Yes; the mystery is coming together. A solution is now in sight!

Don Quixote and I met outside Starsight apartments today. With information provided to us we moved up to the apartment under Mr. Mann’s name, and forcibly entered (perhaps too forcefully, Don?). Immediately I discovered there was much to see; multiple substantial clumps of hair which, upon observation, did not indicate balding or a violent struggle. The follicles were carefully and consistently aggravated over a period of time, indicating a nervous twitch.

Don Quixote announced to me an anonymous tip about a curtain rod, which led me to notice – not a curtain rod, but the conspicous lack of one in the wall. Holes in the wall above the window clearly indicated that a curtain rod was forcefully removed not a week ago, and had somehow disappeared. I immediately pondered why; I stood silent in the room, believing there was something missing. That was when I looked out across the road to the Loverose Apartments and saw the window that marked Tara’s apartment; and I saw something that I wish I had seen before, but which I could not because I was investigating inside the room:  a large, profound dark green smudge going down the outside of the window, indicating forceful pressure downward.

And what should the color match but the inside interior of the wall of the Starsight Apartment??

That was when I sent Don on his mission to go to the Loverose Apartments, at the back, and look inside the dumpster. I asked him to find some receptacle device – something that could contain a large segmented pole. While he was away, I looked elsewhere in the apartment, and I saw, in the wall near the door, a large coat of paint substantially fresher than the rest of the wall around it. This led me to enough suspicion to investigate; I tore open that section of the wall and found, with great wonder if little astonishment, a large rifle. It’s serial number, precise build and scope indicated a military issue designed for long range and sharpshooting – I believe the term is ‘sniper’. Don Quixote returned with a duffel bag designed, covered with a pale khaki and evergreen pattern – a decoration he considered hideous, but which I carefully recognized as modern camouflage. And emblazoned on the front was a name Don Quixote recognized: J. Hope. And when I open it up, what should I find? The segmented elements of a dark green curtain rod!

Now the solution to our mystery becomes clear: We now have the names of two men, both critically involved in the plot. Mann, who had the apartment and gave the call, and Hope, a military man who provided the duffel bag and the stolen military rifle. Giving the call to Tara alerted her, and whoever was calling her would have led her to open the window. She did not anticipate that a shooter was waiting for her across, waiting for her ever so patiently to give the opportunity and take the shot. Above her, on the roof, the other man was waiting; having climbed patiently to the top of the roof using the fire escape, he carried with him the duffel bag that contained the curtain rods and then reassembled them on the roof. As soon as the shot rang out he was ready; he took this rod that he assembled and, with some expected struggle, used it to close the window to Tara’s apartment, believing not unreasonably that this would eliminate suspicion that Tara was shot from across the road, and giving them enough time to figure it out for themselves.

All that remains is for us to figure out who was the murder and who was the accomplice. We are collecting prints but in my mind it is the likelier that Hope, the professional soldier of the military, was the one who took the shot, and Mann, the keen manipulator, was the one who closed the window. For now, we may have collected enough clues to bring in the professional bobby; surely they would be competent enough to solve it from there.

Finally, the truth becomes clear. Tara may be avenged.

Holmes

My research has yielded conclusively that even a silencing compressor could not explain the shallow wound I saw on Tara! This truly is a closed door mystery – closed to logic as well as physic! Am I bested so?!

I do realize I should not make such a conclusion until I have tried to understand this Mann character; has anybody found information on where this Baskerville Commons Apartment is? And if Mann lives there, what his number maybe?

Little progress so far in the case; Don Quixote and I are having some difficulties.

