Deduce Me

Eighteen: The Game is On!

John

Sherlock examined the body for no more than thirty seconds before he stood up, straightened his already straight collar (the only straight thing about him, if you ask me, I thought, then had to hold back a giggle), then started rattling off his deductions.

"Let's start with what we already know, shall we? Jamie Clark, age 17. We also know how ignorant he was; not much of a leader, but a very good follower. Also, a very good fighter, judging by his fists." He winced and grabbed his side, but stayed strong. "I suppose my ribs could attest to that. We know Anderson is the head of his group, but Anderson couldn't be capable of a murder like this."

Greg's father looked up from the body. "Why not?" He seemed to be testing Sherlock, figuring out how good of a detective he was.

Sherlock looked up, almost annoyed to be interrupted. "Have you seen him? He's monumentally stupid. Besides, there is absolutely no motive. No, someone much cleverer did this, not Anderson."

A thought struck me, of the boy's last words to me. "'Anderson didn't start this,'" I quoted.

"What?" Sherlock snapped his head up to me. Greg and Mycroft, who had wandered off a few paces and were standing close together, glanced up as well. DI Lestrade looked at me weirdly.

"Jamie said that, the last time we, er, saw him. After Anderson ran off, he sayed for a few seconds, but he didn't want to fight. All he said was, 'Anderson didn't start this.' He looked afraid, actually."

"Someone above him, then. Someone Anderson works for... To get to us? Why would anybody want to get to us?" He looked puzzled for a moment, then turned back to the body. "He didn't die here."

"How do you know that?" I asked.

"Clark was tortured before he was killed, you can see from how bloody the cuts are on his arms, torso, face... Basically all over his body. They were caused by a knife, and they cut deep. The killer was left-handed, judging by the directions and placements of the cuts and stabs. His pants have scuffs and scrapes on them and are ripped in some places, so he was dragged around by someone. Obviously, not here, otherwise there would be drag marks in the mud. Plus the fact that there's not nearly as much blood on the grass as there should be. Someone dumped him here. In front of the school? Clearly, he wants to be caught... A psychopath. He likes showing off the dead bodies he's killed."

"You think he's dumb enough to show off?" I asked. For some reason, Sherlock and I were the only ones talking. No one else was asking questions or anything.

"No, I think he's brilliant enough." He saw my warning expression. "Er, sorry. Yes, he's showing off. Uh...Clark was taken out of his dorm— he's still wearing pajamas— but not by force, because he's wearing shoes. Kidnappers don't generally put shoes on their victims before they take them. So, he knew the person, or at least knew of him."

"But why was he killed?" I asked.

"Isn't it obvious?" He looked at our blank expressions. "Come on, guys, think!" We still had no idea, and Sherlock was starting to look like a madman, waving his arms about trying to get us to use our brains. "Really?!" Nothing. "Oh, look at you. You're all so vacant! What's it like not being me? It must be so relaxing. Look, he almost blew his cover."

I rubbed my face, trying to keep up with my boyfriend. "Sherlock, what the hell are you talking about?"

"'Anderson didn't start this,' John! Just that one sentence, those four little words, could have completely uncovered the identity of the person behind all of it. That's why he had to go."