong enough to just carry it over such a distance. The first snow could fall any day now, so why would anyone think to investigate a swimming hole? As for where the tire is now, it was probably just let go in the creek after its purpose had been served."
"Wait, so, you're saying the murderer what, stuffed this poor girl's body into a tire and rolled it a couple miles away just to make sure we got to see his work? Ugh . . ."
"It's a big tire, John, look at the tracks."
"Wasn't really talking plausibility."
"The murderer used everything that was available, and covered up any footprints in the process. Very economical," Sherlock said appreciatively. His face was alight, which was a bit disturbing given the context. His pale cheeks were flushed with cold or excitement or both.
John cleared his throat. "Okay, but the body was, well, dissected. I don't see any evidence of that, do you?" Oh God he really hoped he hadn't missed something obvious.
"The body had to have been operated on elsewhere, perhaps in the back of a pickup and possibly with the help of a third party because, as aforementioned, the murderer was likely not very strong, and before you ask, no, the body wouldn't've been transported using a vehicle because there is too much opportunity for witnesses or an incompetent local cop like Deputy Anderson pulling them over whether they're actually speeding or not . . . In any case the incisions were made post-mortem, so there wouldn't be quite so much bleeding, to begin with, and whatever there was would've been contained in the truck. Most likely a deer carcass was put in its place to account for the blood should anyone ask." Sherlock said all of it like an afterthought, staring into space with his eyes flicking back and forth until they settled on John again, especially blue under the overcast sky. Sherlock's breath was visible in the cold.
John had to clear his throat again. "How do you know there even was a truck? Do you just guess half of this stuff?"
Sherlock paid attention at that, stiffened a bit. "It's not a guess, it's the most logical conclusion."
"Okay, okay," John said. "Sorry. So, what about the others?"
"Hm?"
"The other people who've been murdered. If it's the same guy, wouldn't they all be connected somehow?"
"Yes."
"So . . ."
"Don't know yet." It was clear this irked Sherlock to no end.
John wasn't sure what to say. "Well, dunno about you, but I'm starvin'. Know anywhere good to eat around here?"
***
Chapter 5
Authors: htebazytook and vulgarweed
Beta Read By: bethbethbeth THANK YOU!
Fandom: Sherlock
Rating: Overall NC-17
Word Count: ~62,000
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Also featuring (in order of appearance): Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan, Mycroft Holmes, Molly Hooper, Irene Adler, several OCs (original characters) and OCs (original corpses).
Summary: Appalachian AU!
For full summary and warnings, see Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
In this chapter: We can't chew tobacco, this is a crime scene!
Chapter 4 - The Boscombe Holler Mystery
John had been in a great deal of depressing places in his life, and he wasn't going to say this dingy little afterthought of a room in the basement of the clinic was the most miserable - it wasn't - but it was right up there. Harsh lighting, buzzing and flickering, making even the living look corpselike.
The smell. God was having a good day when He invented Vicks Vapo-Rub.
Nobody but Sherlock had told John to brace himself for the sight, but maybe they just assumed he'd seen worse. He'd definitely seen as bad as, but this might have been worse because of the context. You expected this kind of thing in the middle of a warzone, not here. John saw pain and horror and gaping wounds, an unrecognizable face and that especially terrible taste in the air of losing someone so young.
John stopped in his tracks for a minute, but Sherlock kept right on going, peering very closely at the body, which was strewn across the table. Strewn was definitely the right word. John had made some flippant comment about Jack the Ripper before, but he was sure the mess in front of them could easily have rivaled one of his victims.
The body was missing a significant chunk of its chest and all of one arm. The nose was alarmingly missing as well, and all the fingers of the remaining hand had been messily severed.
"Hm," Sherlock said impassively. "Well, that's quite a mess. Someone spent a lot of time on that. Both the killing and the knifework. She didn't go quickly and the killer never lost nerve, so it was either very personal or we're dealing with a trophy hunter who enjoys the process as much as the result. Those aren't mutually exclusive, either."
