Nobody is smart but Daryl Hockney (the_automaton) wrote in musingslogs, @ 2010-10-12 03:08:00 |
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Entry tags: | sherlock holmes |
Who: Daryl and the contents of her mind (special guest stars Jane, Adam, Harry, and Jen!)
What: A Eureka Moment (dream narrative)
Where: Daryl's bed in Bathos 204
When: Tonight
Warnings: Discussion of dead bodies, descriptions of said bodies.
Notes: This is a normal, non-magic dream. Everyone other than Daryl in this narrative is just a manifestation of her subconscious.
The cemetery was cool and quiet, a pleasant place to stand and think. A light chill nipped at the nape of her neck, dancing over her skin before disappearing entirely. She shivered, pulling up the hood of her oversized sweatshirt until it draped heavily around her face. Taking in a slow, even breath, she glanced over her shoulder, gaze skimming the vacant graveyard. Tombstones jutted up from the ground like broken fingers, clawing at the black night sky. Though she had no idea how she had come to be there, she knew that she had a reason for setting foot in this strange and barren place.
A full moon that was almost dumbfounding in its size loomed overhead, casting pale shadows across the ground. Daryl took slow and deliberate steps forward, ears straining for even the slightest of sounds. She heard nothing. It was as if she were the only living thing left on the planet, the only heartbeat still thudding above the earth's crust. Her breath issued from her lips in a narrow stream, smoggy tendrils rising through the still air. A large patch of ground several yards ahead was shrouded in shadow, nearly impossible to see. Daryl approached it, cautiously leaning over a waist-high tombstone until the light of the moon cast the shadows away.
Jane lay casually on her side, a gun dangling from the fingers of her right hand. A deep bullet hole had blown apart the right side of her head, chunks of brain and skull matting her wheat blonde hair. Daryl's breath stilled in her chest, eyes wide as she felt her nails brace against the gravestone she leaned against. Though her sweatshirt was quite warm, she felt a chill run through her body.
"You're not seeing me." Green eyes snapped open, staring vacantly ahead. For a moment, it was as if Jane were both hyperaware of Daryl's presence and utterly oblivious simultaneously. Both women stayed absolutely silent for several seconds, the only sound in the cemetery coming from Daryl's soft breathing. "You're looking at me."
Huffing in defiance, Daryl reared back with arms folded. "I say that to you constantly," she replied accusingly. "I always see."
"Oh?" The other woman smirked, sitting up despite the gaping wound in the right side of her head. "Then why isn't my killer behind bars right now?"
The rest of the graveyard seemed to shift, tombstone sliding to the side to allow Daryl to move forward until she was looking down the bridge of her nose at her roommate. "You weren't killed," she replied shortly. "Amelia Rhodes was killed. You are clearly standing in her place as a means of aiding my mind in piecing together why."
Rolling her eyes, Jane stood up, towering over her. "You were never good at playing games. You think too much."
"Or not enough," she replied sulkily.
As Daryl turned her back on Jane, she felt a hand settle on her shoulder. "Don't even try self-doubt," the other woman said knowingly. "You're terrible at it."
After a moment's pause, Daryl sighed. "You're right." At that moment, the ground beneath them changed, dirt and grass disappearing to be replaced by an enormous chalkboard. Daryl felt a strange weight in her hand, turning to see a piece of chalk curled up in her fingers. Without a second thought, she stooped on her hands and knees, feeling Jane settle by her side. "Her name was Amelia Rhodes."
"From Auburn," Jane offered.
The sound of chalk scraping over the board filled the cemetery as Daryl spoke and wrote simultaneously. "That places her as the originator of the pattern."
"She was the mother of one, and a married woman. Very religious."
"Jewish," Daryl corrected. "She was very Jewish. Which makes this location impossible."
Laughing, Jane sat back on her heels. "We already know it's a murder."
"But it's relevant."
"It's sloppy, that's what it is."
Daryl scoffed. "First murders often are. The murderer is finding a pattern, experimenting."
With a wistful sigh, Jane watched the long pattern of white words appear on the chalkboard, a marching sea of letters. "It never is quite as fun as it was in college."
Rolling her eyes, Daryl finally pulled the piece of chalk back and looked down at the enormous notes she had written. Everything about the case was encapsulated, every detail mentioned and every factoid accounted for. And yet she still didn't have her answer. "The cause of death was a gunshot wound to the head," she repeated, frowning. "Unlike the others, the cause of death is always unique. So how..."
Jane took the chalk from her with a knowing smile. "You can't think of them as separate entities," she said. "Remember that they're all linked."
"By the pattern," Daryl replied stubbornly. "So far, that's it."
"So far," Jane repeated. With a wink, she began to draw a large square on the board, approximately four square feet in size. Once the final corners touched, the white line glowed a faint silver as the green square in the center dissolved. The square was no longer a piece of the chalkboard, but rather a portal into another room. "That'll change."
