The Trouble With Sentiment

Chapter Five

"What's odd?" Lestrade asked.

"The blood. It's not clotted." John slipped on a pair of nitrile gloves, gaze moving from the woman's head to her hands. The joints of her fingers were stiff to the touch, her arms the same. Beyond progressive rigor mortis then.

"Tilt her on her side, please, away from me."

Gripping the body's shoulder, Sherlock eased her over.

John raised the hem of the woman's jumper and shirt. The olive skin of her lower back appeared normal, the flesh unmarked. He nodded, and Sherlock laid the woman back down.

Lifting the front of her clothing revealed a wide purplish red stain stretching across her abdomen and creeping up toward her chest. He pressed a thumb against the tissue below her ribs and let go. No change.

"Well?" Lestrade asked as John tugged the woman's shirt back into place.

"Right, well, first off, she was originally face down when she died."

"How do you reckon?" Lestrade asked.

"The discoloration on her stomach is due to livor mortis. When the heart stops, circulation ceases, and blood pools in the tissue due to gravity. Secondly, the head injury didn't kill her." John pointed a gloved finger at the perimeter of the wound. "See how there isn't any swelling around the tissue and how the blood isn't clotted? These are classic signs of postmortem injuries."

"Hang on. You're saying someone smashed her head in after she died?" At John's nod, Lestrade grimaced. "That's bloody vicious if you ask me. Any idea what killed her?"

"It's difficult to say since there aren't any other indications of trauma. An autopsy will better determine the cause of death."

In one smooth movement, Sherlock rose to his feet. "Now that John has saved me the trouble of stating the obvious, it's my turn. Whoever did this wasn't terribly bright. Not that most criminals are."

"How so?"

"His efforts with her bag are abysmal. He staged it to appear like a mugging, but the props are all wrong."

"What do you mean? It's obvious her wallet was taken," John said.

"I'm referring to what was left behind. Any street smart criminal would have taken the box of pseudoephedrine. It's almost full. While they likely wouldn't have received much for it, the need for it in methamphetamine production ensures its value. An easy sale."

"I'm honestly a bit perplexed there's anything left here at all. I'd have expected her jumper to have been taken too," Lestrade said.

Sherlock scoffed. "Even a homeless person would be embarrassed to wear that. Besides, the usual vultures and addicts who pick over crime scenes like this are likely nesting somewhere warm at the moment."

Over the next few days it was expected to heat up to normal temperatures. The weatherman had hemmed and hawed about shifting currents, but had no real explanation for the change.

"You'll want to see this as well." Sherlock eased the old woman's eyelids open. A deep scarlet line slashed across both the white and the iris.

"Bloody hell," Lestrade said, his mouth twisting in disgust.

A phantom pain stung at John eyes. "What is that?"

Sherlock peeled off his nitrile gloves and tossed them onto the old woman's body. "Tache noir de la sclerotique."

"Sorry, what?" John asked, utterly confused.

"You took French in school."

"Yes, but I didn't take it to learn the language." Oh no. He'd been far more interested in spending time with the lovely French exchange students. John couldn't recall much of his lessons beyond a few choice phrases they'd taught him.