Photograph by Lambert / Getty

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.”

I sighed.

“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.

That night, from my cabin window, I watched Sherlock Holmes stand on the balcony with his pipe, smoking into the cold winter breeze. I walked over to join him.

“An entire massacre and only one witness. Why was this not more heavily publicized?” I asked a contemplative Holmes.

“The best mysteries, my dear Watson, never are,” he responded, inhaling deeply.

“What was it that she said again?”

“ ‘I bet it’s brand new information to people that President Obama had a six-month ban on the Iraqi-refugee program after two Iraqis came here to this country, were radicalized, and were the masterminds behind the Bowling Green massacre. Most people don’t know that because it didn’t get covered.’ ”

“Goodness. She’s not a very eloquent speaker, is she?”

“My dear Watson, the woman just witnessed a horrifying event all by herself. Of course her words were not so well selected. She is obviously in shock.”

The two-week journey to America felt worthwhile—after all, we set out to solve the case of a bloody massacre. Surely a fortnight of discomfort for us could mean endless nights of comfort for the families of those brutally murdered.

Upon arriving on the Virginian dock, a mob of angry men referred to as “Border Patrol” demanded we return to our home countries. In confusion, Holmes and I walked toward the men to inquire about their intentions. As we moved closer, one of them yelled, “They’re white! It’s fine!”

Surely these men were concerned with how pale we had become in the February air.

We made our way to the train station and looked at the map—we would travel through West Virginia. I asked my dear friend, in jest, “Why didn’t they just call Kentucky ‘Very West Virginia’?”

“It is uncouth to make such light comments in the wake of something as dark as a massacre, Watson.”

Once we arrived at Bowling Green, a city so deserted and eerily quaint that it must have been home to a massacre of disastrous extent, Holmes wasted no time commencing his work. We started in the first building we could, hoping to uncover some answers: City Hall. Fortunately, upon entering, we immediately saw a woman seated at a desk, yawning so wide that we were certain she had not slept a full night since the tragedy.

Holmes immediately used one of his most enviable detective tactics: he asked her a question.

“Oh, yeah, that massacre never happened,” replied the woman, not even looking up from her table.

“What do you mean never happened?” I asked, incredulously, unable to believe that we travelled for weeks, solely on the basis of lies—unable to believe that I left my engagement, my dear Mary, for this wretched journey to Very West Virginia, of all places.

“Yeah, it was a thing Kellyanne Conway made up.”

My chest heaved in anger and frustration as Holmes slowly walked out of the building.

“Oh, my dear Watson,” said Holmes, shaking his head. “We have been duped.”

“I simply cannot believe this,” I raised my voice. “I was certain we had all the facts here!”

“We had lies coated in an authoritative voice,” said the pipe-smoking gentleman. “The alternative facts.”