Suddenly, Jane's fingers were digging into Daryl's shoulders, hauling her forward. The brunette let out a strangled shriek of surprise as she was shoved through the portal, leaving the cemetery behind as this new world crashed in place around her.
The force of being thrown through the portal sent her flying out from beneath a bed, skidding over the floor and coming to a stop just inches from the nearest wall. Pressing the back of her hand against her head, she let out a low groan, rolling onto her knees. Wondering what the hell was wrong with Jane, she slowly looked around, taking in the state of the room. It was a hotel room, perfectly kept and untouched. Something about it was eerily familiar, and that suspicion was confirmed the second her gaze fell on the blank, cold face of Adam Morgenstern.
His head hung from the bed, on which he lay on his back with arms spread. Pressing her back against the wall, Daryl slowly stood, looking down at the scene before her. A needle was stuck in his arm, several needles littering the sheets around him. The scene was identical to the one she had seen not long before. Every detail was perfectly in place, every single fact save for the victim.
"Look alive, poppet!"
Gasping, Daryl looked down to see Mr. Morgenstern's eyes snap open, bright blue and full of laughter. Her lips pressed together in a thin line as he rolled up to a seated position, turning to face her with careless disregard. He kicked needles from the bed as he moved, turning to fully face her. Wrinkling her nose as the needles fell to the floor, Daryl folded her arms across her chest. "You're destroying the scene."
He looked up at her, a languid smile on his face as he reached for the needle in his arm. "It was destroyed the moment you put me in place of Mr. Stephenson," he replied as his fingers closed around the needle.
She hurried towards him, knocking his hand away with her knuckles. "Don't do that," she demanded.
"Do what?" he asked with a smirk, leaning forward until the tip of his nose brushed hers. "I'm not doing anything, poppet. I'm not even supposed to be here."
As she heard his hand move towards his arm again, she grabbed it, holding fast. "You're an exercise."
"Oh?"
"A tool."
"I like the sound of this."
As his hand moved beneath hers, she gripped it tightly, glaring. "Tools don't speak," she said firmly. "Just sit there quietly." With that, she released him and stood, looking around the room. Just as she remembered, it was perfectly in place. There were no wrinkles in the sheets, nothing shifted or moved. Though she wasn't able to see microscopically, something in the back of her mind told here that there were no fingerprints or wayward fibers. This room was the way it had been when housekeeping cleaned it.
"What are you thinking?" The voice was warm and against her ear, far too close for comfort. "How did he get here?"
Muscles stiffening, she didn't dare to look down as she felt two hands settle on her hips. "Among other things." She could feel his fingers shifting, palms resting comfortably against her sides. "I told you to stay put."
She could feel the smirk against her ear in a breath of warm air. "I know." One hand left her hip to take her hand, fingers entwining despite her attempts to prevent it. "But I couldn't leave you alone for long."
Daryl found herself forcibly spun outward, caught only by the tension between their fingers. Eyes wide, she looked down to the crook of his elbow, seeing that it was clean. "You removed the needle," she said as she was pulled back, forced into a waltzing position. "I told you-"
His free fingers held her lips closed long enough for her to be effectively silenced. Once she fell quiet, he moved his hand to hers, completing their stance. "I know what you told me. But I didn't obey. It's funny how that works, isn't it?"
He's the one that began the dance, stepping forward and forcing her to step back. "This isn't a game, Mr. Morgenstern," she replied sternly. "This is very, very important."
"It's always a game, poppet." He turned them slowly, leading her in a dance across the hotel room. "You forget that."
Letting out a huff, she let her eyes rove the room as they passed through it, angles shifting and changing as they went. "Apparently I forget a lot," she murmured.
He chuckled, pulling her close until his breath could ghost her ear once again. "It's okay. That's what I'm here for." Banding an arm around her waist, he dipped her low, leaning over her as she stretched. "Brandon Stephenson of Bothel, Seattle."
Gripping his shoulders tightly in surprise, she let her gaze roll back to the bed. "He wasn't a drug addict. And he didn't kill himself."
"What was his cause of death?"
As Mr. Morgenstern pulled her to her feet, Daryl sighed. "Suffocation."
He raised a brow. "With all that heroin?"
"Not "all,"" she replied. "There wasn't enough to kill. But it doesn't explain how a man suffocated with no defensive wounds or signs of strangulation."
Laughing, Mr. Morgenstern spun her out, clasping her hand tightly as he pulled her back in. "There's more than one away to suffocate a man, poppet." She braced one hand against his shoulder as they spun around, moving slowly backwards where she couldn't see. The sound of a door opening caused her to turn. She was stopped by his hand clasping her chin, holding her tight and forcing her gaze back to his. For a moment, he was close enough for her to taste his breath. His other hand adjusted, sliding until the palm was flat against her stomach. The sound of hinges opening reached her ears as the corners of his eyes wrinkled in a clear grin. "You'll figure it out."
