A Study in Sherlock

101st Airborne and on his right the Army College insignia. Now, even as he crossed the short distance to the head of the table, he was every inch the soldier’s soldier. A man who might be soft-spoken, but whose every word was authoritative.

“An officer in the field observing an enemy position applies five criteria: size, shape, shadow, color, and movement. These same elements should be used by a senior officer in any command situation where he is confronted by gaps in his knowledge.” He picked up the remote control for the oversized television monitor on the wall. “You are now, let us say, majors of infantry. Use those five elements to call down artillery on an advancing enemy you know is there, but cannot see.”

With a click of the remote, the monitor sprang to life. It showed a large wooded hillside, that seemed uniform, keeping whoever or whatever it concealed safe from sight. A lieutenant barked out, “Shape!” Jackson froze the frame and the lieutenant continued, “Upper left quadrant, eleven o’clock.” The rest of the class studied the picture; sure enough, trees in that area seemed very boxy. Jackson restarted the image and almost immediately a tank emerged. He clicked again and the hillside imagery reset.

This time, a major called, “Color, lower left, seven o’clock!” Indeed, those trees were just a bit too green, and once the film restarted an artillery piece fired, revealing its camouflage. Jackson again reset and now the answers came quickly.

“Size! Top left, ten o’clock!” offered a triumphant lieutenant who had spotted a pine tree simply too perfect, exposed by a zoom as a radio tower.

The next reset, a captain offered, “Movement, midfield.” A beat for them to realize the bushes there did move differently; quickly, insurgents emerged.

Jackson reset the image but no one had anything to offer. He let it run until, with a sigh, he stopped it. “Problem?” he asked. They seemed cowed, embarrassed—except for the class’s only woman, an attractive captain of perhaps thirty, wearing the insignia of the Judge Advocate General’s Corps. She made firm eye contact with Jackson.

“The fifth element is shadow, but this field is overcast, no shadows possible.”

Jackson returned the steady eye contact. “Are you sure, Captain Snow?”

“As sure as I dare be, Sarn’t-Major.”

Jackson stood, returned to the window. It irritated him that she was in his class. He did not deceive himself by thinking it was an accident; she must have known she’d see him every day. Without turning, he answered with an authority intended to remind her who was in charge. “Shadow: verb, transitive. Middle English. From Old English sceaduwe, oblique case of sceadu. But it can be intransitive. Not the shadow you cast, Captain Snow, but the shadow you don’t. Upper left, please, ten o’clock. That copse reflects nothing at all.”

Still without turning, he clicked the remote and the frame zoomed into a comparatively dull patch of foliage, almost a matte finish. He let the zoom continue, finally revealing camouflage net disguising a command post. Another click and the image died. He turned and stared at her.

“Once again, Captain Snow, I remind you the good officer should always dare to be sure but not too sure. So, let us repeat the elements of observation.”

His students almost shouted in perfect unison, “Size! Shape! Shadow! Color! Movement!” He was satisfied. Until the silence was broken. By Captain Maggie Snow.

“Sound!”

The sudden hushed silence left no doubt she had crossed a boundary, her classmates avoiding even looking at her. Flustered, it was clear she wished she could call it back. She looked down at the table, avoiding the ever- placid Jackson who simply smiled slightly.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am?”

Her words came with difficulty. “I, er, just thought … in the modern world … where electronic communications are part of the battlefield … we might add sound. You know … heavy electronics tend to drive birds away, send animal life to ground. A silent forest is probably a dangerous one.” She waited for an awkward silence before adding uncomfortably, “Just a thought, Sarn’t-Major.”

“I shall ask the Army to consider your thought for a revised field manual, Captain. But not until you’ve all had your breakfast.” He came stiffly to attention. “Gentlemen. Ma’am.”

Relieved, they stood. He saluted smartly, waiting for their return salute before exiting and leaving Maggie to her classmates’ unenvious eyes.

Zakaria was tired, and even though he knew he was fortunate to be employed as the synagogue’s janitor, he had to work constantly at blocking out thoughts of where life had led him, and what might have been. America was fine but it wasn’t home and he missed the smells and excitement of the Soukh. At least the job was easy, nobody bothered him, and it was not unusual for him to begin work this late in the midmorning. And there were those special benefits; they were what kept him on the job. Pushing them from his mind, he trudged to the sanctuary, mop and broom in hand, opened the door wearily, and entered.

Something was wrong; the Ark was open. A deep dread clutched his stomach. As he slowly walked toward it, he caught a whiff of the familiar and unwelcome smell of danger, menace—just as he saw the rabbi. Dropping his mop and broom, he ran to the crumpled body and knelt, checking for a neck pulse with the efficiency of a man who has done this many times before. He knew there would be no pulse to be found. Shaking his head from side to side in grief, he reached for his cell phone, but then stopped. A frown crossed his face. Nodding to himself, he pocketed his cell phone, stood, scooped up his cleaning utensils, and exited, closing the sanctuary doors behind him.

Sergeant-Major Jackson was irritated. He had been pleasantly at ease in his favorite armchair, the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius open to a favorite passage, the single ice cube in the glass of Talisker Isle of Skye whisky almost dissolved to where he felt confident the proper aromas and textures were now released in this favored malt, his music system ready for The Pipes and Drums of the Black Watch (Royal Highland Regiment) of Canada to play “The Road to the Isles”—when his doorbell had roused him from his solitude. The invader was none other than Captain Maggie Snow, she of the certain answer to all questions. She had allegedly come to apologize for conduct unbecoming in the afternoon seminar and he had not the temerity to refuse an officer—any officer—entry. But she was a woman, and he therefore insisted the front door of his modest on-base cottage remain open throughout her stay, and they keep in its line of vision.

As she entered his spare, minimalist home, he became uncharacteristically self-conscious; the one personal item on display was a photograph. No ordinary thing, it was he and his late wife, Bonny, on holiday. With Maggie’s parents. The two couples had been the best of friends, always together until the evil hand struck that dreadful afternoon. As quickly as that flooded his mind, he dismissed it, resolving to confront her with his suspicion she had joined his class only because of the personal connection. She began by explaining that her purpose for coming was to apologize. He shook his head.

“No. You came for absolution.”

“If you prefer,” she conceded.

“I cannot give you that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you outrank me. You are an officer. Ma’am.”

That stung her. “You once called me Maggie.”

“And shall again. On family or personal occasions. I daresay this is neither.”

When she asked why he so resented her, he replied he frankly doubted her motives for taking his class. JAG officers were lawyers, and while he might be a famed criminal investigator, this course was Field Command Training. As a lawyer, she would never hold a Line Command. So why take a course meant for true soldiers? She had countered that in the modern world officers did not command tactical engagement. Lawyers did.

He bitterly admitted to himself that, in this politically correct era he so despised, she was right. Division Commanders—generals, for goodness’ sake—had to be sure operations complied with law as it might be applied in civilian courts! Idiocy! There was a Uniform Code of Military Justice, an excellent document that had kept the Army an honest force, not some third world street gang in uniforms, thank you very much!

But that, of course, reinforced her point. He felt obliged to listen a while longer.

Captain Eric Turner of the District of Columbia Metropolitan Police Department Homicide Division stood at the rear of the sanctuary soaking in the rich tapestry of color and symbolism, only to be accosted by his too-eager,