Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(88)

“I don’t love my husband anymore. Morrie makes me feel special. Makes me feel young. Makes me laugh.”

“Morrie? That’s his name?”

“Morris Peterson.”

“When did Morrie enter your life?”

“A while ago.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“Just before Christmas.”

“About the time you gave Oliver the volume of Conan Doyle stories. Look, I believe your nephew is threatened by Morrie. He’s lost his parents. I think he might be afraid of losing you, too. You’re all the family he has now.”

“He’s never said anything.”

“You’re having an affair. What could he say? But it comes out in this fantasy of his that he’s Sherlock Holmes. He uses it to justify his feeling of being threatened. And also, I believe, as a way of trying to have some control over the situation.”

She looked again at the door, beyond which her nephew sat, a lonely, orphaned boy dressed in a deerstalker hat and matching cape. I saw the pain in her eyes. But I went on, laying it all out for her.

“Although your nephew claims to understand that he is not, in fact, Sherlock Holmes, I think that deep down he really believes he is. He’s not just emulating that literary creation, he sees himself as the flesh-and-blood incarnation. He can rationalize it all he wants, but he’s not acting truly rational.”

“And I’m responsible?”

“No. Or at least, not entirely. But your current situation certainly isn’t helping.”

“So you’re saying I have to break it off with Morrie? That will fix Oliver?”

“It’s not a question of fixing. Oliver’s not a broken machine. He’s simply a child, brilliant but lost.”

She looked truly lost herself, and I could tell that pushing her at this point would do no good.

“Take some time to think it over,” I advised. “But not too long. In the meantime, I’ll work with Oliver and do what I can to help him face the truth of the situation.”

“He can’t tell my husband,” she said, and now her eyes bloomed with fear. “He would kill me.”

“I’ll talk to him,” I promised.

When she’d gone, I called the boy into my office and we sat together.

I said, “Moriarty isn’t his real name, you know. His name is Morris Peterson.”

“That’s simply an alias,” the boy said. “He’s using a name similar to his own. A common ploy. Look, Watson, I know the true nature of his interest now.”

I thought I had a pretty good idea of the true nature of his interest myself. The boy’s aunt was a woman desperate for attention. She wanted to feel loved, young, special. And she would probably do almost anything to please the man who made her feel that way. Even a clown.

“You know, of course, about sexual attraction, Oliver.”

“Sherlock,” he said in an icy tone. “My name is Sherlock.” He took a moment to settle himself, then said, “Of course, I know that sex is a part of his attraction. Will you just listen to me for a moment, Watson? Let me explain everything to you.”



“You?” I said evenly, after he’d laid it all out for me. “He’s after you?”

“I present a threat to him. And a challenge. I’m the only person alive who is his intellectual equal and moral opposite.”

“And you believe he wants to do you harm?”

“Not just harm, Watson. He wants me dead.”

And there it was, the full manifestation of his delusion. Against my best judgment, I’d come to care about the boy, and this paranoia troubled me greatly.

“I can see that you don’t believe me,” Oliver said. “Just listen to me for a moment, Watson. Moriarty is, in fact, a fugitive on the run. He has warrants for his arrest in California, Oregon, and Colorado. Any other common criminal would have been taken into custody, but Moriarty is not your common criminal.”

“Warrants for what?”

“Theft, fraud, and one for a particularly nasty incident in Denver.”

“How do you know this?”

“Because of the greatest boon to the modern detective, Watson. The Internet. You know the game of poker?”

“Of course.”

“An experienced poker player watches for what’s called a tell, an unconscious gesture that gives another player away in the heat of betting. Moriarty has a tell.”

“And what would that be?”

“The clown costume. It’s an unusual disguise, to say the least. But it’s clearly one he’s comfortable with. I merely did an Internet search for crimes that involved clowns. I came across a case in California several years ago. A clown who called himself Professor Perplexing. He traveled with a small circus as one of their sideshow offerings. He entertained the children with his clown antics and their parents by appearing to read their minds. He also managed to read their credit cards and charged up a hefty sum. He skipped just ahead of the police. According to the circus folks, Professor Perplexing’s real name was Martin Petters.

“The next case I found was in Portland. A clown working for a non-profit called Smile A Day. The organization provided entertainment for nursing homes and senior residential facilities. In addition to offering the old people a few laughs, he offered to invest their savings. Again, he left town just before the police caught up with him. The non-profit reported his name was Mark Patterson.