To put it simply, I deduce that our difficulties emerge from a poor sense of authority in our relationship; I require a competent observer and witness, who is humble enough to be subdued when he is ignorant and doesn’t understand – much like my old roommate Dr. Watson. Quixote, on the other hand, seems to require a sort of reverent squire, obedient and who eagerly cares to hear Quixote’s next sermon while being competent enough to keep the man out of trouble. He compares me to some figure named Sancho, a man who apparently fits the role, and whom I must pity terribly. Don Quixote, I must note, is also quite distressed with the murder; right now he has run off to witness the ‘Creatures of the Lord’ at some nearby zoological garden. I do have the benefit of experience to keep sternly to my method in the face of such obscene darkness.

However I have hit something of a dead end, and while I am in waiting I ponder the occurrence with the book. I understand this now as a consequence of being ‘fictional’ by your words, but I am quite curious about it. I realize that because of my unique circumstance I am obliged to provide you with something of a mystery that occurred to me back in London which I have since remained silent about out of fear, confusion and necessity. Nevertheless, now that I am revealed I wonder if you will find some use in it, and if it is related to the phenomenon of the book.

‘Twas back in London, several weeks ago when I was staying with James in the City. I had just begun my detective services and had opened myself up to new cases, being disappointed with their quality, when I received a most absurd message contained in an envelope with my name on it. Well, I say my name; it did not actually have Hugh Hefner written on it but… let’s just say I knew that it was sent to me. Yet it congratulating me on my acceptance to some nonsensical school for witchcraft and, after a list of items and preposterous names, gave me a directional instruction to an entirely made up platform in the real King’s Cross station (the only sensible inclusion I fancied). Yet written on the back was written a dare:

“Well, ‘Just H. Hefner,’ has anything ever happened to you? Anything you couldn’t explain?” Why don’t you come to the aforementioned platform, and find out who you truly are and what you are capable of?

And what should I do? I accept a challenge. So I head out from Blackfriars to King’s Cross, and obviously I head directly to the platforms 9 and 10 per instructions, but what should I find? The blood things are separated by a god damn track! There is no brick barrier between the two, even if one were to believe the nonsense in the instructions. Yet though I must have appeared mad I built up enough courage to ask a guardsman of a platform between 9 and 10. Lo and behold, he rolls his eyes and tells me to go to the western departures by the bookstore, and that I should find what I’m looking for! Madness!

And I go to the western departures, and there is a sign saying – I do not lie – Platform 9 ¾! And next to it, a Watermark Bookstore. But in the pane of the shop I see amidst the multiple books for a character Harry Potter a single leather bound copy of the The Complete Works of Sherlock Holmes! I moved to enter the store, but the door was locked. Fortunately, as among my talents is the art of lock picking I had just the materials on me to contrive a device that would allow me to open the door. I put it into the door and I was not surprised to find that it worked.

It was at this very moment that a pain of indescribable intensity rushed through my entire body, devoid of cause, encapsulating my very soul. I staggered to me knees, a victim to its awesome might. And the next moment, I was as before! It was as if my very existence were questioned in the first, and in the second that the pain had almost been some sort of dream. Unfortunately the commotion attracted the attention of one of the guards and I had no time to investigate the mystery further; I had to escape. I managed but my opportunity seemed to be missed. I returned the next day and there was no book; it was gone.

Was it this Cabal that sent me the letter? Or was it someone else? Why? And what opportunity did I miss in not entering the shop that night? And what happened to me outside of the shop? I wonder if I will ever know

Holmes

P.S. I am trying to arrange a meeting with a local Ballistics effort so that I can understand if the mechanisms of a compressor could account for the rather poor power shown by Tara’s body. If nothing comes from this resident of Baskerville Commons, this is what I will have to resort to.

To update you all;

I have met Don Quixote today for the first time today, though I had committed so much of my time to observing him. He confessed to being Don Quixote, and I feigned interest although I am not surprised to know this as his identity. In accordance I revealed my identity to him, thinking it rather trivial polite introduction, but upon telling him I was Sherlock Holmes he seemed to burst into the laddish capriciousness I may expect of a youth fawning over a girl! He explained to me that he was aware of my work and that he himself was quite a fan. He even went so far as to show me the copy of his book that featured my exploit. It was strange enough to have such sense of popularity in this time, but what was even stranger was when I opened up the book to see what kind of exploit of mine he was describing, the book – I kid you not – was completely blank! I was afraid that the man I was speaking to was completely mad!

