A Study in Sherlock

As he mounted the stairs to his office ahead of me, Boothby looked up. Emmy Holcrofts was waiting for him in the hall. Compact, with a halo of gray curls, she wore trifocals on a softly lined face.

“Hi, Emmy. Go on in.” He climbed the final two steps and followed her across the threshold.

Inside the room she turned. “Could Artie stay, too? I’m in a bind, and I’d be grateful if I could bounce some questions off both of you.”

“Sure, if you don’t mind sitting in a confined space with Frank Zappa.” He pointed at me. Boothby loved prodding me about my nonlawyerly—my steadfastly, ardently nonlawyerly—appearance. I rolled my eyes, but when he motioned me in I went gladly, grateful for a reprieve from the law library.

“Grab a seat, Emmy,” Boothby said. “What’s up?”

Emmy sat on the brown leather couch, and I on a matching armchair.

“You probably know I’m Ina Lederer’s executor.” Emmy arranged her skirt.

Boothby had taken the other armchair against the adjoining wall. “I’m not surprised. I’m sorry, Emmy. You and she were close, weren’t you?”

“Yes …” Staring down at her hands, she folded them in her lap. “She was my niece, and I’ve been inventorying her possessions …” She stopped, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Take your time,” Boothby said gently. Emmy had been working with him for more than a decade.

“Thank you.” She gave a weak smile. “Ina was a difficult child. In college she got into drugs, flunked out, and had nowhere to go—her parents were furious. I took her in, and a year later she’d cleaned up. But then she didn’t have anything to do.” She sighed. “She hadn’t liked college, and I didn’t want her flipping burgers because she was so bright. So I showed her the basics of my steno machine. That interested her, and I covered her expenses while she studied stenography. After she was certified, she applied to the court system and they took her. She was just twenty-four, and I thought she was on her way.” She shook her head.

Boothby furrowed his forehead, eyebrows nearly meeting. “What do you think happened?” The newspapers had reported a suicide.

“I don’t know.” She scanned the walls blankly. “The police found a suicide note saying she’d let everybody down. When traces of cocaine were discovered in her system, they concluded she’d been depressed about her addiction.”

He leaned forward. “What can we do?”

“Well, two things. First, I’ve found some of Ina’s steno notes that may need to be transcribed. Is there anything you want quickly?”

Boothby considered. “Yes. A few weeks ago she recorded a discussion I had here, in chambers, about an agreement between the Feds and the state. It was with defense counsel and the persecutor.” Boothby referred to the DA’s prosecutors as the “persecutors” in jest, but also, I think, to remind them of what they weren’t supposed to be. “The defendant’s name was Doak. He agreed to cooperate with the DEA, and if they liked what he disclosed, they’d drop all federal charges and he’d plead to lesser state charges.”

“Okay,” she said, “that shouldn’t take long. The second thing is, I found something the police don’t know about: an account book and thirty-five hundred dollars cash. They were wrapped together in plastic and hidden in the bottom of a garbage can under the trash bag. The account book shows some big transactions, sometimes exceeding two thousand dollars. What do I do? That stuff suggests she might’ve been selling drugs, which is police business, but if I tell them, they may confiscate the cash as evidence. I’m administering the estate, so I’m supposed to protect its assets for the heirs—her two brothers—aren’t I?”

Boothby and I exchanged uncertain glances.

Emmy continued: “If I inventory it and claim it for the estate in my report to the probate court, are the heirs benefiting from what might be her illegal activity? And am I an accomplice after the fact?” She looked at her hands, still clasped in her lap, and awaited an answer.

“Jeez.” Boothby tugged at his left eyebrow. “You put me in a difficult position. Judges can’t give legal advice, you know. You need a lawyer.”

She nodded but said nothing.

He gazed upward and spoke at the ceiling. “On the other hand, it’s okay if Artie and I brainify out loud”—“brainify”: sometimes I think he wants to sound like an idiot—“even though you’re sitting right here.” He cocked his head and glanced at me conspiratorially.

I chuckled.

“So, thinking aloud, Artie, I’d say the police can’t bring a case against Ina because she’s dead. But maybe the greenbacks are evidence against someone else, especially if they’re marked bills, and Emmy doesn’t need an obstruction of justice charge. So she could put the bills in a safety deposit box and file with the probate court an inventory listing the money as an asset. That’s what it is, after all. Artie?”

“Good so far,” I said.

“And maybe I’d put the account book in the same safety deposit box. But before I did any of that, I’d photocopy the bills and the book for the police. That way nobody hid anything from anyone.”