"How do you know she wasn't shot?" John didn't know how Sherlock could tell much of anything from the carnage laid out in front of them.
"Petechiae in the whites of her eyes; she was strangled. No need for that when you have a gun, and obviously the killer wasn't concerned about keeping her body intact. Also the incisions were made post-mortem."
"I didn't do anything yet," said a mousy young woman in a white coat as she emerged from the side door. John looked at her more closely. No, mousy only by mannerism. Pretty, actually, and in a medical field, had to be smart. No wedding ring. John started to flash her a winning smile - probably inappropriate under the circumstances but hey, he could cheerfully admit he was getting desperate - when Lestrade introduced them.
"Dr. Watson, this is Molly Hooper."
"Call me John, please," he said quickly, and then even in her handshake and her eyes looking right through him, he recognized a lost cause when he saw one. Molly's eyes, and therefore her heart and points south, were clearly already given over - to Sherlock. There was no one else in the room as far as she was concerned. Just her and him and a horribly butchered body.
John couldn't remember the last time a woman had looked at him that way, if ever. Still, he supposed Sherlock was pretty damn watchable, so he couldn't rightly blame her. Currently he was all but burying his nose under a flap of torn and mostly-detached skin.
"What are you going to do to her?" Molly asked him.
"So sentimental," he said without taking his eyes from a stretch of dangling connective tissue. "It's hardly a her anymore. It's just dead meat, Molly."
"No," she said. "No, it's a her. Her name was Hannah. She's not a thing, she's got a family who's gonna be glad we found her at least. She still deserves . . . care."
Sherlock rolled his eyes in the most dismissive manner possible. "Well then, Molly, you do your caring and I'll do the thinking."
Then it was John's turn to bristle - there was something in Molly that he instinctively respected, something of the old-time healer, the midwife, the granny women who waited on birth and death.
Taking care of the dead was kinfolks' work, specifically women's, before the men in suits came in with their body-dressers who weren't mothers and daughters and sisters, with their shiny expensive coffins that weren't built by fathers and sons and brothers.
John wondered if Molly'd ever cared for the mortal shell of her own kin. She was young, but this far out in the hills, it wasn't impossible. There were still families who kept to the old ways. Very likely her mother had, and damn sure her grandmother did.
Sherlock didn't give a rat's ass, and for just a fleeting moment, John was less impressed with him. Unfortunately, those striking eyes of his were lighting up with epiphany just at that moment, and there was no resisting that.
"Can we get back to the fresh corpse two feet in front of us, now?" said Lestrade, clearly not invested in the soap opera dimensions.
"It's not."
"Oh sorry, let me get out my tape measure so we're sure everything's accurate," said Lestrade.
"It's not fresh," Sherlock said. "I told you last night. Two days old."
Lestrade laughed. "All the critters was waiting on you to come and examine the body before havin' at it, huh?"
"The body's traveled, I told you that already, too. Where she was found was not where she was killed. There's water damage but not two days' worth. There's a reason why she was found where she was. Even for you, this isn't complicated!" Sherlock's impatience was starting to cross the line into a manic sort of agitation, and John really really hoped that objects weren't about to start flying.
"Okay," Lestrade said, unfazed. "But how do you know the body was in the water in the first place?"
Very slowly, as if he were talking to a child and not the damn sheriff, Sherlock continued: "Some water damage to the body is evident - even your people can see that - but it's not excessive. Ergo, the body was only in the water for a limited period of time, and certainly wasn't bobbing around for days on end. It wouldn't've remained this intact if that were the case, either."
"So there's no evidence."
"Wrong." Sherlock gestured at the wounds, which were much too grotesque to be so casual about. "This is done by an amateur, of course."
"That doesn't tell us anything," Lestrade said.
"It tells us it wasn't a surgeon, or someone trained as one. But you're right-that's not much help either since the only doctor in an eighteen mile radius is standing right here." He didn't even look at John. "And said doctor isn't clever enough to pull off hiding in plain sight like this. The only other medical professional in town is Dr. Paterson, DDS, and he's at least capable enough to have removed the teeth and prevented us from identifying the body for awhile."