Yet the conversation turned more productive; along with the book he provided a video that was left to him by the late Tara which he believed would be useful in our investigation, which I will post soon. I was occasionally bothered by his impoliteness in the conversation – he seemed very keen to do some typing on his cellular device during the conversation (as he explained it was sending a ‘tweet’; I confess I have a poor understanding of this phenomenon). There was something else; he seemed to actually understand my mannerisms, and even some of the principles of my methods of deduction as if he had read some sort of exploit of mine. But the book he brought me was white as a sheet; did he bring the wrong book? Or… is the problem with me?

With some hesitance I allowed Don Quixote to join me at the crime scene today (covertly, albeit), which yielded a new twist in our investigation; these modern-day technologies for the phone allow me to reach the last number used by Tara. 1I used this “*69” and sure enough it provided a phone number; perhaps it is another piece in the puzzle:

(971) 230-5905.

I seldom have time to think of it nonetheless; I struggled to manage Don Quixote anyway, and I truly see no alternative motivation nor practical opportunity for murder by anyone other than Mrs. Loverose, though some details are such I cannot connect them. Don Quixote, however, insists with obscene if idyllic prejudice that it could not be Mrs. Loverose for no other reason than she is a woman! He does not understand that solving a murder is a business built on distrusting, lying and muddying one’s hands with blood. His principles will undo the whole investigation. But oh well; the amateur may concern himself with fanciful theories of Tara being shot through a closed window. Perhaps you, my followers, can help. If you could, please contact me on my email if you can find anything that can help.

Holmes

Tara is murdered!

For shame; if only I hadn’t been so detained (and literally so) the night before. I know of only one way I may redeem myself – by using my methods as I can.

I arrived at the scene before that damned police did and I did as much as I could to learn the circumstances of her death before the police would push me off of the scene. Luckily in that short space of time I discovered a lot.

Tara was shot in the abdomen, and died within less than five minutes of blood loss – but had about a minute of consciousness before she fainted. What is strange is that despite the numerous threats Tara received the evidence points – almost too clearly – in the direction of someone quite close to her – Mrs. Loverose, Tara’s bitter and ornery landlady, for multiple reasons.

• By her own admission she had to unlock the door to find the body, which means that the door was locked. Mrs. Loverose and Tara were the only two that had keys to the apartment, and Tara’s keys were on her counter.

• Loverose had a natural hatred of Tara’s unbridled spirit; she was scorned by an adulterous husband and despised Tara’s promiscuity, which may have been strong enough to be an incentive to kill.

• And finally, as if it wasn’t enough, Tara decided in her final minutes to write the letters ‘LOVER’ in her own blood before passing out. I imagine there was little else it could spell than Loverose’s name.

I will admit there is one problem that I keep running into that cannot be explained. The bullet was a rifle round, unless it came from a particularly designed revolver. A rifle would have been difficult to carry in and out of a room, certainly, but that is a small issue. The real issue is that, despite the bullet being a rifle round, the wound is unusually shallow. Given close quarters you would expect a stopping power twice the size and an exit wound, but there is nothing of the sort with either. Moreover, a rifle would have had to be terribly loud; I have attested from the nearest neighbors that they heard nothing – absolutely no gunshot – on the night of the murder, nor the rattling of the door; nothing that would imply that Tara was murdered!

I will have to think of it further; if I only wish that I had more time to investigate the room!

Sherlock Holmes

P.S. There was one more interesting detail; her landline phone was off the receiver; she was on a call when she was killed. Perhaps the person on the other line heard something about the murder… if only we were able to figure out the last number who called her that night!

About bloody time! I have just gotten back from an exhausting detainment by the local Seattle police!

