An Age of Silver (4/23)
"An Age of Silver" (4/23)
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Sherlock finally wrapped up his embezzlement case during the second week of September. His client was profuse in her thanks, and though he received a tidy sum for his efforts-enough to cover the rent for at least the next year-Sherlock found that he was discontent with the whole thing. He had been working on that case for a solid month, and though the outcome was eventually in his favor, he couldn’t help but feel dissatisfied. It had never taken him so long to wrap a financial case before.
He was slipping.
“Oh, do stop brooding, brother dear. It was a momentary lapse, nothing more.”
Sherlock started violently and then sighed once he realised what had happened. He passed a hand over his face.
“Mycroft,” he growled, “I have told you never to tap into the flat’s computer system again! Among other things, it is illegal.”
“And when has legality concerned you, Sherlock?” Mycroft’s disembodied voice was smug, and Sherlock wished they were in the same room. He could use with striking Mycroft right about now. “Besides, this is much easier than kidnapping you. And it’s far less fuss.”
“You could call me.”
“Yes, because that has proved so effective in the past,” Mycroft said dryly. “I simply needed to inquire as to what your social calendar looks like for the next few months. Anthea wants to put our October and November lunches down on paper.”
Sherlock braced a hand on his hip and rubbed the back of his neck wearily with the other.
“You know very well what my social calendar looks like,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain.
“I do,” Mycroft said cheerfully, “but I thought you appreciated the illusion that you had some control over our get-togethers. I’ll have Anthea put us down for the first Monday in October and the third Thursday in November. How does that sound?”
“Tuesdays and Thursdays are out of the question, you know that,” Sherlock snapped.
“Yes, I do. I was also thinking that perhaps Inspector Hopkins could join us.”
Sherlock froze.
“Why?” he demanded. There was a pause.
“I thought you might appreciate having his company. You appear to find it enjoyable.”
“And I associate with him on my own time,” Sherlock said irritably. “There is no reason to subject him to our… lunches.”
He said the last word with extreme distaste. Mycroft gave a long-suffering sigh.
“I am merely attempting to be as accommodating as possible, dear brother. I know how you detest having to meet with me on a regular basis, but I had hoped that time would wear away your disdain. That appears to not be the case, so I merely thought that having a friendly face at the table might make it a more pleasant experience for you.”
“Let me make one thing very clear, Mycroft,” Sherlock said in a low voice, anger flaring in his stomach. “You are not to come near him. Is that understood? I don’t want him to be subjected to you any more than is strictly necessary. You aren’t to kidnap him, and you aren’t to invite him along to our lunches. If you must see him so desperately, then you set up a meeting on his terms.”
“And why should I listen to these conditions, Sherlock?” Mycroft sounded eternally amused.
“Because you claim to care about me,” Sherlock said with a sneer. “And if that was the truth, you would heed this one request. I attend your lunches. I came to Christmas dinners while Mother was still alive. The least you can do in return is leave Inspector Hopkins alone.”
There was a tremendous pause.
“We’ll see, little brother,” Mycroft said, placating, and Sherlock’s blood boiled. Mycroft used endearments whenever he was about to do the very opposite of what Sherlock asked, as though that might soften the blow. “Good night.”
“Mycroft? Mycroft!”
But there was, of course, no answer.
----
The murder of Jessica Thompson attracted attention of its own accord. Sherlock surmised that this was probably because there was a baby-a perceived innocent--involved.
“Because Jessica wasn’t enough of an innocent,” Hopkins muttered darkly to Sherlock during one of their lunches. “Bastards.”
The various tabloids and newspapers hadn’t made the connection between the four killings yet, but hers gained public interest once the hospital leaked the story of the abandoned baby, which forced the Yard to reveal that the infant’s mother was a murder victim. Sherlock generally didn’t pay much attention to the news, but he did listen with half an ear as the various media outlets began to cover Thompson’s murder.
And as the days wore on and the news picked up more steam, Sherlock realised that the Met wasn’t going to be able to keep quiet about the case for much longer. He had hoped to be able to give them some sort of lead prior to them having to hold a press conference, but as they approached mid-September there was nothing new that he could say about the murders.
There was only one thing that gave them any sort of edge in this whole situation. The killer didn’t yet know that they had made the connection between all the killings. And so when Sherlock woke one morning to a message from Hopkins--Giving a press conference today--he bolted for the Yard.
“Where’s Hopkins?” he demanded of the first person on Hopkins’ team he came across.
“He has a press conference this afternoon,” Donovan answered without stopping. She was on her way down a corridor, and Sherlock darted after her.
“Yes, obvious. Has it started yet?” he demanded.
“No, but he’s on his way. Hey!” Donovan tugged her arm from Sherlock’s sudden grip and stopped dead in the corridor. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“We need to find him before it starts,” Sherlock said urgently, “so where would he be right now?”
Donovan stared at him for a long moment, seemingly taken aback by the vehemence in his voice.
“Come on,” she said finally, and led him to the conference room.
Hopkins was leaning against the long table, his arms crossed over his chest, staring unseeingly at the wall of victims. The lights were off in the room, and Sherlock knew that he wasn’t here for work. He felt a sudden pang at having to interrupt Hopkins’ contemplation and wondered, absurdly, when was the last time that Hopkins had a chance to rest.
Why does that matter?
“Sir.” Donovan rapped gently on the doorframe, and Hopkins looked around.
“Hello,” he said quietly. “Yes?”
Sherlock stepped into the room.
“I need to speak to you about the press conference,” he said, and Hopkins straightened. “You can’t mention the connection between all the killings.”
Donovan gaped at him while Hopkins’ face turned to stone.
“You don’t want us telling the public that we’re dealing with a serial killer, you mean,” Hopkins said, his voice cold. “You’re mad.”
“You can’t be serious,” Donovan put in, aghast. “How are people going to be able to protect themselves? We have to tell them what we’re dealing with!”
“It’s a risk,” Sherlock admitted. A crease formed between Hopkins’ brows.
“And a damned foolish one,” Hopkins said, irritated. “You’d better have a damn good reason, Sherlock, and don’t just say that you have a feeling about this.”
“I don’t,” Sherlock snapped, bristling at the implication that he was allowing emotions to get in the way of reason. “If we mention the other victims - if we let him know that we know about them - then he’s going to change his method of operation. He will disappear the moment we let on that we know about his previous killings, and we may never hear from him again. We can’t afford to scare him off.”
“And how can you be sure that would scare him off?” Hopkins pressed. “He already knows that we’ve found and identified the fourth victim. Her face has been splashed all over the news for days.”
“But he isn’t aware that we know it’s his fourth victim,” Sherlock pointed out. “For all he knows, we’re treating this as a single incident. A crime of passion, a domestic dispute gone wrong, however you want to spin it. He only knows as much as you tell the press, Hopkins. So don’t talk about the crimes as serial murders. Don’t talk about them at all.”
“So what in God’s name do you want me to talk about instead?” Hopkins snapped.
