A Study in Sherlock

Turner offered him a pair of latex gloves. “Knock yourself out.” Jackson indicated the gloves should be given to Maggie.

Surprised, she took them. “What am I looking for?” she asked.

“Size, shape, shadow, color, movement,” he replied.

She puzzled, finally shaking her head, stumped. “Not size … nor shadow …” She turned to him. “Could it be shape?”

“Last chance,” he admonished her. “The shadow not cast. Look at the quotes. Study the room.”

She knew this was the moment she would rise to his trust or be banished. She took her time, studied the room carefully. The shadow not cast. Intransitive. And then she spied a slight opening, a glimmer of light. She dashed to the computer, brought up “History,” entered “Leviticus.”

“Why that one?” he asked.

“Because Leviticus can have only one meaning. Unlike Exodus, Jonah, or even the proper name, Zephaniah. It would be used only in a Bible search.” She hit “Return.” A nanosecond and the screen reported NO RECENT SEARCHES FOR LEVITICUS.

“Okay,” groused Hamstein. “What did we lesser mortals miss?”

“Predictably, the obvious. Maggie?”

The officer in her emerged. “Look around, gentlemen. No books, let alone a Bible. And no Web searches for one. So the biblical connection is lateral, not direct.”

“Besides,” added Jackson drily, “if you knew your scripture, you’d know these were random.”

He sat at the desk, took a fresh piece of paper, and, never taking his eyes off the list, quickly filled the new sheet with a column, never looking, almost an autowriter. First, was Zephaniah: chaps. 3–4. Jackson counted three letters in, entered p and then the fourth letter, h. He moved quickly to Exodus: 1:4, producing e and d, then i and s from Leviticus: 4:9, and finally o and n from Jonah: 2:3. Jackson stared at the result: P-H-E-D-I-S-O-N.

The others gathered around him, leaned over his shoulder.

“Almost something,” murmured Hamstein. “A name?”

“Unlikely,” replied Jackson. “The consonant blend of ph, derived from the Vedic, carried into English by Hellenistic—” He stopped, smiled. “Of course! Zephaniah—a minor prophet, but a very interesting one, by the way—is presented with a dash rather than a colon as are the others.” He struck out the ph with a single line, replaced it with f. F-E-D-I-S-O-N.

Turner was exultant. “Brilliant!” He snapped at Baxter, “Get on this. Check for an F. Edison. Every database.”

“I’m also on it!” said Hamstein, already heading for the door.

The Sergeant-Major called after them: “I may wish to investigate further.”

Turner’s words faded as he hurried away. “Baxter! Give him—them—whatever they want!” And Jackson and Maggie were alone save for the police security.

“That was brilliant,” conceded Maggie. “Once they find this Mr. Edison—” She stopped, added carefully, “If, in fact, that is the name of someone involved.”

“I see you’re beginning to learn already.” He smiled as he strolled out in leisurely fashion. Maggie followed.

“Ah, yes. Detective Baxter told us to expect you.”

Sergeant-Major Jackson turned his steady gaze from the still-open Ark to a pleasantly plump woman trying to smile despite a redness in her eyes that betrayed recent lengthy weeping.

“I’m Freyda Simon. Rabbi Burman’s assistant.” She also stared at the Ark. “This is a terrible thing.”

“It certainly is. You have our heartfelt condolences.” He indicated the Ark. “May I?”

“Of course. Whatever you need. But … if you don’t mind, I’ll wait for you in the office. At the end of the hall.”

“By all means.” As she turned to go, he added, “And the custodian? A Mr. Zakaria?”

“I’ll have him join us.”

Jackson and Maggie approached the Ark. The six Torah scrolls were undisturbed, though all but two had been stripped of their silver; the two remaining breastplates, both of striking modern design, glittered in the overhead light. The Sergeant-Major stood very still, only his eyes moving, wandering over everything. Then he noticed a tiny gleam on the carpet. He knelt, examined it: a small shred of heavy-duty brown plastic. He pocketed it, stood, smiled at Maggie.

“Our miscreant made serious errors. At least two. Can you spot any?” She stared, thought hard. But then, resigned, she shook her head. He nodded. “Don’t be hard on yourself. They’re small errors—important, but small. Only years in the field would sensitize you to their obviousness. Come. We are close to important facts.”

She had to half-run to keep up with his fast stride to the office. It was small, neat despite piles of papers and books, and already crowded with both Freyda and Zakaria waiting.

Freyda handed him photographs of the stolen silver. “Perhaps this can help?”

“No doubt,” he replied.

“Zakaria, can we provide the gentleman with an envelope?”

The janitor nodded, found one on a shelf, and in this small office needed only to stretch his arm out to offer it to Jackson. As he did so, something caught the Sergeant-Major’s eye: the sleeve of the man’s coveralls had naturally run up his extended arm, exposing his wrist. Seeing Jackson’s quick reaction, Zakaria quickly moved to pull the sleeve down.

Jackson smiled. “You would be the custodian, I expect.”

“Yes, yes. Zakaria is how I am called.”

“Ah. Captain Turner informs me you’re of Lebanese extraction.”

“Oh, yes. But Christian, Maronite Christian.”

Jackson thrust his hand out. “Sergeant-Major Robert Jackson.”

Zakaria squirmed uncomfortably. But realizing the others in the room were watching him, he reached out to shake Jackson’s hand, trying to keep his arm bent at the elbow. Jackson grasped the calloused workingman’s hand, shook it vigorously while pulling it toward him—and bending it ever so slightly. Jackson glanced down; only he could see it: a small tattoo of a blue Maltese cross. As if it had gone unnoticed, he turned back to Freyda.

“Ma’am. If I may. Precisely what is the Reconciliation Project?”

“Ah. The RP was Rabbi Burman’s passion, his life’s work. We fund schools in the Middle East, nonsectarian schools, schools where Moslem, Arab, and Jewish Israeli children can learn together, side by side, come to know one another. We already have six throughout the Holy Land. We had hoped to double that this year. But now …” She trailed off in despair.

Jackson smiled encouragingly. “Surely, the work need not end. If not six new schools, then perhaps two. Or even one.”

“Unlikely. Funding has come slowly. Rabbi Burman was working on a major gift, very large, enough to get it done. But it hadn’t closed.”

“And now you suspect the donor will demur?”

“Couldn’t say. He or she was to remain anonymous until the papers were signed. I have no idea who he or she might be. Nobody does.”

“A pity. But perhaps in time he—or she—will step forward. But your other donors? All on the public record?”

“As the law requires. Though let me save you endless bureaucratic research. I have prepared this for you.” She handed him a computer printout headed Schedule of Donors. “If I can be of any help, all my numbers are there. So many numbers nowadays.”

“Thank you,” said Jackson, gently adding, “Shabbat shalom.”

She smiled gratefully. “And the peace of the Sabbath be with you.”

He turned to Zakaria, still smiling warmly. “Ma’rah’bone.”

The janitor immediately replied reflexively, “Ma’rah’-obtain—” then tried to swallow the words.

But too late. Jackson was gone, Maggie hurrying to catch up.