What's Up, Holmes?

No. 27: Help Scotland Yard solve a crime

The Metropolitan Police are in our office and I’m feeling two things:

1. Fear that I’ll be deported
2. Elation that I can use this on my list

When I put Scotland Yard down as a task, I had to Google the term to find out exactly what it was. My only previous knowledge of the place is the time I was in a high school production of Jekyll & Hyde and Scotland Yard was a lyric in the show’s big ensemble number. I assume the agency doesn’t have much to do with a scientific genius who is a polite doctor by day and a murderous schizophrenic by night, and my research tells me I’m correct.

First of all, Scotland Yard has nothing to do with Scotland. I know, I was surprised as well.

Scotland Yard is the name of the street where the Metropolitan Police headquarters was originally built in the 1800’s, earning it a very confusing nickname.

Secondly, Sherlock Holmes never actually worked for the unit. He was more like the annoying tramp outside who wouldn't go away. This discourages me, as I was looking forward to donning a pipe and deerstalker cap for the mission. A bit of reading, however, uncovers a fun piece of detective trivia. Apparently, the Met’s national IT system for crime inquiries is known as the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System. Also, Scotland Yard has a training program called Elementary. This tells me the Met boys are a group with a sense of humor, and I figure I can still use my props.

A handful of colleagues and I are walking into the conference room we use for editorial meetings, and I’m puffing imaginary smoke rings from a plastic pipe care of Cory. He sent it to me as a joke before I left Florida, and I’m impressed at his foresight.

“Why do you have a pipe?” Justin asks me as we sit at a long table.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

“Ah. Ask a stupid question.”

A detective enters carrying a bulky black case and begins unloading complicated tools like he’s a British MacGyver. We’re being fingerprinted today in connection with a murder conspiracy. Seriously. An anonymous reader sent our paper a death threat against one of the community’s Jewish leaders, and anyone who touched the thing has to be dusted. This of course includes me, as I immediately snatched up the note as soon as I heard there was something sensational about it.

We’re now faced with proving to this bloke that we aren’t all part of some assassin club, and I’m feeling very much like the Dean Keaton of these unusual suspects, as I seem to be the only one concerned that we haven’t actually contacted the individual in question to warn him to look out for any falling pianos.

The officer is showing us how to make our markings on the forms he’s passing out, and I’m rolling my palms in the ink and pressing them onto the sheet as firmly as I can. When I’m done, there’s a big, black Erica hand on the paper. It looks like I’ve created some morbid first-grade turkey art.

“We’re doing a minstrel show!" Zeddy says from beside me, waving his blackened jazz hands. I think he’s crying out for attention, he’s very jealous of my pipe.

As we hand in our completed papers, wiping the ink off our fingers with paper towels, a niggling thought refuses to go away. As much fun as the messy experience was, I’m a tad disconcerted at my debut into the world of international intrigue. I’m a single woman who has recently traveled to the Middle East and has Arabic stamps in her passport. I have a profile with the Venetian police and I’ve just been fingerprinted by the British authorities. I give it three days before someone catches on and I’m thrown in the clink.

I convey my worries to Zeddy, who comforts me by stealing my pipe and calling me Dear Watson for the rest of the afternoon.

This is Bonesy. He's something of a celebrity around the Jewish News offices. Frequent readers will remember his first appearance as a supporting actor to my performance at the Globe. Click here.