“Just focus on the fourth murder,” Sherlock said. “Everyone’s talking about Jessica Thompson anyway, and that’s what the press was expecting to hear today. Don’t drop this bombshell on them. Give them what they were looking for. Public ignorance will give us a slight edge in this whole situation, and we could do with a slight edge right about now.”
Hopkins stared at him for a long moment.
“So it’s we now, is it?” he asked finally. “Does this mean you’re going to help us with the whole case? Not just with identifying the victims, but with everything?”
Sherlock didn’t answer right away.
“You need me,” he said finally. Hopkins’ gaze was unwavering.
“Always,” he said quietly. Sherlock gave a brisk nod.
“Yes. I’m in. For as long as you need me, I’ll be here.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Hopkins held his gaze, and while his expression remained hard, something softened behind his eyes. Sherlock had a feeling that he was struggling not to say something due to the fact that they weren’t alone, and that he was trying to convey it instead with his eyes.
And Sherlock couldn’t fully interpret the sudden tenderness in Hopkins’ gaze-or he was too frightened to even begin to give it a name-but he gave Hopkins a slight nod all the same. Finally, Hopkins broke eye contact with Sherlock and looked at Sally.
“All right, Sally. We’re going to keep quiet about this for now.” Hopkins sighed. “Damn it all. Excuse me.”
Donovan and Sherlock parted to let him by, and Hopkins left the room.
Sherlock and Donovan retreated to her small office in order to watch the conference. Or, rather, Donovan went into her office and Sherlock followed without an invitation. She shot him an exasperated look but didn’t bother to comment on it. Donovan tended to be more lax about his blatant ignorance of social graces when there was a pressing case at hand.
She turned on the small television that was mounted in the corner. Hopkins was sitting at a long table before a room full of reporters, flanked by two of his sergeants and looking perfectly at ease. This was another area in which he and Lestrade differed--whereas Lestrade had always abhorred and sometimes bungled press conferences, Hopkins always fielded questions admirably. He saw advantages in reporters where Lestrade had only seen nuisances, and he had a way of working the press to his own advantage. And, when he had no desire to give the media more information than was necessary, he also had a way of giving a response that really didn’t answer the question at all, but it was so thorough that the reporter never realised until later.
“He looks ill,” Donovan commented as the press conference began. Sherlock nodded.
“He’s lost approximately seven pounds since he brought the case to me,” he said softly. “Donovan -”
“Hmm?” she said when he didn’t continue. She turned to look at him. “What is it?”
“Hopkins... This case. It bothers him.”
She snorted.
“Cases like this get to everybody,” she said. “I’d be worried if it wasn’t bothering him. To be honest... I’m glad to see that it’s getting to you, too.”
Sherlock refrained from commenting that it wasn’t the case getting to him so much as it was Hopkins’ reaction to it. He had learned over the years when it was wise to pick an argument with Donovan - and when it was most inadvisable.
“What does he need, Donovan?” he asked softly. “What can I - I mean, what can we - do for him?”
Donovan blinked at him for a moment.
“You solve this, Holmes,” she said finally. “You solve this. That’s the best thing you can do for him.”
Sherlock swallowed hard. He knew that, of course. He had known it for weeks, in fact. But the thought didn’t sit well with him, because there was always the chance - there was always the possibility -
“And if I can’t?” he asked quietly. He looked back at Hopkins, weary but determined before the microphone, and pretended not to feel Donovan’s gaze upon him.
“Well, look at that,” she murmured quietly. “You’re human after all.”
Sherlock curled his hand into a fist and bit the inside of his cheek. Beside him, Donovan shifted uncomfortably.
“Sorry,” she muttered, and then briefly pressed his shoulder. “If this doesn’t get solved... you be there for him. That’s all you can do. You leave with the knowledge that you did all you could, given the circumstances, and you be there for him.”
“And if that isn’t enough?”
Donovan sighed.
“Sometimes,” she said, “it just isn’t. And there’s nothing you can do about that.”
Sherlock waited for Hopkins in his office once the press conference concluded. Hopkins didn’t bother turning on the light when he came into the room, and he was little more than a slender silhouette framed by the doorway.
“Got something for me?” he asked wearily as he walked over to his desk and slumped into his chair. He propped his legs up on the desk and put his chin on his fist, peering at Sherlock in the darkness. Sherlock couldn’t see his eyes, of course, but he certainly felt Hopkins’ wary gaze.
“Just a warning,” Sherlock said. “Your killer not only made a mistake, but he knows he made a mistake thanks to all of this news coverage. He knows now that he chose a woman who wasn’t as unknown as he’d hoped. If he’s trying to keep a low profile-which he almost certainly is-then he’s going to be meticulous about the next killing. And there will be another killing, or at least an attempt. He’s going to be very careful not to slip up this next time.”
“Yeah, I know.” Hopkins sighed, tipped his head back against his chair, and tilted his face towards the ceiling. “Tell me something, Sherlock.”
“Hm.”
“Why the hands?”
Sherlock blinked at him slowly.
“I don’t understand,” he said finally.
“There’s a first,” Hopkins muttered bitterly. “Why does he paint their hands? Why not another part of their bodies? For that matter, what determines the hand he chooses to paint? Two of our victims had paint on the left hand, while the other two had that same streak on their right. There are some cultures, I know, that believe the left hand should only be used for dirty or undesirable tasks. Is he trying to tell us something? Are some of his victims - I don’t know, more pure than others?”
Sherlock let Hopkins talk himself into silence.
“I don’t know,” he said at last, “but I don’t think that’s the case.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, the idea tugging unpleasantly at the back of his mind, “I don’t think this is about revenge, or about making a point. I think - I think that these crimes are an outlet for your killer. This is something that he needs. It’s not about the fun for him, nor is about righting what seems to be a wrong, in his mind. It’s about fulfilling a necessity in much the same way we breathe and eat. He needs this, and so he’s going about it the most acceptable way possible. He doesn’t want to get caught, and he doesn’t want to be stopped. He targets women who won’t be missed; who will be leaving no one behind.”
“Acceptable,” Hopkins repeated darkly.
“Yes.”
“No one’s death is acceptable,” Hopkins snapped at him. “No one is less deserving of life than another. Don’t ever say that in front of me again, Sherlock, or I swear on all that is holy that I will end you.”
“I didn’t say that it was my viewpoint,” Sherlock pointed out calmly. While he didn’t actually agree with Hopkins there, he also knew better than to argue the point. Hopkins’ continued friendship meant more to him than something as trivial as that. “I’m merely trying to get you to understand where the killer may be coming from.”
“You make it sound as though he is someone who deserves our pity.” Hopkins’ voice was dangerously low, and he had gone quite still. Sherlock shook his head.
“No.” He spoke softly, but in the quiet of the office it sounded like a shout. “No, of course not. Not at all. But I do believe that he is someone we must try to understand if we have any hope of identifying him, let alone catching him and putting a stop to his crimes.”
“I don’t want to understand this,” Hopkins hissed. “I don’t want to understand him.”
“And now you’re just being bullheaded.” Sherlock got to his feet. Hopkins didn’t move.