The shove sent her flying backwards, soaring through nothing. Letting out a sharp scream as she fell through the air, Daryl looked back just in time to see the ground hurtling towards her. Unfortunately, there wasn't time for her to break the fall. Instead, she slammed down on her back, releasing a loud "oomph" at impact. She let out a low sigh as she let her eyes fall closed, allowing herself to just relax. It was a strange sensation, relaxing, but it was all she could do.
When her eyes opened, she realized that she was in the middle of a wide, open space. The ground beneath her was hard and unyielding, most certainly not grass. Her fingers twitched at her sides, tips grazing the ground. Asphalt. Letting out a sigh, she rolled her head from side to side, looking left then right. To her left was a shopping complex whose name she couldn't quite make out. To her right was the last person she had expected to see.
"Mr. Adlebourne?" she asked, incredulous. He was laying on his back, legs utterly mangled. It was as if he were a piece of meat that had been given Aldebourne's face. Though she didn't feel horror exactly, Daryl was surprised to see him there.
With an impatient sigh, he reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. He didn't look at her, merely kept his eyes shut as he gestured vaguely towards her with his other hand. "Don't look at me like that," he drawled.
Scoffing, Daryl sat up, leaning forward against her knees. "How would you have me look at you?" she asked, voice biting.
A lazy smirk overtook his face as he dropped his hand, looking up at her. "I'm not answering that."
"You never do."
"Are you sulking?"
Lower lip jutting out into a pout, she looked away. "Hardly." She could hear the sound of amusement and refused to look over, even as he hauled himself up into a seated position. "How did you get here, Mr. Aldebourne?"
She could hear the scoff, trying to dismiss the way it boiled her blood. "Why are you asking me?" He shifted in the background, shoes scraping over the pavement. "You're the brilliant detective, aren't you?"
Turning to face him, she scowled. "It was a rhetorical question." Though he clearly had something to say about that, he stayed silent. Resting her chin on her right knee, Daryl looked out over the parking lot, gaze unfocused and bleary. "Collin Wood of Clyde Hill," she murmured. "How did you get here?"
"You're so interested in how they reached their final destination," he mused from her side.
Rolling her eyes, she glanced in his direction. "If we know how they were transported to the scene, then we might-"
She was cut off by the sharp sound of laughter, harsh and raucous. Sighing, she impatiently waited for him to finish. As he wound down, flicking tears of mirth from his cheeks, he forced himself forward, bloody leg-stumps etching red lines on the ground. "You focus on one thing, Hockney. And then you don't see."
Jaw clenching, she vaulted to her feet, spinning to look down at Mr. Aldebourne in all his bloody, gruesome glory. "Why do you keep saying that? I see everything. I just haven't-"
"Just haven't what?" Looking up at her lazily, he offered a smug smirk that boiled her blood with irritation she hadn't felt in a long time. "Put it together yet?" In the distance, there was the sound of a car approaching. The ground rumbled with vibrations, shaking and shivering beneath her feet. "Tell me how I died, Hockney."
The vibrations intensified though she dismissed them, focused entirely on the redhead seated before her. "You were crushed-"
His hand show out, fingers tightening in the material of her pants. She gasped, looking down in shock as the asphalt beneath her feet began to crumble. Though she tried to move out of the way, Mr. Aldebourne held her fast, rooted to the spot. "Tell me how I died," he repeated, gaze locked on hers. "And then you can tell me how I got here."
Before she could respond, the last sliver of asphalt disappeared beneath her feet. His hand released her leg instantly, allowing her to plummet through the earth. Her shriek was swallowed up by a vacuum of emptiness that followed her down, down. The first thing that hit was her feet, engulfed by cold water. Her arms flailed at her sides as she splashed down. Water filled her lungs as she struggled to reach the surface again, feeling her toes brush the bottom of the lake as she swam upward. Finally, she broke into fresh air, taking a heaving gasp and wiping wet hair from her eyes.
Coughing, she looked around, treading water. She was in the middle of a lake, chilly, and there was no one around for miles. No one, that is, save for the corpse floating several feet in front of her. Spitting out a mouthful of water, she swam towards it, churning the water behind her as she went. She clapped a hand on the body's shoulder, forcibly rolling it over onto its back. A strangled gasp of surprise leapt from her throat as she recognized the body's face.
"You look surprised, pipsqueak." Detective Warda righted herself, arms held out at her sides as her legs sank down to touch the bottom. She stood comfortably, watching Daryl tread water with an amused expression on her face. "You shouldn't be."