John was planning on being offended, but then something occurred to him: "Maybe the killer made it look sloppier than a surgeon normally would've to throw us off the scent?"
"See? You aren't nearly smart enough to be the killer." Sherlock let out an impatient huff and smeared his wet fingers on a microscope slide. Why the hell had Sherlock dragged John here, anyway? To insult him? It certainly didn't seem like he needed help with any of this.
Molly approached hesitantly and opened her mouth to -
"Shut up and let me think. Don't even breathe stupid, okay? I'm allergic to it."
Three sharp breaths were sucked in. "I'm gonna go get coffee," Molly said resignedly. "Who wants some?"
By the time she'd come back, juggling cups awkwardly and spilling dark brown all over her white coat, Sherlock had his answer.
"Copper Beech Creek," he said. "North end of Boscombe Holler."
"Oh yeah," Lestrade said. "Right by where the old Watson place used to - " and he cut himself off with a horrified look and glance at John. Too late.
John pretended he hadn't heard it, and still looked straight at Sherlock. "How the hell did you know that?"
"Sulfates and manganese. Obvious. Are you coming or not?"
"I guess I am."
"Wait - " Lestrade cut in. "Why are you taking him?"
"I need an assistant," Sherlock said curtly. "He needs a mission."
Ouch. Well, there you have it then, John thought. Sherlock wasn't wrong. Someday he would be, and John hoped he'd be around to see it.
But later, out of earshot of the others, in the hearse, over the sound of rattling gravel and the wind whistling in the window, John brought up the one thing he couldn't let slide.
"You should treat Molly better," John said. "She's a good woman."
"Boring."
"What's boring to you? The 'good' part or the 'woman' part?"
"Both."
"Right." John looked out the window as they drove to the edge of town, suspicion dawning as to just what Sherlock might have meant by that. “So where are we going again?”
"The mud in Hannah's hair," Sherlock said, and John got the impression he'd be talking to himself whether John was there or not. "There's only one place it could have come from."
"Correct me if I'm wrong . . ." John was regretting this already. ". . . but how different can mud be, anyway? Isn't it all pretty much the same, around here?"
"Acid rock drainage isn't exactly uncommon, but there are some very specific areas where it occurs."
"And we're going to one of them?"
"Obviously." Sherlock took a shortcut down an unpaved alley to get them out of Stanger proper. The town was still and silent, everyone probably still in church, at this hour. Silent houses adorning choppy hillsides looked down on them watchfully as they passed the closed-for-Sunday post office, an elementary school with construction paper turkeys in all the windows.
It was an overcast day, which made the occasional yellow ribboned tree even more brightly brilliant. They should've made John feel appreciated, probably, but all they did was remind him he didn't have anything waiting for him at home other than joblessness and a drunk of a brother.
The hearse bumped sluggishly over a set of train tracks and traversed a rusting bridge before they were finally free of the town. Sherlock didn't seem to feel like talking now, and when John glanced over at him he was using the same scrutinizing stare for the road ahead of them he'd used for that poor girl's body not ten minutes ago.
"From strip mining?"
"Hm?"
"Acid . . . stuff. It's from all the strip mining run rampant, right?"
"Nah," Sherlock said, speeding perilously on the narrowing road. "It occurs naturally, but any mining disturbs the earth so much that the sulfides oxidize from exposure and . . . that really bothers you, doesn't it?"
"What?"
"Strip mining. You're a doctor, not a miner. I don't understand. Why would it upset you?"
"You're kidding, right? My family's home is gone, now."
"Ah, of course," Sherlock said unconvincingly. "I see."
"Oh come on, don't tell me you wouldn't be pissed if suddenly everything you knew was turned on its head and you found yourself stuck in a place you didn't want to be all because your idiot relatives couldn't be bothered to stop and think about what they were doing and . . . like . . ." John unclenched his hands and remembered you weren't supposed to rant at a relative stranger. "Well, you know how it is."