“Look who’s talking,” he snapped. Sherlock shook his head, too weary to deal with a fight at the moment.
“I’m going to the conference room,” he said quietly, calmly, “and I’m going to take your notes home. Help me if you wish, or don’t help. It’s all much the same to me. But stop telling yourself that willful ignorance is the way to go about this case. You must face the truth, even if it’s unsavory, or this will never get solved. Good night.”
Hopkins didn’t follow him.
----
Sherlock returned home from the Yard with copies of every piece of information Hopkins possessed about the case.
He removed the notes from his now-solved embezzlement case from the wall over the mantel and replaced them with everything he had copied from the conference room and the files in Hopkins’ office. Photographs of the victims and of the crime scenes, copies of handwritten notes, copies of official reports--all of these he hung on the wall, stretching from the kitchen to the window, the display at least twice the size of the one at the Yard and a good deal more chaotic.
But Sherlock was much like Lestrade in that manner, able to make order from chaos, and what seemed erratic to some at first glance made perfect sense to him.
The first victim had been found in January of a bitter year, but she had sported no signs of frostbite on her body, or anything else that might have indicated that she lived a life that was devoid of shelter. Her nails were neat but not looked after, and the ends of her hair suggested that she had not had it cut in some time, but it was also far from neglected. She was perhaps pressed for money, then, but not impoverished.
There were a few people who slipped off the grid every year. This happened particularly to those who moved without informing the government, or who changed their names after a marriage, or who failed to immediately update their database photographs every three years, as was required. They never disappeared for long, of course. Eventually the lapses were corrected, as it wasn’t possible to obtain housing or a job without being on the national registry, but it was possible for a person to slide off the grid for a few weeks or months without anyone making a fuss.
And if someone were to also have been abducted during their time off the grid, it would make sense that the public database didn’t have their records now. Old database photographs were purged every few years to make room for the new ones; sometimes, there wasn’t one available to replace the old. And as a murder victim had no more need for housing or a job, the fact that they disappeared from the registry usually went unnoticed.
It was an incredibly inefficient system.
But sometimes people appeared back on the grid without their knowledge. Families of the deceased sometimes submitted their photographs to national registry every time it was purged so that their loved one could “live on,” as it were. Sherlock never understood that practice. More often, though, people had a tendency to appear back in the national registry if they were part of a pending court case, and their photographs were among the files submitted for said cases.
It was a long shot, but it was entirely possible that someone had taken the victims’ disappearances as evidence of them skipping out on legal obligations rather than genuine disappearances. And if no one had thought to check the grid beyond that initial scan of the first victim’s face…
Sherlock gathered every photograph he had of the first victim and scanned them all into his computer interface. The quality was subpar, as these were copies of copies that had then been input into a computer, but it would be enough if there was a match to find.
It took fifteen minutes, which was an eternity in this age of computers and databases. But when the computer interface finally beeped, the upswing of the tone told Sherlock that a match had been found.
Oh, Hopkins was going to be furious that he hadn’t thought to run the victim through the national registry again.
Sherlock stared for some time at the face of the woman the computer was showing him. She had pink-tinged cheeks and pale red lips, and her hair had been swept off her shoulders and into a loose ponytail. He had always found it both odd and fascinating, the comparison between pictures of people while they had been living and photographs of them after they had been murdered. The picture of the woman that was on the computer interface was a match to the first victim, but Sherlock wouldn’t have realised that from an initial glance. It was only when the computer analysis popped up as text laid over the victim’s living picture that he could see why it was indeed a match.
“Interface,” Sherlock said quietly, “when was this photograph submitted to the national registry?”
Photograph was submitted on 13 July 2026.
“Six months after her death,” Sherlock muttered to himself. Of course no one had thought to check again. “And why was this photograph submitted to the database?”
The subject had not paid rent for six months and the subject’s landlady has been seeking compensation ever since.
“And this photograph was part of the case file?” Sherlock asked.
That is correct.
Sherlock nodded to himself. “Interface, bring up all relevant information regarding this woman.”
You do not have clearance to view this information, the computer interface chirped, as this case is still pending and has not reached a resolution.
“And it won’t,” Sherlock muttered to himself.
Unable to process query, the interface told him. Sherlock cursed inwardly, and then dredged up from some small corner of his memory the codes that Hopkins used to gain access to sensitive information.
“Interface, identify codes one-one-two-eight, Alpha-Echo-Bravo,” Sherlock tried, and the computer beeped.
Codes accepted. Now accessing all information regarding this individual.
Sherlock printed out all the relevant information regarding the first victim, and then scanned the other two victims into the national registry’s database on a whim. The third one came back with no matches. The second one did, too, but it took nearly twenty minutes for the computer to reach that conclusion. Prior to that, the computer kept coming up with tentative matches and then ultimately rejecting them.
“Make up your mind,” Sherlock muttered when the interface showed him the same woman’s face for the third time, and then said Error. Negative Match. It tried again, and for a fourth time brought up the same woman’s face before rejecting it.
Sherlock paused, a thought occurring to him. Maybe the computer had made up its mind.
The woman the computer kept showing him and then rejecting was still alive, and a good deal older than the second victim. Her shoulder-length dark hair was wavy and threatening to frizz, but her eyes -
- Her eyes were as round and blue as the sightless ones that stared out of the second victim’s face.
“Interface,” Sherlock said, staring at his photograph of the second woman, “bring up all the siblings and cousins of the woman on the screen-living, deceased, or missing. Now.”
Sherlock took a seat as the information started to pour across the screen. He read the text and absorbed the various images, and it quickly became clear to him that victim number two was a relative of the various people that popped up on the screen. He ordered the computer to start sifting through court records and police reports that had been filed against or by any of the members of this particular family, and hoped that the identity of the second victim would be contained somewhere in them.
The search was going to take an hour, according to the interface, and Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck wearily. He had other things he could be working on in the meantime, but something about this whole thing kept nagging at the back of his mind. Looking at the pictures of the victims now only served to drive home the point that the killer didn’t particularly care about appearances. There was nothing that all three of these women shared, and so it couldn’t be said that women of a certain age or a certain stature would be potential targets. Any woman could be a target, so long as it was difficult or impossible to identify her.
But why only women?
“Unless it’s not,” Sherlock muttered quietly to himself. “It’s not just women.”
And the implications of that were staggering.
----
Sherlock sought out Hopkins in his office first thing the next morning.
“Cheryl Landers,” Sherlock said, striding into the room and kicking the door shut behind him, “and Katherine Jones.”
Hopkins had only just got into the Yard. He had yet to even sit down, and was still shrugging out of his coat when Sherlock came into the room. Hopkins stared at him blankly for a minute.
“Sorry, I don’t follow,” he said flatly as he hung up his coat. Sherlock actually admired that about Hopkins. Too often, people in his presence pretended to follow his line of reasoning, or tried to make pig-headed deductions of their own in order to make it seem as though they could keep up with him. Hopkins freely admitted his ignorance when necessary, and Sherlock appreciated that.
