Welcome to Baker Street

34. Death sentence

"Good Lord, what did he ever do to you?" A female voice inquires with an unexpected sardonic undertone.

Molly Hooper, a pathologist at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, enters the morgue right when Sherlock pokes a scalpel into the back of a dead man lying on the slab. He meticulously sticks the blade into the flesh from different angles, then pulls it out and leans forward to examine the wound he has just caused. She stares at him in awe, slightly horrified at his barbarian methods but incapable of taking her eyes off him.

"A huge favour, since he donated his body to science—which basically means to yours truly, thus enabling me to do some research about my newest case," he replies, focused on his experiments.

"And how—how is this case, erm, going?" Molly stutters timidly to make small talk.

Sherlock straightens up and speaks at impossible speed.

"I'd say pretty well. A wealthy man died under mysterious circumstances: no enemies, no motives, no murder weapon. So apparently, there were no suspects. Then, an enigmatic woman, most likely his lover, showed up at his funeral, making this jigsaw puzzle more intricate. Eventually, my flatmate Giulia was accused of the murder, and she doesn't have an alibi."

"What?" Molly's eyes instantly widen in shock as she covers her mouth with one hand.

"I've just explained everything. Molly, please, keep up." He rolls his eyes and stabs the corpse again.

She shakes her head, bewildered. "Sherlock, what are you doing here?"

"Proving a point," he replies, unfazed.

"What point?"

He studies the marks on the cadaver, and a corner of his lips quirks up.

"Either the murderer is a very talented contortionist, or something is wrong."

Molly can't believe it; despite the upsetting incarceration of his flatmate, his whole attention is currently focused on some impossible deadly maneuvers. Yet, she can't help but ask, "Such as?"

"Michael Chadley was murdered with a blow to the back, between his ribs. When I was at the crime scene, I deduced he was standing when he was stabbed and then collapsed onto his chair. I am 100% sure of my deductions, but there are some inconsistencies I'm trying to solve. First, there wasn't even a scratch on the thick seatback of his leather chair, so we can rule out the possibility that the killer stabbed him through it. Therefore, the logical conclusion is that the victim was standing and not sitting when he was hit. Now, here's the problem: he had no reason to stand up as he was deeply immersed in his work and most likely had been for hours—the number of cigarette butts in his ashtray revealed his stress and dedication." Sherlock recalls even the tiniest details from the victim's studio.

"He wanted to stretch his limbs, maybe? You just said that he had been sitting for long hours. Perhaps, he wanted to give a boost to the blood circulation in his legs," Molly tentatively suggests like a shy pupil answering in front of the entire class.

"Possibly, but then we have another issue: how could the murderer accurately predict when to kill him?" He nervously paces the room, leaning his folded hands against his lips.

Molly strives to follow his reasoning process.

"Are you assuming that the killer was waiting for the right time to strike? Wouldn't it be easier to just enter the room, threaten him, and make him stand up?"

He gives her a condescending look.

"You forget that the entry wound was on his back. What you theorise is incoherent. Just think: if you wanted to kill someone (since in your little scenario you were clearly referring to a premeditated crime showing hate or anger), would you pass up the opportunity to stab the person right on the front while facing them?"

She shivers, refusing to imagine herself in such a disturbing situation.

"So, you think the killer sneaked behind his back, waited for him to stand up, and pierced him?" She asks, confused at the illogicality of that option.

"No, of course I don't; it makes no sense. And there wasn't enough room for two people behind the wooden desk anyway: it was too close to the bookshelf." His hands float in the air as he mentally rebuilds the plan of the study. "Nobody could slip behind Mr Chadley and stab him to death: it was too narrow. The only logical explanation is that he was facing his murderer. But that would mean that—" his voice dies in his mouth. Suddenly, the consequences of his observations strike him.

"The victim knew his killer," Molly gives voice to his unspoken conclusion, following his train of thought.

The gears in Sherlock's mind run wild like an engine at full throttle, and he finally connects some dots.

"That's why there was no sign of struggle: he didn't defend himself because he didn't think he was in danger. He knew his killer," he repeats Molly's words.

"I don't understand, though. You said that he was struck in the back. How could the—the killer hit him, uhm, there while standing in front of him?" She stammers.

"That's exactly what I was trying to figure out by reproducing the same lethal wound on this corpse," Sherlock mumbles, turning the body on the slab around in a prone position. He bends over the mortuary table and slides his arm under the torso of the dead man until his fingers reach the wound on his back. This simple movement rings a bell in his mind, and he whips his head up.

"Mr Chadley was hugging his assassin, and she hit him while they were still locked in that death grip."

"Hold on, she?"

"The killer is obviously a woman," he says as if he expected it to be common knowledge already.

"How do you—"

"The depth of the wound," Sherlock abruptly cuts her off. "That was the easiest deduction. At the crime scene, I examined the slash, and I can affirm that, despite the heavy weight of the murder weapon, the killer didn't apply great pressure."

"Out of pity?" The pathologist ventures.

The detective shakes his head, disappointed.

"No, no, no. Killers never feel compassion for their victims while they are murdering them. They might feel guilt and remorse afterwards. But no, it wasn't an act of mercy. Conclusion: the killer is a woman, statistically more likely given the lesser strength."

Molly struggles to keep up with all the news. After considering Sherlock's explanation, she tilts her head and asks, "Does this mean that your flatmate is, in fact, guilty?"

"So it would seem. Although, the position of the wound tells another story..." he trails off as he hears footsteps approaching along the corridor.

A couple of seconds later, a man in a black suit pokes his head through the door of the morgue.

"Mr Holmes?"

"Yes, it's me." He waves his hand. The man passes him a folder containing some documents, nods at the two of them, and leaves discreetly without another word.

Molly stares confused at the door that just closed behind the mysterious figure. "Who was that?"

Sherlock doesn't even raise his gaze from the folder and leafs through the pages, replying absentmindedly, "One of Mycroft's minions—I mean, employees."

"And what's that?" Molly points at the folder, puzzled.

"A document that was never made public but just registered with a very discreet notary, which explains why the police ignored it even existed. A secret contract from fifteen years ago, when Michael Chadley signed his own death sentence," he says calmly, then slams the folder shut and shoots her a cunning smile.

"It's his prenup."