Welcome to Baker Street

63. Beyond the mirror

Sherlock steps into the interrogation room and sits at the table across from the boy.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes." He looks at the personal report that Anderson gave him and reads the boy's name out loud. "Isaac, care to share anything with me?"

The teenager doesn't raise his gaze on his interlocutor and bluntly replies, "I'm against new people."

A corner of Sherlock's mouth bends in a smirk.

"I can relate. Let's make it quick, then. I heard you don't talk to cops."

"There's nothing relevant I have to tell them," Isaac answers in a low voice.

"Good, so you're talking to me now." Sherlock grins at the one-way mirror, knowing that behind the glass, everyone is watching them.

"You said it: I don't talk to cops," Isaac underlines.

Sherlock tilts his head, intrigued. "How did you know I wasn't one of them?"

The boy casts a rapid glance at him before looking away again.

"From the way you behave. Every officer that entered this room wanted something from me."

"And what makes you think I don't?"

"I'm sure you do. The point is, you are the first person who's not asking anything."

"I can gather information differently," Holmes explains, relaxing his back against the seatback. This is getting rather interesting.

"And I guess that's why you've been observing me since the moment you stepped in. What do you have so far?" Isaac finally looks into his eyes. He is terrified, as would be expected. There's no fear in his features, just melancholic fatigue.

"A clever boy and a rather interesting conversation."

"Why are you here?" Isaac asks, curious about that bizarre newcomer.

"Because I'm bored," Sherlock replies honestly. "Why are you here?"

"Because my mum was murdered, and your friends think I did it." His tone is flat, apathetic, uninterested in his fate.

'Friends' is a strong word, the detective mentally comments.

"And they will most definitely send you to jail for a very long time unless you are proven innocent."

"Is that what you are trying to do?"

"As much as I would love to prove them wrong, I'm just interested in solving a case. That's it. So, where were you between 9 and 10 this morning?" Sherlock kicks off with the standard questions.

"I already told them: I was hunting." His bored reply is muttered with indifference.

"Yeah, in the woods. A nice little place not quite crowded with witnesses. Nobody can corroborate your story," Sherlock points out. Isaac remains silent.

"Is this towel yours?" he tries again, placing the plastic bag on the table. The boy steals a glance at it and suppresses a shiver.

"Yes."

Holmes has caught his reaction and doesn't give up on the topic.

"Why is it dripping blood?"

Isaac doesn't reply; silence is his shield.

"Isaac, if this is related to your mother's death—"

"It's not," he interrupts him. "It's not her blood. You can test it."

"We are testing it. But you could help me save precious time." Sherlock's voice resonates sharper than he intended.

Isaac makes eye contact with him only for an instant, then looks away without a word.