“The first two victims,” Sherlock said. He set his file down on Hopkins’ desk and opened it, spreading out the sheets of information he had carefully compiled. “Victim number one is Cheryl Landers. She had no family and no close friends, and she lived alone prior to her disappearance. She worked in a shop, and seemingly had no interpersonal relationships that she maintained. The national registry was purged of outdated photographs in December 2025, and she hadn’t submitted a new one yet by the time she disappeared a month later-hence the killer believing that she was an unknown.”
“Her employer didn’t notice she was missing?” Hopkins asked, picking up the photograph of Landers that Sherlock had obtained from the landlady’s submission to the database.
“I am certain he did, but he obviously didn’t think anything of it. Landers was replaced about a week after she disappeared. Her landlady rented out her flat six months later and filed a case against Landers for abandoning her obligations as tenant. No one bothered to report her disappearance, probably because they didn’t stop and think it might have been against her will.”
“How did you figure out it was her?”
Sherlock opened his mouth to tell Hopkins about running Landers’ photograph through the national registry again, but what came out was, “Homeless network.”
He moved on quickly to the second victim.
“This one is most likely a girl named Katherine Jones,” he said. “She was an emancipated teen at the time of her disappearance, so while she had family, none of them noticed she had gone missing because they weren’t in contact. Her family members are all in the national registry, so the computer was able to make a tentative match based on structural similarities in their faces, but Katherine doesn’t appear anywhere in the registry, which is probably why your killer targeted her. I submitted the family name to the court cases database and found an old case that the family had been involved in. It mentioned the emancipation of a young woman named Katherine-she’s about the right age of your second victim. If you run her DNA against that of one of the relatives, I’m certain you’ll find a match.”
Hopkins was clearly overwhelmed, and he kept looking at the pictures as though he couldn’t quite believe they were real.
“Thank you,” he said thickly. “I - Jesus, Sherlock, this is incredible. I wish I’d thought -”
“If you had brought me in earlier, these women would still be dead,” Sherlock said firmly. “I haven’t made any sense of this case, Hopkins. I just... I’m just giving you the names. As you asked.”
“Thank you,” Hopkins said again. “And if you manage to figure anything out about the third victim…”
“I’ll keep working on it,” Sherlock promised. He knew already it was hopeless, though. He had made every deduction about her that he could - homeless, between twenty and thirty, never gave birth, suffered from chronic headaches - but none of that was helpful in identifying her, and her picture didn’t bring up even a close match in the database.
But the look of relief and deep gratitude on Hopkins’ face prevented him from voicing his doubts.
“One last thing,” Sherlock said. “I would suggest keeping quiet about the names of the first two victims. Inform the living relatives if you must, but I think it would be best if we minimized the possibility of someone leaking it to the public-and, by extension, the killer-that we know their names. We want to lure him into a false sense of security. I don’t want him to be on his guard just yet. The more comfortable he is that he’s getting away with these crimes, the more likely it is that he’ll slip up and make another mistake.”
“And if we reveal the names to the public, the killer’s going to figure out that we’re working on three of his four crimes. He’ll figure out that we’ve made a connection between all of the victims.” Hopkins sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. We’re going to have to keep as quiet about this for as possible for now. Thank you, Sherlock.”
Sherlock turned to leave, but something stopped him on the threshold. He couldn’t give Hopkins unsubstantiated information, he couldn’t provide him with mere speculation, but the idea that had come to him last night had been plaguing him ever since.
“There’s actually one other thing,” he said, turning slowly. Hopkins cocked his head and frowned.
“What?”
Sherlock drew a breath. “Whenever we talk about the case, you keep saying women. He’s abducting women, he’s killing women. Why?”
Hopkins looked at him as though he’d gone mad.
“Er... yeah, I have. All the victims have been female.”
“That we know of.” Sherlock hesitated, watching the colour bleed from Hopkins’ face. “The victims that we know of have been female.”
Hopkins stared at him.
“What have you found?” he asked in a low, apprehensive voice.
“Nothing,” Sherlock said, and the admission was bitter on his tongue. “I have no evidence to back up this theory, which is irritating, but I can’t ignore the idea, either. As I was trying to identify the other three victims, I got to thinking… what if it’s not unknown women that your killer cares about, but unknown people? If his only criteria for abducting them is that they be unknown and off-the-grid, then who are we to say that he only targets women?”
“The team that made the connection between the first three victims already checked the unsolved crimes database,” Hopkins said, although he looked uneasy.
“Don’t assume that they checked the database very thoroughly. And they may have only been looking for female victims, given the fact that the bodies they had to work with were female,” Sherlock said. “Have your team look through it again. If our killer is attacking people regardless of gender… Well, that gives this whole case a very different look.”
Hopkins scrubbed a hand through his hair and then pushed the intercom button on his desk.
“Sir?” Donovan answered.
“A word, please, Sergeant. My office,” he said briskly. A moment later, Donovan entered the room. She spared Sherlock a quick nod and then looked expectantly at Hopkins. “I want you to have someone go back through the unsolved crimes database. Look for other victims who might have been found with paint on their hands.”
“It’s been done already, sir,” Donovan pointed out.
“I know,” Hopkins sighed. “It’s going to be tedious, but I want the team to go back through it and search through every crime that even remotely matches this one, regardless of whether the database filter says that the victims were found with paint on their hands. The paint might not have been deemed important enough to enter into the database, so it won’t show up in a search. Filter first by victims who were found strangled. Then look for the other hallmarks of this crime - sexual assault, dumped somewhere in London, et cetera. Look at the crime scene photographs for every victim that applies to. The grey paint might not have been put in the notes, but it would still show up in pictures.”
Donovan nodded, and was just about to leave the room when Hopkins stopped her again.
“No. Don’t just check the unsolved crimes database,” he said quietly. “Go through the solved crimes one as well.”
Donovan frowned, and Sherlock felt his eyes widen once he realised what Hopkins was getting at. Interesting. He hadn’t thought of that, and he should have.
“Sir?”
“I want the solved crimes database checked on the off-chance that someone else got convicted for a crime we didn’t know was part of a larger string of murders,” Hopkins said. “I hope I’m wrong, but at this point, we can’t afford to rule anything out.”
“This is going to take time, and a lot of it,” Donovan cautioned. Hopkins’ lips thinned.
“I don’t see that we have any other choice,” he said. “Anytime anyone has a free moment, have them start going through the databases. And keep me apprised.”
Donovan gave a brisk, “Yes, sir,” and exited the office.
Hopkins sat down at his desk and pinched his nose, sighing deeply.
“Right,” he said after a moment. “Okay, then.”
He looked up, fixing Sherlock with a crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Back to work,” he said grimly. “Talk to you later?”
“Call me as soon as you have anything,” Sherlock said.
“I always do.”
He glanced back at Hopkins as he left the office, and something twisted in his chest at the sight that greeted him. Hopkins gave a deep sigh and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, obviously shaken by what at this point was only mere speculation. But in this instance, Sherlock could at least understand his unease.
If he was right-and for once, Sherlock hoped that wasn’t the case-then they could very well soon be dealing with countless victims.
And now almost anyone could be a potential target.
