Chapter 40

CHAPTER 40

HOLMES COVERED HIS ears and waited for the din to subside. When the clocks returned to their insistent ticking, he rested his arms on the countertop and focused intently on the diminutive watchmaker.

“All right,” said Holmes, “tell me everything.”

In spite of his initial distrust of Oliver Paul—or maybe because of it—Holmes could feel himself coming alive in the moment. He was alert to Paul’s posture, his gestures, his expressions. As always, he was especially attuned to the olfactory blend of bacteria and perspiration from the apocrine glands—a clear indicator of stress. For a super-smeller like Holmes, it was more telling than a lie detector. But as Paul spoke, his body exuded only confidence. Which meant that he was either delusional or telling the truth.

“I’ve been investigating these murders since they began,” said Paul. “They go back more than two decades.”

“Two decades is a long time,” said Holmes. “Why haven’t the police solved any of these crimes over all these years?”

“For one thing, police are lazy and unobservant,” said Paul. His voice took on an extra rasp as he shifted to a lower register, more intimate and confidential. “You know I’m right.”

Holmes maintained his poker face, giving away nothing. He wasn’t about to endorse Paul’s subjective opinions about law enforcement, even if they matched his own. He was determined to follow the advice of his namesake and concentrate himself on the details. Facts. Data. Proof. That’s what mattered.

“These homicides,” said Holmes. “Where did they occur?”

“All over the country, in small jurisdictions,” said Paul. “But here’s the thing: they weren’t classified as homicides. They were all ruled to be accidents.”

“ Fatal accidents,” confirmed Holmes.

“Correct,” said Paul. “Deadly mishaps around the home or office. All conveniently unwitnessed.” Paul leaned forward. “Did you know, Mr. Holmes, that more than four hundred fifty people die from accidents every single day in this country?”

“Is that all?” asked Holmes. The number seemed low. In his experience, Americans were stunningly careless with cars, guns, drugs, and liquor.

“Tell me about the victims,” he said.

“All female,” said Paul. “All married women, all mothers. Hence, ‘The Mother Murders.’ Do you want to hear something even stranger?”

“Always,” said Holmes. He had to admit that the watchmaker knew how to build suspense.

Paul lowered his voice again. “It’s about the timing. Every one of the murders happened on the same day of the year.”

“What day?” asked Holmes.

“September 30th.”

Holmes glanced at the calendar clock over Paul’s shoulder. Today was September 25th. He felt a prickle on the back of his neck as Paul delivered the kicker. “That’s right, Sherlock. Only five more days until another mom dies.”

Holmes controlled his breathing and kept his tone even, doing his best to appear dispassionate and rational. “Why are you on this case, Oliver?” he asked. “What makes you so obsessed with it?”

“Very simple,” said Paul. “The first victim was my mother.”