"The word “massacre” rang dissonantly through our Baker Street home on an otherwise quiet evening. I had been writing invitations to Mary’s and my engagement ceremony, the following week, while Sherlock Holmes had been softly practicing on his violin. I had accepted his offer, at Mary’s urging, to perform something at the ceremony. I did not realize his idea of a performance was playing the E-flat scale, slowly.
The words “Bowling Green Massacre” seemed to echo several times against the walls before they were given a proper reaction by its most curious inhabitant, while I naïvely sat in my armchair with a book of poetry.
Holmes suddenly whisked his coat and hat off the rack, and said, sharply, “Watson, put on your detective trousers and bring along your passport. We are going to Kentucky.”
I quickly changed out of my brown evening trousers and into my brown detective trousers. I knew that whatever happened I would ruminate upon this case for years.
“Will you tell me what all the fuss is about?” I asked. It was already dark on this wintry evening, the residents of Baker Street tucked away in their homes.
“Tut, tut!” Sherlock Holmes said.
“What? Is it wrong of me to ask?”
“No,” said he, “there’s a new King Tut exhibit at the museum.” He longingly gestured at a poster hanging in the window of a sandwich shoppe.
“You made me change into my detective trousers for an exhibit!” I cried.
“No, for a massacre,” said Sherlock Holmes, rejuvenated by the reminder. “You will have to miss your engagement ceremony, I’m afraid.”
“Mary will not be pleased to hear of this,” I grumbled.
“Watson, my good man. I said the word ‘massacre.’ Surely Mary will understand that you are needed more at the site of innocent deaths than at a vapid ritual confirming a redundant ritual that is only preparing for yet another meaningless ritual.”
The ship will take us two weeks to reach America,” I said. “Are you certain this will be worth the journey?”
“I am positive, my dear fellow,” replied Holmes. “I heard from this woman. She is a government official.”
He handed me a dusty photograph featuring a rather tall man reminiscent of the orangutan in “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” and a blond woman with a somewhat vacuous expression.
“Is she on the left?” I asked, peering at the crumpled image.
“The far right,” responded Holmes. “Oh, you mean in the photograph. Yes, that’s her.”
“You certainly must be right. This poor woman—her eyes have been witness to a massacre.” We boarded the ship early the next morning, the image of the massacre’s only witness seared into our minds. ..."
– By: Karen Chee and Broti Gupta