----
Chapter 5
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Sherlock finally wrapped up his embezzlement case during the second week of September. His client was profuse in her thanks, and though he received a tidy sum for his efforts-enough to cover the rent for at least the next year-Sherlock found that he was discontent with the whole thing. He had been working on that case for a solid month, and though the outcome was eventually in his favor, he couldn’t help but feel dissatisfied. It had never taken him so long to wrap a financial case before.
He was slipping.
“Oh, do stop brooding, brother dear. It was a momentary lapse, nothing more.”
Sherlock started violently and then sighed once he realised what had happened. He passed a hand over his face.
“Mycroft,” he growled, “I have told you never to tap into the flat’s computer system again! Among other things, it is illegal.”
“And when has legality concerned you, Sherlock?” Mycroft’s disembodied voice was smug, and Sherlock wished they were in the same room. He could use with striking Mycroft right about now. “Besides, this is much easier than kidnapping you. And it’s far less fuss.”
“You could call me.”
“Yes, because that has proved so effective in the past,” Mycroft said dryly. “I simply needed to inquire as to what your social calendar looks like for the next few months. Anthea wants to put our October and November lunches down on paper.”
Sherlock braced a hand on his hip and rubbed the back of his neck wearily with the other.
“You know very well what my social calendar looks like,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain.
“I do,” Mycroft said cheerfully, “but I thought you appreciated the illusion that you had some control over our get-togethers. I’ll have Anthea put us down for the first Monday in October and the third Thursday in November. How does that sound?”
“Tuesdays and Thursdays are out of the question, you know that,” Sherlock snapped.
“Yes, I do. I was also thinking that perhaps Inspector Hopkins could join us.”
Sherlock froze.
“Why?” he demanded. There was a pause.
“I thought you might appreciate having his company. You appear to find it enjoyable.”
“And I associate with him on my own time,” Sherlock said irritably. “There is no reason to subject him to our… lunches.”
He said the last word with extreme distaste. Mycroft gave a long-suffering sigh.
“I am merely attempting to be as accommodating as possible, dear brother. I know how you detest having to meet with me on a regular basis, but I had hoped that time would wear away your disdain. That appears to not be the case, so I merely thought that having a friendly face at the table might make it a more pleasant experience for you.”
“Let me make one thing very clear, Mycroft,” Sherlock said in a low voice, anger flaring in his stomach. “You are not to come near him. Is that understood? I don’t want him to be subjected to you any more than is strictly necessary. You aren’t to kidnap him, and you aren’t to invite him along to our lunches. If you must see him so desperately, then you set up a meeting on his terms.”
“And why should I listen to these conditions, Sherlock?” Mycroft sounded eternally amused.
“Because you claim to care about me,” Sherlock said with a sneer. “And if that was the truth, you would heed this one request. I attend your lunches. I came to Christmas dinners while Mother was still alive. The least you can do in return is leave Inspector Hopkins alone.”
There was a tremendous pause.
“We’ll see, little brother,” Mycroft said, placating, and Sherlock’s blood boiled. Mycroft used endearments whenever he was about to do the very opposite of what Sherlock asked, as though that might soften the blow. “Good night.”
“Mycroft? Mycroft!”
But there was, of course, no answer.
----
The murder of Jessica Thompson attracted attention of its own accord. Sherlock surmised that this was probably because there was a baby-a perceived innocent--involved.
“Because Jessica wasn’t enough of an innocent,” Hopkins muttered darkly to Sherlock during one of their lunches. “Bastards.”
The various tabloids and newspapers hadn’t made the connection between the four killings yet, but hers gained public interest once the hospital leaked the story of the abandoned baby, which forced the Yard to reveal that the infant’s mother was a murder victim. Sherlock generally didn’t pay much attention to the news, but he did listen with half an ear as the various media outlets began to cover Thompson’s murder.
And as the days wore on and the news picked up more steam, Sherlock realised that the Met wasn’t going to be able to keep quiet about the case for much longer. He had hoped to be able to give them some sort of lead prior to them having to hold a press conference, but as they approached mid-September there was nothing new that he could say about the murders.
There was only one thing that gave them any sort of edge in this whole situation. The killer didn’t yet know that they had made the connection between all the killings. And so when Sherlock woke one morning to a message from Hopkins--Giving a press conference today--he bolted for the Yard.
“Where’s Hopkins?” he demanded of the first person on Hopkins’ team he came across.
“He has a press conference this afternoon,” Donovan answered without stopping. She was on her way down a corridor, and Sherlock darted after her.
“Yes, obvious. Has it started yet?” he demanded.
“No, but he’s on his way. Hey!” Donovan tugged her arm from Sherlock’s sudden grip and stopped dead in the corridor. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“We need to find him before it starts,” Sherlock said urgently, “so where would he be right now?”
Donovan stared at him for a long moment, seemingly taken aback by the vehemence in his voice.
“Come on,” she said finally, and led him to the conference room.
Hopkins was leaning against the long table, his arms crossed over his chest, staring unseeingly at the wall of victims. The lights were off in the room, and Sherlock knew that he wasn’t here for work. He felt a sudden pang at having to interrupt Hopkins’ contemplation and wondered, absurdly, when was the last time that Hopkins had a chance to rest.
Why does that matter?
“Sir.” Donovan rapped gently on the doorframe, and Hopkins looked around.
“Hello,” he said quietly. “Yes?”
Sherlock stepped into the room.
“I need to speak to you about the press conference,” he said, and Hopkins straightened. “You can’t mention the connection between all the killings.”
Donovan gaped at him while Hopkins’ face turned to stone.
“You don’t want us telling the public that we’re dealing with a serial killer, you mean,” Hopkins said, his voice cold. “You’re mad.”
“You can’t be serious,” Donovan put in, aghast. “How are people going to be able to protect themselves? We have to tell them what we’re dealing with!”
“It’s a risk,” Sherlock admitted. A crease formed between Hopkins’ brows.
“And a damned foolish one,” Hopkins said, irritated. “You’d better have a damn good reason, Sherlock, and don’t just say that you have a feeling about this.”
“I don’t,” Sherlock snapped, bristling at the implication that he was allowing emotions to get in the way of reason. “If we mention the other victims - if we let him know that we know about them - then he’s going to change his method of operation. He will disappear the moment we let on that we know about his previous killings, and we may never hear from him again. We can’t afford to scare him off.”
“And how can you be sure that would scare him off?” Hopkins pressed. “He already knows that we’ve found and identified the fourth victim. Her face has been splashed all over the news for days.”
“But he isn’t aware that we know it’s his fourth victim,” Sherlock pointed out. “For all he knows, we’re treating this as a single incident. A crime of passion, a domestic dispute gone wrong, however you want to spin it. He only knows as much as you tell the press, Hopkins. So don’t talk about the crimes as serial murders. Don’t talk about them at all.”
“So what in God’s name do you want me to talk about instead?” Hopkins snapped.