That cad Lance Chevalier (or Don Quixote) decided to go after Tara by stealing a damn bobby horse! Believing it imperative that if Lance were Don Quixote – which my research reveals to be quite likely – I had to make sure that he was not detained on a serious charge. So I had to deflect the police operation slightly by giving a police officer false information to mislead him.

Yet in my effort I ended up cuing off enough suspicion to be brought in for questioning at the police station. The backlog was substantial, and the questioning was an utter bore. They simply wanted to know what I knew about the man, and I was able to provide the lighter details of what I knew (though I was keen to censor – to protect him, after all).

Yet even so I experienced difficulty since I told them I was privately investigating the man for a benefactor. They proceeded to ask me whether or not I had a license to be a Private Investigator. A license? To get a license to do such a service? What nonsense! They decided as a result to hold me longer, and consider whether they wanted to process me further. I was beginning to think I was in serious trouble!

But finally they decided to let me off as long as I filed some paperwork and got myself an official license to be a Private Investigator in Washington state. (I will admit, I had to be a little creative on the information; obviously I couldn’t use my name, and I didn’t have much information to provide, but they provided my license without much consideration).

To make matters worth, I was keen to tell them that I believed that a woman associated with Don Quixote – Tara – may be in serious danger as her life was threatened. Yet when they asked for the grounds of my concern, I could only describe a message left on her blog. They said it was not enough grounds for a stake out, only internet-based harassment. If I wanted to file a claim of harassment, I would have had to return the next day because the office was closed; and any further police action would require that Tara request the further action of the police. Miserable!

I wish there was more that I could say but I have had an exhausting day and I need my rest; I will have to check up on Tara and Don Quixote in the morning.

Holmes

I have watched more about this man, and I must say he may be the strangest man I have ever observed. He generally wanders around the streets of the neighborhood of Capital Hill playing a fantasy that he is on some sort of ill-defined quest that nears psychosis; he vocally declares that he abides by a strict code of chivalry, and he sees common pedestrians as allies or nemeses very quickly. Tara has become the object of his affection I imagine because in saving her she best affirmed his own fantasy. (On the other hand, Tara – if we are to be honest – is hardly the ideal damsel; she’s a struggling actress, self-absorbed and something of a harlot.) Another bizarre feature is his sheer eloquence and ability to quote classics, which implies good education – which he makes his fall to homelessness thoroughly strange.

Every attempt I have made to discover this man’s identity has been thwarted, except that I know that he once referred to himself as ‘Lance Chevalier’. This relatively mundane case of identity has now given me an obsessive giddiness I imagine is felt by a biologist or botanist who has just discovered a new species. I want to find more of who this madman is, and I have gone far in describing his features but nowhere in finding something that implies an identity. I am not solving a mystery so much as I am taking field notes; just yesterday he leaped into a shopping cart and cried out, “Onward Rothinate!” or something like that as he rode it like a child through the alley. He believes he is a knight-errant, trying to find a quest as if the world had quests popping up all over the place, yet for all his talk of ‘Faint heart never winning a fair lady!’ he seems to be a coward; I saw him screeching over a petty spider!

People have alerted me that his identity is Don Quixote, apparently a famous fictional character, and is connected to a particular twitter account. His bizarre behavior does validate the theory; it would appear that my benefactor is bringing me closer to these figures for some reason unknown to me… strangely I seem to recognize the name, if I am not mistaken, from some message of fan mail I got ages ago. 

I haven’t spoken to Tara in a while, but somebody has informed me of a sinister message which was left on her blog. Whether or not this message is related to our Don remains to be seen. I will have to ask her if something more worrisome than a senile fool is bothering her…

Sherlock Holmes

Some of you may be wondering where I have been the past couple days; well I needs inform you that yesterday I was forced into moving to another city by the command of my benefactor. He wants me to work on a case all the way over to the city Seattle (never heard of it) that seems to be an insultingly humble case of reconnaissance and observation of a man of little importance. I can only infer that this is out of punishment for disagreement with my activities the past couple of days in New York – days which he forced me to endure, mind you! I retain very little patience for him, and that which I do keep is mostly out of my necessity of him and not respect for him.