"In fact I do know how it is," Sherlock said. "Mining corporations have been soliciting me for years trying to get at my land. Easton-Bolan Coal Miners is just the latest in a long line of failed attempts."
"See, there you go! And I mean, why the hell are people still interested in this area after that fire? That was nearly twenty years ago - you'd think all the coal would've burned up, right?"
"Coal fires can burn underground for hundreds of years," Sherlock pointed out. "There is a lot of fuel."
"Yeah, I guess."
Sherlock watched him for longer than John would've liked, considering the lack of railing on the cliff they were on, but when he turned his eyes back to the road John thought he caught a hint of a smile. John was determined to get a full blown grin out of Sherlock if it killed him.
John could only assume this was how Sherlock affected everyone, and it was probably the reason why they gave him such a wide berth - it wasn't just the rudeness. He demanded your attention whether you liked it or not, and he made a home there in your mind, sitting atop your perfectly serviceable brain and pointing out how wrong your every fleeting thought was, but you still ended up wanting to see if you could make him smile.
Once you'd . . . experienced the force of nature that was Sherlock, it was a struggle not to keep considering him in the back of your mind, what he might say or do, what sort of snide comment he'd have for the way you brushed your teeth or the laughable inefficiency of how you organized your silverware. And it had been, what, less than twenty four hours since John had even met him?
"We're here," Sherlock announced. They were at another creek, on much higher ground this time. The bank was muddy and less clogged up with leaves, and judging by the flattened grass at the water's edge a lot of people had come here over the years. Nice spot for fishing or swimming. Tubing, maybe.
Sherlock drove a little ways into the clearing, slammed on the brakes more forcefully than was strictly necessary. John was pretty sure this wasn't the wisest way to approach a crime scene, but he wasn't the expert, here.
Sherlock leapt out of the hearse like it'd burned him, and by the time John caught up to him Sherlock was in observation mode once again, pacing around with his arms vague and anxious or randomly ducking to study something from inches away. John could see Sherlock's face better here in the daylight - his lips moved with half-formed words and his eyes flicked back and forth so quickly John was surprised he wasn't dizzy with it.
There was a lingering fog still anchored to the water, but they were mostly clear of it due to the steepness of the creek bank. Nearly bare tree branches swept downward and intruded on the space, and even John could tell some of them had been broken off - shards of branches and untrampled leaves scattered on the ground. The creek itself was wider here, too, with little broken off twigs making gentle dents in the water. John couldn't put his finger on why the place felt familiar. Maybe he'd come here in the distant recesses of his youth. He'd definitely recognized bits of the road on the way up, and as Lestrade had said, it really wasn't that far from his family's land at the other end of Boscombe Holler. Well, former land.
"Find anything?"
Sherlock made a dismissive little noise and continued in his pacing. John felt like he was in the way. He reached into his pocket for some chew and -
Sherlock was gaping at him.
"I . . . normal people do this." This was going to be his catchphrase, wasn't it? "Look - are you serious? You don't at least smoke?"
"Not at a crime scene."
"It's relaxing!"
"I guess. I took up smoking to quit chewing, but honestly I prefer Benzedrine over both."
"I . . . wait, is that even legal?"
But Sherlock was done listening. He squinted at something on the ground, picked it up and stowed it in a tiny container that he produced seemingly from thin air, then shoved it back in his pocket. Sherlock wasn't wearing gloves, John realized, and he had to be freezing. Long bony hands that were really very graceful in an artistic sort of way, but they couldn't be much good for warmth.
Sherlock walked up to a large tree branch that hung out over the creek, studying it from all angles. After a minute of silence he said, "I've written extensively on the properties of the various tobacco products currently on the market, you know."
"For what, your dissertation?"
"No . . . I wrote my dissertation on cryptography. Well, the first time . . ."
"I'm sorry, where did you go to college?"