“Just focus on the fourth murder,” Sherlock said. “Everyone’s talking about Jessica Thompson anyway, and that’s what the press was expecting to hear today. Don’t drop this bombshell on them. Give them what they were looking for. Public ignorance will give us a slight edge in this whole situation, and we could do with a slight edge right about now.”
Hopkins stared at him for a long moment.
“So it’s we now, is it?” he asked finally. “Does this mean you’re going to help us with the whole case? Not just with identifying the victims, but with everything?”
Sherlock didn’t answer right away.
“You need me,” he said finally. Hopkins’ gaze was unwavering.
“Always,” he said quietly. Sherlock gave a brisk nod.
“Yes. I’m in. For as long as you need me, I’ll be here.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Hopkins held his gaze, and while his expression remained hard, something softened behind his eyes. Sherlock had a feeling that he was struggling not to say something due to the fact that they weren’t alone, and that he was trying to convey it instead with his eyes.
And Sherlock couldn’t fully interpret the sudden tenderness in Hopkins’ gaze-or he was too frightened to even begin to give it a name-but he gave Hopkins a slight nod all the same. Finally, Hopkins broke eye contact with Sherlock and looked at Sally.
“All right, Sally. We’re going to keep quiet about this for now.” Hopkins sighed. “Damn it all. Excuse me.”
Donovan and Sherlock parted to let him by, and Hopkins left the room.
Sherlock and Donovan retreated to her small office in order to watch the conference. Or, rather, Donovan went into her office and Sherlock followed without an invitation. She shot him an exasperated look but didn’t bother to comment on it. Donovan tended to be more lax about his blatant ignorance of social graces when there was a pressing case at hand.
She turned on the small television that was mounted in the corner. Hopkins was sitting at a long table before a room full of reporters, flanked by two of his sergeants and looking perfectly at ease. This was another area in which he and Lestrade differed--whereas Lestrade had always abhorred and sometimes bungled press conferences, Hopkins always fielded questions admirably. He saw advantages in reporters where Lestrade had only seen nuisances, and he had a way of working the press to his own advantage. And, when he had no desire to give the media more information than was necessary, he also had a way of giving a response that really didn’t answer the question at all, but it was so thorough that the reporter never realised until later.
“He looks ill,” Donovan commented as the press conference began. Sherlock nodded.
“He’s lost approximately seven pounds since he brought the case to me,” he said softly. “Donovan -”
“Hmm?” she said when he didn’t continue. She turned to look at him. “What is it?”
“Hopkins... This case. It bothers him.”
She snorted.
“Cases like this get to everybody,” she said. “I’d be worried if it wasn’t bothering him. To be honest... I’m glad to see that it’s getting to you, too.”
Sherlock refrained from commenting that it wasn’t the case getting to him so much as it was Hopkins’ reaction to it. He had learned over the years when it was wise to pick an argument with Donovan - and when it was most inadvisable.
“What does he need, Donovan?” he asked softly. “What can I - I mean, what can we - do for him?”
Donovan blinked at him for a moment.
“You solve this, Holmes,” she said finally. “You solve this. That’s the best thing you can do for him.”
Sherlock swallowed hard. He knew that, of course. He had known it for weeks, in fact. But the thought didn’t sit well with him, because there was always the chance - there was always the possibility -
“And if I can’t?” he asked quietly. He looked back at Hopkins, weary but determined before the microphone, and pretended not to feel Donovan’s gaze upon him.
“Well, look at that,” she murmured quietly. “You’re human after all.”
Sherlock curled his hand into a fist and bit the inside of his cheek. Beside him, Donovan shifted uncomfortably.
“Sorry,” she muttered, and then briefly pressed his shoulder. “If this doesn’t get solved... you be there for him. That’s all you can do. You leave with the knowledge that you did all you could, given the circumstances, and you be there for him.”
“And if that isn’t enough?”
Donovan sighed.
“Sometimes,” she said, “it just isn’t. And there’s nothing you can do about that.”
Sherlock waited for Hopkins in his office once the press conference concluded. Hopkins didn’t bother turning on the light when he came into the room, and he was little more than a slender silhouette framed by the doorway.
“Got something for me?” he asked wearily as he walked over to his desk and slumped into his chair. He propped his legs up on the desk and put his chin on his fist, peering at Sherlock in the darkness. Sherlock couldn’t see his eyes, of course, but he certainly felt Hopkins’ wary gaze.
“Just a warning,” Sherlock said. “Your killer not only made a mistake, but he knows he made a mistake thanks to all of this news coverage. He knows now that he chose a woman who wasn’t as unknown as he’d hoped. If he’s trying to keep a low profile-which he almost certainly is-then he’s going to be meticulous about the next killing. And there will be another killing, or at least an attempt. He’s going to be very careful not to slip up this next time.”
“Yeah, I know.” Hopkins sighed, tipped his head back against his chair, and tilted his face towards the ceiling. “Tell me something, Sherlock.”
“Hm.”
“Why the hands?”
Sherlock blinked at him slowly.
“I don’t understand,” he said finally.
“There’s a first,” Hopkins muttered bitterly. “Why does he paint their hands? Why not another part of their bodies? For that matter, what determines the hand he chooses to paint? Two of our victims had paint on the left hand, while the other two had that same streak on their right. There are some cultures, I know, that believe the left hand should only be used for dirty or undesirable tasks. Is he trying to tell us something? Are some of his victims - I don’t know, more pure than others?”
Sherlock let Hopkins talk himself into silence.
“I don’t know,” he said at last, “but I don’t think that’s the case.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, the idea tugging unpleasantly at the back of his mind, “I don’t think this is about revenge, or about making a point. I think - I think that these crimes are an outlet for your killer. This is something that he needs. It’s not about the fun for him, nor is about righting what seems to be a wrong, in his mind. It’s about fulfilling a necessity in much the same way we breathe and eat. He needs this, and so he’s going about it the most acceptable way possible. He doesn’t want to get caught, and he doesn’t want to be stopped. He targets women who won’t be missed; who will be leaving no one behind.”
“Acceptable,” Hopkins repeated darkly.
“Yes.”
“No one’s death is acceptable,” Hopkins snapped at him. “No one is less deserving of life than another. Don’t ever say that in front of me again, Sherlock, or I swear on all that is holy that I will end you.”
“I didn’t say that it was my viewpoint,” Sherlock pointed out calmly. While he didn’t actually agree with Hopkins there, he also knew better than to argue the point. Hopkins’ continued friendship meant more to him than something as trivial as that. “I’m merely trying to get you to understand where the killer may be coming from.”
“You make it sound as though he is someone who deserves our pity.” Hopkins’ voice was dangerously low, and he had gone quite still. Sherlock shook his head.
“No.” He spoke softly, but in the quiet of the office it sounded like a shout. “No, of course not. Not at all. But I do believe that he is someone we must try to understand if we have any hope of identifying him, let alone catching him and putting a stop to his crimes.”
“I don’t want to understand this,” Hopkins hissed. “I don’t want to understand him.”
“And now you’re just being bullheaded.” Sherlock got to his feet. Hopkins didn’t move.
“Look who’s talking,” he snapped. Sherlock shook his head, too weary to deal with a fight at the moment.
