Training at the Citizens Police Academy

I recently completed a two-month training through my local police department on various aspects of police work. While my husband was skeptical of my interest ("Research," I said), he'd express his interest each week when I reported on what I learned. Some of the highlights for me were a presentation by one of the criminal investigators who brought in the evidence from a closed case and reviewed how he was able to identify the victim and determine whether it was a murder or some other cause of death and a series of practical scenarios where we were asked to assume the role of police officers in response to different calls (a domestic dispute at a business; a routine traffic stop; and a response to a reported alarm after hours at a business). One of the course's overall goals was to provide participants with the police officer's perspective (e.g., it's difficult to see into a car's tinted windows during a traffic stop) and to familiarize them with the department's overall operations.

I'd heard about these academies for years. Many police departments have them. You can find out if your city/town offers one by contacting your local police department, searching your city's local website for "community programs," "citizen outreach," or "volunteers," or contacting the National Citizen Police Academy Association if you are unable to find one locally here.

My next step: to see about a "ride along" and possibly observing a "dispatch" session.

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The Beast of Baker Street

Final Part

Recap: Watson shared the true account of Holmes’s retreat to Sussex at age forty-nine following the detective's demise. On Dartmoor's marshes, Holmes was attacked by the hound of the Baskervilles. After biting Holmes, the hound was shot dead and immediately transformed into a man - a werewolf. To avert panic, Holmes, Lestrade, and Watson fabricated the version later published. The bite’s consequence, however, surfaced in London: Watson pursued a murderer following an attack in Whitechapel, only to discover the killer was Holmes in werewolf form.

Seeking a cure for whatever had infected the detective, they experimented with several possible remedies, including laudanum, silver nitrate, and colloidal silver. While the silver tonics prevented Holmes's transformation, they took a physical toll on the man. Following a second visit to Dartmoor on another case, it was apparent that the treatments had their limits. When Holmes returned three years after his struggle (and apparent death) with Moriarty, he shared with Watson some of his efforts for a cure during that time:

When he appeared at my residence in the light of day, I could tell he still wore make-up. He joined me at the breakfast table.

“You can tell, can’t you, old friend,” he asked.

“Sorry, but I can’t help it. You’re hiding the argyria,” I said, unable to keep myself from studying the exposed skin in the sunlight. “How bad is it?”

Taking the napkin from his lap, he wiped at the back of his hand. Blue-gray skin appeared in the patch. “I told you that I spent the time I was gone traveling to various places, including Tibet, where I visited with the Dalai Lama, and also France, where I experimented with coal tar derivatives. All in the hopes that I could find a cure or substitute for colloidal silver. I had hoped I might be able to use meditative trances deep enough not to succumb to transforming. I never achieved a deep enough state, I’m afraid, and after one transformation where I almost bit a young novice who had ventured too close to me while I was chained in my room, I was asked to leave.” 

He shook his head and shuddered as if the memory was too much for him.

“The coal-tar derivatives seemed promising at first. They have been used to counteract cyanide poisoning and dissolve both colloidal silver and silver nitrate. If nothing else, I’d hope to counteract the argyria. But it appears the skin staining is either permanent or a part of what keeps the disease at bay.”

“What do you plan to do now?” I asked, fearing the answer.

Meeting my gaze, he said in a flat voice, “Continue. Take the colloidal silver, cover up my skin, and solve cases. Moriarty may be gone, but crime doesn’t take a holiday. In fact, my first job will be the death of Ronald Adair.”

And just like that, Sherlock Holmes returned to his detective work with the same thoroughness he’d always shown. Despite the physical changes he continued to hide, his mind was as sharp as ever, his deductive skills unparalleled. My heart ached for my friend, for the burden he now carried with him every day.

But there was no denying the fire that still burned in his eyes, the sharpness of his mind undimmed by the physical changes he had undergone. At that moment, I saw a determination in him that surpassed any I had witnessed before. Holmes was not one to back down from a challenge, even when it came in the form of a relentless disease.

For fifteen more years, he worked on some of his most complex and physically demanding cases, but he never shirked away from the challenges. I could see, however, his affliction was taking its toll. Subtle lines etched his face, and weariness showed in his drooping shoulders. Yet, he persevered, driven by a fierce determination to continue his work.

In the fall of 1903, he faced a case that forced him to confront his own efforts to keep the disease at bay. A Professor Presbury, in an effort to make himself more virile for a much younger bride, had undergone a series of injections of Langur serum. The effect had been for the man to de-evolve to a more animalistic, simian form of himself. 

Upon our return to Baker Street, Holmes was in his favorite chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes fixed on the flames dancing in the fireplace as if they held the answers to unspoken questions. He murmured, at last, his voice quieter than I had ever heard it. "I find myself at a crossroads."

I poured a measure of brandy and set it on the table beside him. "You have been quiet, Holmes. That case has troubled you more than most."

He exhaled slowly, fingers tapping against the armrest. "When one tries to rise above Nature, one is liable to fall below it," he murmured. "Presbury's folly is one I understand too well. He sought to restore his youth, to fight against the inevitable decline. And in doing so, he surrendered to his baser instincts."

I shifted uneasily in my chair. "You are not him, Holmes. You have fought the effects of your affliction with every ounce of reason and discipline."

His lips curled in a mirthless smile. "For now. But how long until I, too, begin to slip? Until the man I once was is overtaken? Consider, Watson, that the material, the sensual, the worldly would all prolong their worthless lives. The spiritual would not avoid the call to something higher. It would be the survival of the least fit. What sort of cesspool may not our poor world become?"

The weight of his words lingered in the air between us. The great Sherlock Holmes, always the master of logic and deduction, now found himself staring into the unknown.

Finally, he sat forward, his eyes locking onto mine with a determination I had not expected. "It is time, Watson. Time to step away. The symptoms are becoming harder to conceal. And I am no longer the only one who notices."

"You mean to retire?" I asked carefully.

He turned to the window, watching the London fog cling to the glass like ghosts of the past. 

"Only forty-nine years old, Watson. I had always envisioned an end to my career, but not like this. I had hoped to leave on my own terms. Now, it seems I am being forced into retreat. Sussex, I think, offers a most interesting alternative."

“What would you do there?" I asked gently.

"Bees might make for simpler company." He sighed. "It is preferable to the alternative. The last thing I wish is for Scotland Yard or my former adversaries to become aware of my condition. Or worse, face me in a dark alleyway."

I joined my friend in contemplating the flames, knowing that this was not a decision he had reached lightly. The greatest mind of our time was withdrawing, not to triumph, but to survive. And as I gazed upon my friend, realizing with a deep ache that the world would never truly understand the cost of Sherlock Holmes' sacrifice to preserve the facade of normalcy and his fight for justice. The set of his jaw, however, told me that he had made peace with his decision.

The End

Next Month: The Strand Magazine's Reaction

Those links again:

NCPAA website: here

The Adventure of the Murdered Midwife here

The Adventure of the Murdered Gypsy here

The Adventure of the Deceased Scholar here

The Adventure of the Purloined Portrait here

Master of the Art of Detection here

Free: The Murders at the Election: here.

Booksweeps Giveaway: here

....But I Digress: here

See you in December!

Liese