Welcome to Baker Street

62. A kindred spirit

Five minutes later, they are all standing behind the one-way glass through which they can look into the adjacent interrogation room where a boy is sitting behind a metal table.

"Let me get this straight; you've just arrested this boy on charges of murder based on circumstantial evidence?" Sherlock bursts out, disconcerted.

"It's not circumstantial. The police found him bent over the victim's body: Elisa Therton," Anderson justifies, but Sherlock cuts him short.

"According to what you've reported, Elisa was his mother. Of course, he was on her body. Empathy might not be my strong point, but I think I can figure out how human emotions work, to a certain extent. What else would you expect him to do, being completely indifferent to her corpse?"

"Honestly? Yes, but I'll explain why later." Anderson gives him a condescending look that makes Sherlock pale with pent-up anger.

"Anyway, we found the murder weapon in the house. The bullet inside the victim's chest matches the calibre of the gun. We don't even have to run ballistics on it; it's crystal clear."

"The killer might have used it to shoot the woman and left it behind not to arise suspicion," Holmes suggests, remaining unfazed by those apparently unfounded allegations.

"The gun is a property of the family, legally registered. It belonged to the father," Anderson disputes.

Sherlock's head jerks up. "Belonged?"

"The boy's father (and husband of the victim) died six years ago."

"So you took a wild guess and supposed that this teenage boy had the same flair for firearms as his old man and consequently used his father's gun to kill his mother? Anderson, every time you open your mouth, you inadvertently challenge Darwin's theory of evolution and the survival of the fittest."

Anderson flares his nostrils, livid.

"Look, Holmes, I didn't come to you to collect feedback on my work. It's not a mere conjecture. The boy had gunpowder traces on him: we've run tests on his hands and clothes. And we found this towel soaked with blood hidden inside his wardrobe." He hands him a plastic bag containing a stained-red towel.

Holmes gives it a closer look, then asks, "Did you test it to verify that it is the victim's blood?"

Anderson glowers at him.

"The lab is doing it as we speak. Whose else could it be?"

Sherlock sighs heavily and looks beyond the glass, staring at the boy. He must admit that the evidence is all against him.

"Does he have an alibi?"

"He said he was hunting in the woods," Anderson explains distrustfully.

Sherlock spins him, confusion painted all over his face.

"Woods? Hold on, where did this murder happen?"

Anderson barely whispers his answer, "In a small town in the countryside, not far from London."

"And why would you be on forensics on a case outside the city?" Sherlock widens his eyes at him, baffled.

Philip keeps his eyes down and murmurs, "Because that's where I was born. I grew up in that town, and when I heard about the tragedy, I rushed there to see what happened and I volunteered my expertise. My family knew both Elisa and her deceased husband. I just want to find out the truth."

"Does it include making it up?"

"Enough," Lestrade intervenes in a weary tone. "Sherlock, I'm sure that if Anderson came to you for consultation, he had a good reason to."

Holmes scoffs. "His only reason is despair. He knows he doesn't have a solid manslaughter case against that boy, and according to the law, you can only hold a murder suspect in custody up to 96 hours, then you'll have to release him."

Lestrade gives him a sarcastic look.

"Thank you for reminding us. Now, will you help or not?"

"I will." He would never pass on the opportunity to throw it back in Anderson's face for the rest of his days.

"But before I question him, I need to know: what did you mean when you said he is just like me?" he addresses the forensic officer, who smirks and replies, "He is a sociopath."

Sherlock seems taken aback for a moment, then bursts out.

"Let me guess; this is also his motive, isn't it? He is a sociopath, so he must have killed his mother, right? Is that why you wanted my help? You need me to make him talk because you think I am some sort of kindred spirit?" he spits out through gritted teeth.

Philip shrugs. "Nobody got a single word out of him, except for his convenient alibi."

"Fine, but I want to talk to him alone," Sherlock bargains.

Lestrade scowls at him. "Sherlock, do I have to remind you that you're not a police officer?"

"And do I have to remind you, Detective Inspector, that I am your best chance to solve a case that you had no jurisdiction over and that your forensics officer claimed for himself?" He remarks conceitedly.

Greg sighs, then concedes, "You have five minutes."