“I’m going to the conference room,” he said quietly, calmly, “and I’m going to take your notes home. Help me if you wish, or don’t help. It’s all much the same to me. But stop telling yourself that willful ignorance is the way to go about this case. You must face the truth, even if it’s unsavory, or this will never get solved. Good night.”
Hopkins didn’t follow him.
----
Sherlock returned home from the Yard with copies of every piece of information Hopkins possessed about the case.
He removed the notes from his now-solved embezzlement case from the wall over the mantel and replaced them with everything he had copied from the conference room and the files in Hopkins’ office. Photographs of the victims and of the crime scenes, copies of handwritten notes, copies of official reports--all of these he hung on the wall, stretching from the kitchen to the window, the display at least twice the size of the one at the Yard and a good deal more chaotic.
But Sherlock was much like Lestrade in that manner, able to make order from chaos, and what seemed erratic to some at first glance made perfect sense to him.
The first victim had been found in January of a bitter year, but she had sported no signs of frostbite on her body, or anything else that might have indicated that she lived a life that was devoid of shelter. Her nails were neat but not looked after, and the ends of her hair suggested that she had not had it cut in some time, but it was also far from neglected. She was perhaps pressed for money, then, but not impoverished.
There were a few people who slipped off the grid every year. This happened particularly to those who moved without informing the government, or who changed their names after a marriage, or who failed to immediately update their database photographs every three years, as was required. They never disappeared for long, of course. Eventually the lapses were corrected, as it wasn’t possible to obtain housing or a job without being on the national registry, but it was possible for a person to slide off the grid for a few weeks or months without anyone making a fuss.
And if someone were to also have been abducted during their time off the grid, it would make sense that the public database didn’t have their records now. Old database photographs were purged every few years to make room for the new ones; sometimes, there wasn’t one available to replace the old. And as a murder victim had no more need for housing or a job, the fact that they disappeared from the registry usually went unnoticed.
It was an incredibly inefficient system.
But sometimes people appeared back on the grid without their knowledge. Families of the deceased sometimes submitted their photographs to national registry every time it was purged so that their loved one could “live on,” as it were. Sherlock never understood that practice. More often, though, people had a tendency to appear back in the national registry if they were part of a pending court case, and their photographs were among the files submitted for said cases.
It was a long shot, but it was entirely possible that someone had taken the victims’ disappearances as evidence of them skipping out on legal obligations rather than genuine disappearances. And if no one had thought to check the grid beyond that initial scan of the first victim’s face…
Sherlock gathered every photograph he had of the first victim and scanned them all into his computer interface. The quality was subpar, as these were copies of copies that had then been input into a computer, but it would be enough if there was a match to find.
It took fifteen minutes, which was an eternity in this age of computers and databases. But when the computer interface finally beeped, the upswing of the tone told Sherlock that a match had been found.
Oh, Hopkins was going to be furious that he hadn’t thought to run the victim through the national registry again.
Sherlock stared for some time at the face of the woman the computer was showing him. She had pink-tinged cheeks and pale red lips, and her hair had been swept off her shoulders and into a loose ponytail. He had always found it both odd and fascinating, the comparison between pictures of people while they had been living and photographs of them after they had been murdered. The picture of the woman that was on the computer interface was a match to the first victim, but Sherlock wouldn’t have realised that from an initial glance. It was only when the computer analysis popped up as text laid over the victim’s living picture that he could see why it was indeed a match.
“Interface,” Sherlock said quietly, “when was this photograph submitted to the national registry?”
Photograph was submitted on 13 July 2026.
“Six months after her death,” Sherlock muttered to himself. Of course no one had thought to check again. “And why was this photograph submitted to the database?”
The subject had not paid rent for six months and the subject’s landlady has been seeking compensation ever since.
“And this photograph was part of the case file?” Sherlock asked.
That is correct.
Sherlock nodded to himself. “Interface, bring up all relevant information regarding this woman.”
You do not have clearance to view this information, the computer interface chirped, as this case is still pending and has not reached a resolution.
“And it won’t,” Sherlock muttered to himself.
Unable to process query, the interface told him. Sherlock cursed inwardly, and then dredged up from some small corner of his memory the codes that Hopkins used to gain access to sensitive information.
“Interface, identify codes one-one-two-eight, Alpha-Echo-Bravo,” Sherlock tried, and the computer beeped.
Codes accepted. Now accessing all information regarding this individual.
Sherlock printed out all the relevant information regarding the first victim, and then scanned the other two victims into the national registry’s database on a whim. The third one came back with no matches. The second one did, too, but it took nearly twenty minutes for the computer to reach that conclusion. Prior to that, the computer kept coming up with tentative matches and then ultimately rejecting them.
“Make up your mind,” Sherlock muttered when the interface showed him the same woman’s face for the third time, and then said Error. Negative Match. It tried again, and for a fourth time brought up the same woman’s face before rejecting it.
Sherlock paused, a thought occurring to him. Maybe the computer had made up its mind.
The woman the computer kept showing him and then rejecting was still alive, and a good deal older than the second victim. Her shoulder-length dark hair was wavy and threatening to frizz, but her eyes -
- Her eyes were as round and blue as the sightless ones that stared out of the second victim’s face.
“Interface,” Sherlock said, staring at his photograph of the second woman, “bring up all the siblings and cousins of the woman on the screen-living, deceased, or missing. Now.”
Sherlock took a seat as the information started to pour across the screen. He read the text and absorbed the various images, and it quickly became clear to him that victim number two was a relative of the various people that popped up on the screen. He ordered the computer to start sifting through court records and police reports that had been filed against or by any of the members of this particular family, and hoped that the identity of the second victim would be contained somewhere in them.
The search was going to take an hour, according to the interface, and Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck wearily. He had other things he could be working on in the meantime, but something about this whole thing kept nagging at the back of his mind. Looking at the pictures of the victims now only served to drive home the point that the killer didn’t particularly care about appearances. There was nothing that all three of these women shared, and so it couldn’t be said that women of a certain age or a certain stature would be potential targets. Any woman could be a target, so long as it was difficult or impossible to identify her.
But why only women?
“Unless it’s not,” Sherlock muttered quietly to himself. “It’s not just women.”
And the implications of that were staggering.
----
Sherlock sought out Hopkins in his office first thing the next morning.
“Cheryl Landers,” Sherlock said, striding into the room and kicking the door shut behind him, “and Katherine Jones.”
Hopkins had only just got into the Yard. He had yet to even sit down, and was still shrugging out of his coat when Sherlock came into the room. Hopkins stared at him blankly for a minute.
“Sorry, I don’t follow,” he said flatly as he hung up his coat. Sherlock actually admired that about Hopkins. Too often, people in his presence pretended to follow his line of reasoning, or tried to make pig-headed deductions of their own in order to make it seem as though they could keep up with him. Hopkins freely admitted his ignorance when necessary, and Sherlock appreciated that.
