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