Welcome to Baker Street

115. A case to die for

Moriarty gives a nod to Sherlock, who walks up to the steel table and flips the folder open. On top of a pile of documents, there are photos of a crime scene: a tall man in his fifties lies on his back on a carpeted floor, a pool of blood under his head. Some bloody paw prints have stained the carpet all around the body, lying right at the centre of a bedroom, at the foot of an unmade bed.

Moriarty introduces the case. "Problem: the man in the photo, Mr Oliver Portland, was found dead today at 5 pm."

Sherlock whips his head up, failing to hide his surprise. "Today? I thought you'd been planning this show of yours for a long time."

"Indeed, and I had something different in mind for this room," Moriarty admits, vexed that his rival could even assume any of that was accidental or poorly prepared. "However, I got a sudden inspiration after reading the police report of this case and thought it was superbly suitable."

John frowns. "If he was found at 5 pm today, none of it has been made public yet: it's too early. How can you own pictures of the crime sc—" his voice fades away as he notices Moriarty's condescending look. "Right, it's you we're talking about. Why do I even ask?"

"Please, child's play. As I was saying, I thought this would be quite fitting for this round; Mr Portland was an astronomer. What a stroke of luck, isn't it?" He simpers, but quickly changes his expression and purses his lips ruefully. "Well, maybe for him, just a stroke in his case, since the cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head."

"Blunt force trauma caused by what? What was the murder weapon?" Sherlock asks.

"Still unknown, at the current stage of the investigation. As you can see, there isn't anything near the body that could match the blow to the head."

Holmes takes a second picture from the folder; it's a close-up of the fatal wound.

"The wound is deep. It must have been caused by someone exerting considerable strength with a heavy object. The edges are not jagged, so not something sharp. Weird shape," he murmurs, squinting at the photo in his hands. Then he shifts his eyes to the picture showing the whole corpse. "Has the body been moved or shifted?"

"No. All the photos of the crime scene depict exactly what the police found when they entered the flat—they haven't moved anything. The body was found in the same supine pose of the first picture; only his head was turned to the side to allow the forensic team to get that zoomed-in picture of the wound."

Sherlock studies the first photo again: the dead man is on his back. Weird. Such a powerful swing to the head would send anyone falling forward, face-down, he reasons.

After a second, he raises his confused eyes to the screen. "Who found the body?"

"His girlfriend, Rebecca Lockett. She got worried because she hadn't heard from him since last night. He wasn't replying to her calls and texts, and he was supposed to come pick her up this afternoon. When he didn't show up, she went to his place and had to convince the concierge substitute to unlock the door of his apartment. Interesting detail a locked door, wouldn't you say?" Jim scratches his chin in a pensive pose. "She told the police that when she opened the bedroom door, she found Mr Portland's dog, a Jack Russell Terrier, watching over his owner's dead body, his head smashed in."

"This explains the bloodied paw prints near the body," Giulia says.

"Rebecca Lockett said she was petrified at that sight. She didn't touch anything, she just rushed out, immediately called the police and waited for the cops on the landing. She said she couldn't even bear to stay in that house; the mere thought made her sick."

Giulia steals a glance at the pictures and quickly averts her gaze, murmuring, "Who can blame her?"

"Where did you get all these details about the discovery of the body, Jim?" Sherlock asks.