In mere minutes, this Detective had unearthed leads that the security detail had overlooked for an entire day. While every profession has its specialists, the sheer efficiency of the man was becoming... unsettling.
Perhaps the Chief Inspector was right, Catherine thought with a prickle of reluctant irritation. Perhaps he really is the only one who can settle this in twenty-four hours.
She didn't voice the thought. Instead, she remained clinical. " 'YES'? What does it signify?"
"I don't know," Sherlock said, straightening his back. "But one can feel it—this word holds a profound, perhaps transformative meaning for the killer. And then there is this..."
He paused, stepping to the other side of the corpse. He lowered his face toward the victim's thighs. It was a posture that bordered on the prurient, yet in the grim silence of the alley, it felt purely clinical. Fortunately, Officer Baidel did not intervene.
"Why is it that every organ was shredded, yet the uterus remains perfectly intact?"
"Perhaps it is merely the killer's habit," Catherine offered coldly.
"No." Sherlock dismissed the idea without a second thought. "Our culprit is a serial killer; he's butchered over a dozen women in the Lower District already. A blade-hand that skilled is rare. In every previous case, the organs were extracted in their entirety—including the uterus. But here, he pointedly preserved it while choosing to quarter everything else."
He began to pace, muttering to himself.
"Furthermore, our friend doesn't usually take the clothes. Tsk, tsk... why change a winning habit for this particular lady?"
Seeing the spark of genuine interest in his eyes, Catherine voiced the question lingering in everyone's mind: "You seem remarkably familiar with this butcher."
"Because I've been tracking him," Sherlock said, as if stating the weather. "It's what I do. I have a passing familiarity with every killer on the wanted posters. Under a normal schedule, I would have officially taken up his case in about four months."
The answer was logical, yet it left Catherine momentarily speechless.
"Fine," she said after a beat. "What is your next move?"
Sherlock shoved his hands into his trench coat pockets. "The killer is fixated on the number four. He preserves the womb. He collects the wardrobe. He carves 'YES' into the viscera..."
He began to circle the spot, his footsteps small and rhythmic. He spent a long moment in silence. Then, abruptly, he reached up and massaged his neck with a weary sigh.
"The best course of action now... is for me to go home and have a nap."
"..."
The surrounding officers froze. Even the elderly Priest, whose rhythmic snoring had been a constant background noise, cracked an eye open.
"Go home... and sleep?" Baidel's voice finally carried a ripple of emotion—a low, dangerous vibration.
In the mind of a commoner, an Adjudicator was a soulless engine of the law, defined by bloody purges and merciless interrogation. They were permitted to marry, though largely as a means of preserving elite bloodlines. Regardless of the motive, Sherlock was currently standing over the quartered remains of Baidel's wife. To suggest a nap in the presence of such grief was not just an insult; it was a death wish.
"Watch your tongue, civilian!" the young guard at the alley mouth barked. "You stand in the presence of the Clergy! Show some damn piety!"
The guard was a loyal hound, eager to prove his fervor, but without a direct order, he didn't dare set foot into the cordoned "sanctum" of the crime scene. He could only seethe from the shadows.
Sherlock offered a slow, measured bow. "My apologies, Officer. I intend no disrespect to the Church, to you, or to your late wife. It is simply that my presence here is no longer required."
"Explain yourself," Catherine said. She was, by far, the more reasonable of the two.
"Because I have seen the scene," Sherlock said, tapping his temple. "Staying here is merely a waste of time. I find that returning to the familiar comforts of my flat helps me think. It allows me to process the data in isolation."
Catherine's brow remained knit. She understood the concept of environment aiding thought, but... "You've seen the scene? Entirely?"
"Naturally," Sherlock replied. "My capacity for observation is quite adequate. I've cataloged every detail. For instance, I can already deduce that our killer is roughly 190 centimeters tall, male, with a robust physique and an affluent background. He is ambidextrous, possesses a voracious libido, and spent his childhood in the town of Rochester, where he likely suffered significant trauma or systemic abuse. He is a man of rigid self-discipline but is consumed by vanity; he enjoys the act of slaughter and has a penchant for raw beef. He resides in a large residence—likely a manor—decorated with fine portraiture and exquisite furnishings. He keeps livestock as a hobby, has sparse body hair, prefers form-fitting cotton undergarments, and has an old, lingering injury to his right ribs."
He spoke faster and faster, a torrent of data that only stopped when the guard's muffled roar cut him off.
"Civilian! You... you cannot sprout such gibberish before the Holy See! You have no shred of reverence!"
No one silenced the guard this time. Catherine, Baidel, and even the Old Priest all harbored the same thought: This Detective is talking absolute rot.
It was one thing to deduce a suspect's height or temperament from the angle of a blade or the spray of blood. But to claim knowledge of his diet, his home decor, and his childhood injuries? It defied logic. He had been standing in this alley for less than half an hour.
Sherlock smiled, a look that suggested he had expected nothing less. He was usually too lazy to explain his work, but looking at the darkening atmosphere, he realized that if he didn't make himself clear, he wasn't going to be allowed to leave this alley tonight.