I hope there is something that I can make of this case, but I fear there is not. I will meet with the affected party shortly.

Sherlock Holmes

I am… too late. I rushed into the hotel as quickly as I could and I tried to find Sandy in her usual space, but she wasn’t there. So naturally I ran over to her best friend, Jackie, who also worked in reception. I told Jackie I had to find Sandy immediately (I messed up at first; accidentally said Cindy) and needed to know where she was. Jackie told me that last she saw her was a couple hours, when some guy came in and said he wanted to see her in private. I asked her who it was, she replied “I don’t know, just some very good looking guy, you know? Could have used a shave… and he seemed a bit full of himself but other than. She always said she was waiting for a prince…” I interrupted her and asked her where they went, she replied down near the employee stairs. Which was enough for me; I had to knew the only place in that general vicinity that they could keep private for so long was in the room amenities storage area.

But when I walked in, there was no one there; everybody had already left. Or at least, when I say everybody, I observed that only one person, a man in some leather shoes, had tracks leading in and out of the room, whereas the woman in working flats only had tracks that approached a chair, at which point by all observation she just… disappeared. All possibility that the man carried her or dragged her out was eliminated by the fact that the man never approached the chair. The only thing that I can verify further from prints is that whoever the man was must have seen something which startled him severely, and knocked him onto his behind. Beyond this I have no evidence or clue, but the irony of a single sheet of paper left behind, mockingly saying thus:

“…and they all lived happily ever after.

THE END”

I feel an utter ass; the only thing that keeps me from utter shame is the observation that Sandy – or Cinderella – appeared to act willingly and with her agency. I saw no signs of struggle, only an act of peace. But ’twas in her nature to be graceful and kind anyway. I can only hope wherever she is now she will be treated with the same kindness and grace she showed me in this world.

Holmes

Oh god! I have little time to explain, so I must do so in haste.

I came unto this apartment, but I was stuck in finding that the apartment number provided did not match the rooms. I was about to give up when convenient suggestion commented that the horseman on the suit tag may have indicated a knight and hence a move in chess. They recommended that the actual apartment number should have been 1G, and I obliged.  There was trouble in that the resident was not home. Undeterred, I contrived a way to open the door and let myself in. I found to my astonishment a most bohemian array of papers and research to rival my own. One side seemed to involve a complex amalgamation of mathematical calculations and postulations, and on the other side a full wastebin of what appeared to be some sort of manuscripts and – I do not speak false – photographs and observations surrounding several figures. I am frightened to say that I recognized three of them; one of them was indeed myself! And another, with lighter paperwork, was Hercule Poirot. But it was clear that this person had put aside the research on Poirot and had neglected me in favor of one very focused and particular figure dressed in a flowing white gown. The woman, I might add, that I saw at the ball that night.

Cinderella!

It seemed whoever was the resident of this room had observed fictional characters in his vicinity, and had chosen to stake out Cinderella in a particular fashion. But the nature of this apparent stalking was not what troubled me – no! What troubled me was an item on the desk that lay a top everything: a single heeled off-white ladies pump shoe with two very particular leather straps and tiny buckles. It struck me, for I knew I had seen it before. Only I didn’t see it before; I saw what it left behind.

I saw the same exact print on the foot of the plain, undecorated, humble room attendant of the hotel. And only upon seeing did I realize who she was. Sandy is Cinderella!

HOW could I be so foolish? How could I not see it before? Was it not enough that she spoke to you of that man’s dreams and wishes? Did her glasses so blind you? What an utter boob I have proved myself to be!

I mustn’t say anymore. I fear that Sandy’s life may be in danger from the observations of those pictures on the wall. I must fly to her rescue if I can!

Holmes