“The first two victims,” Sherlock said. He set his file down on Hopkins’ desk and opened it, spreading out the sheets of information he had carefully compiled. “Victim number one is Cheryl Landers. She had no family and no close friends, and she lived alone prior to her disappearance. She worked in a shop, and seemingly had no interpersonal relationships that she maintained. The national registry was purged of outdated photographs in December 2025, and she hadn’t submitted a new one yet by the time she disappeared a month later-hence the killer believing that she was an unknown.”
“Her employer didn’t notice she was missing?” Hopkins asked, picking up the photograph of Landers that Sherlock had obtained from the landlady’s submission to the database.
“I am certain he did, but he obviously didn’t think anything of it. Landers was replaced about a week after she disappeared. Her landlady rented out her flat six months later and filed a case against Landers for abandoning her obligations as tenant. No one bothered to report her disappearance, probably because they didn’t stop and think it might have been against her will.”
“How did you figure out it was her?”
Sherlock opened his mouth to tell Hopkins about running Landers’ photograph through the national registry again, but what came out was, “Homeless network.”
He moved on quickly to the second victim.
“This one is most likely a girl named Katherine Jones,” he said. “She was an emancipated teen at the time of her disappearance, so while she had family, none of them noticed she had gone missing because they weren’t in contact. Her family members are all in the national registry, so the computer was able to make a tentative match based on structural similarities in their faces, but Katherine doesn’t appear anywhere in the registry, which is probably why your killer targeted her. I submitted the family name to the court cases database and found an old case that the family had been involved in. It mentioned the emancipation of a young woman named Katherine-she’s about the right age of your second victim. If you run her DNA against that of one of the relatives, I’m certain you’ll find a match.”
Hopkins was clearly overwhelmed, and he kept looking at the pictures as though he couldn’t quite believe they were real.
“Thank you,” he said thickly. “I - Jesus, Sherlock, this is incredible. I wish I’d thought -”
“If you had brought me in earlier, these women would still be dead,” Sherlock said firmly. “I haven’t made any sense of this case, Hopkins. I just... I’m just giving you the names. As you asked.”
“Thank you,” Hopkins said again. “And if you manage to figure anything out about the third victim…”
“I’ll keep working on it,” Sherlock promised. He knew already it was hopeless, though. He had made every deduction about her that he could - homeless, between twenty and thirty, never gave birth, suffered from chronic headaches - but none of that was helpful in identifying her, and her picture didn’t bring up even a close match in the database.
But the look of relief and deep gratitude on Hopkins’ face prevented him from voicing his doubts.
“One last thing,” Sherlock said. “I would suggest keeping quiet about the names of the first two victims. Inform the living relatives if you must, but I think it would be best if we minimized the possibility of someone leaking it to the public-and, by extension, the killer-that we know their names. We want to lure him into a false sense of security. I don’t want him to be on his guard just yet. The more comfortable he is that he’s getting away with these crimes, the more likely it is that he’ll slip up and make another mistake.”
“And if we reveal the names to the public, the killer’s going to figure out that we’re working on three of his four crimes. He’ll figure out that we’ve made a connection between all of the victims.” Hopkins sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. We’re going to have to keep as quiet about this for as possible for now. Thank you, Sherlock.”
Sherlock turned to leave, but something stopped him on the threshold. He couldn’t give Hopkins unsubstantiated information, he couldn’t provide him with mere speculation, but the idea that had come to him last night had been plaguing him ever since.
“There’s actually one other thing,” he said, turning slowly. Hopkins cocked his head and frowned.
“What?”
Sherlock drew a breath. “Whenever we talk about the case, you keep saying women. He’s abducting women, he’s killing women. Why?”
Hopkins looked at him as though he’d gone mad.
“Er... yeah, I have. All the victims have been female.”
“That we know of.” Sherlock hesitated, watching the colour bleed from Hopkins’ face. “The victims that we know of have been female.”
Hopkins stared at him.
“What have you found?” he asked in a low, apprehensive voice.
“Nothing,” Sherlock said, and the admission was bitter on his tongue. “I have no evidence to back up this theory, which is irritating, but I can’t ignore the idea, either. As I was trying to identify the other three victims, I got to thinking… what if it’s not unknown women that your killer cares about, but unknown people? If his only criteria for abducting them is that they be unknown and off-the-grid, then who are we to say that he only targets women?”
“The team that made the connection between the first three victims already checked the unsolved crimes database,” Hopkins said, although he looked uneasy.
“Don’t assume that they checked the database very thoroughly. And they may have only been looking for female victims, given the fact that the bodies they had to work with were female,” Sherlock said. “Have your team look through it again. If our killer is attacking people regardless of gender… Well, that gives this whole case a very different look.”
Hopkins scrubbed a hand through his hair and then pushed the intercom button on his desk.
“Sir?” Donovan answered.
“A word, please, Sergeant. My office,” he said briskly. A moment later, Donovan entered the room. She spared Sherlock a quick nod and then looked expectantly at Hopkins. “I want you to have someone go back through the unsolved crimes database. Look for other victims who might have been found with paint on their hands.”
“It’s been done already, sir,” Donovan pointed out.
“I know,” Hopkins sighed. “It’s going to be tedious, but I want the team to go back through it and search through every crime that even remotely matches this one, regardless of whether the database filter says that the victims were found with paint on their hands. The paint might not have been deemed important enough to enter into the database, so it won’t show up in a search. Filter first by victims who were found strangled. Then look for the other hallmarks of this crime - sexual assault, dumped somewhere in London, et cetera. Look at the crime scene photographs for every victim that applies to. The grey paint might not have been put in the notes, but it would still show up in pictures.”
Donovan nodded, and was just about to leave the room when Hopkins stopped her again.
“No. Don’t just check the unsolved crimes database,” he said quietly. “Go through the solved crimes one as well.”
Donovan frowned, and Sherlock felt his eyes widen once he realised what Hopkins was getting at. Interesting. He hadn’t thought of that, and he should have.
“Sir?”
“I want the solved crimes database checked on the off-chance that someone else got convicted for a crime we didn’t know was part of a larger string of murders,” Hopkins said. “I hope I’m wrong, but at this point, we can’t afford to rule anything out.”
“This is going to take time, and a lot of it,” Donovan cautioned. Hopkins’ lips thinned.
“I don’t see that we have any other choice,” he said. “Anytime anyone has a free moment, have them start going through the databases. And keep me apprised.”
Donovan gave a brisk, “Yes, sir,” and exited the office.
Hopkins sat down at his desk and pinched his nose, sighing deeply.
“Right,” he said after a moment. “Okay, then.”
He looked up, fixing Sherlock with a crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Back to work,” he said grimly. “Talk to you later?”
“Call me as soon as you have anything,” Sherlock said.
“I always do.”
He glanced back at Hopkins as he left the office, and something twisted in his chest at the sight that greeted him. Hopkins gave a deep sigh and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, obviously shaken by what at this point was only mere speculation. But in this instance, Sherlock could at least understand his unease.
If he was right-and for once, Sherlock hoped that wasn’t the case-then they could very well soon be dealing with countless victims.
And now almost anyone could be a potential target.
----
Chapter 5