A Study in Sherlock

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.