"Ah!" Sherlock patted the tree branch fondly before wheeling on John. "I was right! Hannah Hartman was definitely killed here, at the swimming hole, with the rope."
"What is this, Hillbilly Clue?"
"Don’t get me started on Clue and its so-called 'mysteries'," Sherlock said warningly before settling back into detective mode: "The murderer must have been someone she was close to, or at least someone who wasn't obviously intimidating. The shoes, John, remember?"
"No?"
Sherlock huffed. "We've been over this."
"Okay, you just said 'shoes' and then stranded me in the woods."
"There was a footprint where the body was found. Timberlands. Hannah's body wasn't dumped in the woods, she was killed here. Warm, practical shoes. She wasn't just in the wrong place at the wrong time, she was prepared for a lot of walking.
"There used to be a tire swing, here. There had been for years, in fact, look how it warped the tree branch. The rope used to strangle Hannah was noticeably thick, unnecessarily thick to get the job done. The mud in her hair is the bigger giveaway, though. The soil in this part of the hills has much higher manganese content, and the mines a few miles upstream create significant runoff, which is more concentrated here than it is down where the body was found. And the sulfates, obviously. Simple."
John let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. "Simple . . ."
"The tire swing is important, too. I saw the tracks when I was with Deputy Donovan, those unexplained single tire tracks, but it's even less carefully hidden, here."
"What is?"
"Look at the ground, John. Really look."
"I . . . oh. Tire tracks. God, they're everywhere."
"The murderer made a halfhearted effort to cover them up by sweeping a branch over them - eastern white pine, from the look of it - but there's only so much you can do with mud like this. It was easier to conceal where the body was found because of the leaves, but the tire tracks were still there. Also the police weren't looking for tire tracks - small wonder why they need me to point out the obvious to them. The murderer used the rope from the tire swing to strangle Hannah, and then used the tire itself to transport the body to somewhere it was sure to be found, which also indicates they're not physically strong enough to just carry it over such a distance. The first snow could fall any day now, so why would anyone think to investigate a swimming hole? As for where the tire is now, it was probably just let go in the creek after its purpose had been served."
"Wait, so, you're saying the murderer what, stuffed this poor girl's body into a tire and rolled it a couple miles away just to make sure we got to see his work? Ugh . . ."
"It's a big tire, John, look at the tracks."
"Wasn't really talking plausibility."
"The murderer used everything that was available, and covered up any footprints in the process. Very economical," Sherlock said appreciatively. His face was alight, which was a bit disturbing given the context. His pale cheeks were flushed with cold or excitement or both.
John cleared his throat. "Okay, but the body was, well, dissected. I don't see any evidence of that, do you?" Oh God he really hoped he hadn't missed something obvious.
"The body had to have been operated on elsewhere, perhaps in the back of a pickup and possibly with the help of a third party because, as aforementioned, the murderer was likely not very strong, and before you ask, no, the body wouldn't've been transported using a vehicle because there is too much opportunity for witnesses or an incompetent local cop like Deputy Anderson pulling them over whether they're actually speeding or not . . . In any case the incisions were made post-mortem, so there wouldn't be quite so much bleeding, to begin with, and whatever there was would've been contained in the truck. Most likely a deer carcass was put in its place to account for the blood should anyone ask." Sherlock said all of it like an afterthought, staring into space with his eyes flicking back and forth until they settled on John again, especially blue under the overcast sky. Sherlock's breath was visible in the cold.
John had to clear his throat again. "How do you know there even was a truck? Do you just guess half of this stuff?"
Sherlock paid attention at that, stiffened a bit. "It's not a guess, it's the most logical conclusion."
"Okay, okay," John said. "Sorry. So, what about the others?"
"Hm?"
"The other people who've been murdered. If it's the same guy, wouldn't they all be connected somehow?"
"Yes."
"So . . ."
"Don't know yet." It was clear this irked Sherlock to no end.
John wasn't sure what to say. "Well, dunno about you, but I'm starvin'. Know anywhere good to eat around here?"
***
Chapter 5