"You aren't David Carver," she said over the water, waving her arms to try and keep herself afloat. "Therefore, I'm surprised."
The other woman raised a brow, head canting to the side. "I thought you were smarter than that." Just as Daryl was about to hiss a comeback, Detective Warda reached out to grip her shoulder. She easily lifted Daryl just enough to make her swimming easier, guiding her along as she walked. "David Carver was found in Duvall Lake."
Flopping along beside the detective, Daryl gave the best nod she could muster. "Yes," she said. "He broke the pattern. He was found in a location beginning with "D," but he wasn't from a location beginning with "D.""
"That isn't the only pattern," she said, voice serene. "There are four dead bodies. The letter pattern isn't the only one holding them together."
"The identity of their killer," Daryl remarked dryly.
With a long-suffering sigh, Detective Warda paused at a nearby dock and picked Daryl up, placing her on it. Resting her hands on the dock, she remained standing at her side. "That isn't the only thing."
Daryl pushed her wet hair from her face, looking out over the lake with a sigh. "I know," she groused. "But what else is there?"
After a few moments of silence, Detective Warda looked up at her. "How did I die?"
Bristling, Daryl kicked a foot into the water. "You drowned!" she barked, irritation in her face.
"Did I?" Reaching into her mouth with two fingers, Detective Warda looked up at her innocently, wiggling them about against her cheeks. Removing them, she held out the ropes of saliva, brows raised. "Feels kind of dry in there."
"You just smeared saliva all over your fingers," Daryl clucked, rolling her eyes.
"That's not the point and you know it." Reaching into the breast of her jacket, the detective pulled out a fat packet of pictures and handed it to Daryl. "Look at these."
Not bothering to ask why they weren't soaking wet, Daryl flipped through the pictures slowly. "Carver's corpse," she murmured. First it was his outside, photos of his skin. "Bruises. Obviously tied. Another anomaly. The prior three victims showed little to no signs of such abuse." She flipped again, looking at the bruise and the puncture wound on his arm. She hesitated, frowning. "It's a clean puncture." She glanced to Detective Warda, a brow raised. "A needle stick?" The other woman only shrugged as she continued.
New pictures took her further and further into the body, until she hesitated at photographs at the lungs. The detective noticed and leaned closer, glancing up at her. "What?"
Brows knit, Daryl gestured to the picture. "His lungs. There's some foam from aspiration, a bit of water, but..." She pursed her lips, frowning. "It's not enough."
"What do you mean?"
"It doesn't look like a drowning," she snapped. "There's petechial hemorrhaging in the lungs, and some presence of water and foam in the airways, but...it's not right."
Frowning, Detective Warda looked up at her. "Wasn't Stephenson asphyxiated too?"
Daryl's heart stopped. "Yes." She hesitated, flipping through Carver's photographs again. "Why would a serial killer cover up three murders as suicides, make the fourth an obvious homicide, then use the same cause of death for two? It doesn't make sense." Reaching the end of Carver's pictures, she grabbed at the detective, voice demanding. "Give me the others."
Without a word, the other woman obeyed, handing over another packet. Daryl shuffled through them quickly, reaching Wood's lungs.
"There!" she shrieked, pointing at the picture. "There, look at the lungs! Look. Petechial hemorrhaging." She hesitated, moving back. Wood's eyes stared blankly up at her from the picture, revealing very faint spots that she had to squint to see. "In the eyes." Without waiting for Warda's agreement, she discarded the photos and moved on to Rhodes. Just as before, those small marks in her lungs and eyes were visible. They were so tiny, so insignificant, that the "noise" from their supposed COD's had covered them up by comparison. But Daryl knew what to look for, and she had found it.
"So they were all asphyxiated?" Detective Warda asked, completely unsurprised.
"Yes," Daryl whispered, putting the photographs down and clasping her hands to keep them from shaking with excitement. "All four individuals were asphyxiated. That's the uniting factor. Their cause of death was all the same. But how..." She trailed off, thinking back to Mr. Morgenstern. Her expression hardened, eyes wide. "Poison," she whispered. "Detective Warda, they were poisoned. It's how they were all asphyxiated with no signs of strangulation or smothering. It explains the puncture wound on Carver. Stephenson could have been injected via the needle we found in his arm."
"And Rhodes and Wood?"
Shaking one hand, Daryl looked away. "There are many arteries and veins in the head and neck area. Our killer was most skilled with Rhodes, despite the juxtaposition of a Jewish woman in a Catholic cemetery. Her scene was the most authentic. It's possible the killer injected her near the bullet's entry point to cover it up. For Wood, the site could easily have been lost in the damage caused by the car."
The detective looked up at her, a satisfied smile on her face. "Good job, pipsqueak."
Daryl wasn't listening. She was already moving forward. She was already standing, reaching out into the air, and feeling her hand hit something very, very unusual.