Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(81)

“I didn’t have a choice!” the cameraman at the wheel of the van pleaded.

“I know,” the motorcycle rider said. He had a hawk-like nose and combed-back black hair longish to the nape of his neck, and his grey probing eyes seemed to take everything in at once. “Let’s get out of here before this thing goes up.”

“I can’t,” the other man said, worry in his voice. “He told me I had to drive until I couldn’t drive any more. And if I was stopped I couldn’t leave the driver’s seat. I had to be—” he choked off as his voice became garbled with emotion.

“Until you were dead,” the stranger finished. “I assure you, your wife and young daughter are safe. No harm will come to them.”

The driver gaped at the other man. Who was he? Did he know about the calm man on the other end of the telephone who’d threatened his family? Was he working for this man? Was he the criminal who had set all this in motion?

“If he tells you your wife and kid are okay, they are, man,” said Dock Watson as he came up, tucking his piece away.

“John,” said the motorcycle rider.

“Holmes,” Watson nodded curtly.

“Get your goddamn hands up,” a command rang out.

Ringed about them were police officers, sidearms drawn and pointing at the three. Others were using their wooden nightsticks to push the live wires away from the spreading gas as sirens announced the approach of patrol cars and the fire department. Those who’d been gathered for the Martin X presentation milled about too.

“Y’all be cool now,” one said. “Brother Watson and them white fellas got their hands up, and ain’t nobody about to make no sudden moves, ya hear?”

“We got eyes on you,” said another. He’d brought his Christmas present, a Super 8 movie camera, to film Martin X and had the thing on.

The officers, white and black, were keenly aware that on the heels of an assassination attempt, following the morning’s murder of Dr. Barrow, it would only take one wrong word or crack of the nightstick to set off a riot. The three men walked slowly to the curb under the gaze of hundreds of pairs of eyes. They were patted down. Watson told the officers he was armed, and his gun was taken. From the one he called Holmes a folding knife of unusual design was removed, as was a sort of baton of maple, a short round stick in a scabbard strapped to his calf. The trio were then handcuffed and each hauled off to the 32nd Precinct in separate cars.



Dock Watson was interrogated by two detectives, one black, the other white.

“You were in ’Nam,” said the black one, Murphy, consulting an open file folder that Watson figured included a photocopy of his New York State–issued private investigator license.

“I was,” said the former staff sergeant.

“Huh,” Murphy muttered, leafing through a few pages, noting Watson’s citations and the redacted classified portions of his record.

“You are on retainer with the Freedom Now Coalition?” the white one, O’Malley, asked.

“I am.” He felt no need to elaborate. It had been Watson’s experience that, like on the witness stand, answer only what you were asked when talking with a member of law enforcement.

“And you at times handle security for Martin Collins, called Martin X by you . . . by some people.”

“I do. And I’m licensed to carry the firearm you confiscated from me.”

He was asked more than once what he’d seen leading up to the supposed appearance of Barrow’s ghost on the roof of the church. He told them what he’d witnessed, including that he didn’t believe in reincarnation and the good doctor didn’t own a dashiki. The second time he asked, “Your men find the dashiki that was probably left behind? Betchu when the lab finishes their tests, they’ll find theatrical makeup on it.”

Both cops gave him a baleful look. He was here to answer their questions, not pose them—and certainly not advance his theories.

After an hour or so elapsed, the white cop, who’d been leaning in a corner while the other one sat across from Watson, yawned and said, “Gonna get a little air, Kev, be right back.”

He walked out. When he came back after a few minutes, he tapped his partner on the shoulder and they both left. Watson remained as he was, sitting at the metal table, his hands relaxed on it. The black one had been sipping coffee from a cup emblazoned with the distinctive blue and white amphora design. The table was a dull industrial green, as was the linoleum, which had been trafficked to streaks of black smudges in several sections. The walls were dirty beige and the acoustic ceiling tile buckled in places with water stains. The coffee cooled near him. The door opened again. Watson heard fingers tick-tacking away on an electric typewriter in the adjoining hallway. The door closed again as a man entered.

“You’re looking fit, Dock.”

“It’s been awhile, James.”

James Moriarty, crisp in a three-piece suit and tie, strode to the table with his hand out. Watson half rose and shook it. They both sat, Moriarty clasping his long fingers before him. “I suppose it goes without saying that the mayor’s office has a keen interest in getting a handle on this situation.”

Watson measured his response. “I imagine you have a theory or two.”

Moriarty, whose hair was prematurely white, scratched at an ear lobe. “As you do.”