“Your uncle doesn’t know?”
“Clueless.”
“Okay,” I said. “If this is Moriarty, what’s he up to?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it, Watson? I hope to have an answer soon.”
He continued to stare down the street where his aunt and the clown had gone.
“Did you see his face? The painted smile? Such a grotesque mockery of good will.” His eyes narrowed in a determined way and he said grimly, “Pure Moriarty.”
When his aunt dropped him off for his next session, I caught her before she rushed away and asked to speak with her privately a moment. She seemed a bit put out, but stepped into my office while Oliver waited outside.
“You’re seeing someone,” I said.
She was clearly startled. “What do you mean?”
“Marco the Magnificent.”
“How—” she started, then her eyes shifted to the office door. “Oliver.” She looked at me again, and I could see that she was trying to decide on a course of action. She finally settled on what seemed to me the truth.
“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.
“Finally Denver. A little over a year ago. A man working for a service that provided entertainment at children’s parties was accused of molesting a child during one of these parties. He vanished immediately thereafter. His name, according to the service, was Milton Parks.”
“That’s quite a leap from Denver to the Twin Cities.”
“There’s one more connection, Watson. Moriarty, or Parks, as he was calling himself then, was involved with a widow. Before he fled town, he’d stolen much of the money she’d received from her husband’s life insurance.” Oliver counted off on his fingers. “M. Petters. M. Patterson. M. Parks. And now Morris Peterson. All Moriarty.”
“I still don’t understand why he would want you dead.”
“The insurance money that came from my parents’ deaths is quite a tidy sum—over a million dollars. My aunt isn’t just my legal guardian. In the event of my death, she inherits the money. If Moriarty gets rid of me, he not only eliminates his greatest foe, but all that money becomes available to him.”
“There’s your uncle,” I said. “He’s an obstacle.”
“If she doesn’t divorce him, I suspect Moriarty will find a way to deal with him, too.”
“Why would a villain as brilliant as Moriarty stoop to such petty crimes? Even a million dollars, I imagine, would be a paltry sum in his view. If he is Moriarty, why hasn’t he set his sights on grander schemes?”
Young Holmes seemed not at all perplexed by the question. “I’ve wondered that myself, Watson. But I believe he’s simply been biding his time.�
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“Until what?”
“Until he could get to me. When I’m out of the way, who’s to stop him from whatever grander design he has in mind? Something needs to be done about Moriarty, Watson, and soon.”
I realized the boy’s delusional behavior had taken a sudden, more troubling turn. “You wouldn’t act on this belief, would you?”
“I already have, my dear fellow.”
Alarm bells went off.
“What have you done, Oliver?”
He gave me an exasperated look and wouldn’t reply.
“Sherlock,” I said. “What have you done?”
“I’ve simply set the wheels in motion, Watson. Moriarty’s own inertia will carry him to his just end.”
“Indulge me. What exactly do you mean?”
“Reichenbach Falls,” the boy said.
“Where Holmes and Moriarty struggle?”
“More importantly, where Moriarty falls to his death.”
“But Holmes falls to his death there, too.”
The boy arched an eyebrow. “Does he?”
“There is no Reichenbach Falls in Minnesota.”
“No, Watson, there is not.” He gave me a smile, but so tinged with sadness that it nearly broke my heart.
Our time was up, and a knock came at the door. I desperately wanted to speak with the boy’s aunt alone, but when I opened up, a man stood there. Big, bearded, wearing a ball cap with PETERBILT across the crown. He looked quite put out. “I’ve come for my nephew.”
“Uncle Walter?” the boy said at my back. “Where’s Aunt Louise?”
“She’s too upset to drive. So I’m here to get you.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Family business,” Uncle Walter said to me, much on the surly side. “Come on, Ollie. Let’s go.”
I knelt at the door and looked into the boy’s face. “Promise me you won’t do anything until I’ve had a chance to talk to your aunt.”
“It’s too late, Watson. The great mechanism of fate has been set in motion.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “It’s all right, dear friend. I can take care of this.”
I was overcome with a deep concern for the boy. I knew that despite his intellect—or maybe because of it—he was living a profound delusion, one that seemed more and more to promise harm to himself and to another.
Because I had a session immediately afterward, it was quite a while before I could sit down uninterrupted at my computer. I conducted an Internet search, in the same way that I imagined young Holmes had. It took me no time at all to find the story he’d referenced in our session about one Milton Parks, still wanted in Denver, Colorado, on a charge of fraud stemming from the scamming of a widowed woman and also a charge of child molestation. I found a picture of him, in the clown costume he’d worn while working at children’s parties, a costume very similar to the one I’d seen Morris Peterson wearing. I could find no photograph showing me what he looked like without face paint and ridiculous clothing. In short order, I also found the other incidents the boy had referenced in Portland and California. But still no photographs of what Moriarty looked like beneath the face paint.
And that’s when I caught myself. I’d begun to think of the clown as Moriarty.
I drove to the building where Oliver lived with his aunt and uncle. I buzzed their apartment. A moment later I heard the gruff voice of Uncle Walter through the speaker in the entryway.
“I need to speak with Oliver’s aunt,” I said.
“It’ll have to wait.”
“It’s rather important,” I said. “It’s about Oliver’s safety.”
“A little late for that,” he said.
“I beg your pardon.”
“Ollie’s gone. Run away looks like.”
Reichenbach Falls. There was nothing like that in the Twin Cities or anywhere near. But there was a rather famous waterfall in a park across the river in Minneapolis: Minnehaha Falls. It was a thin prospect, but the only one I had.
It was nearing dark when I arrived at the park, and I was greeted with an amazing sight. Near the falls stood a pavilion with a bustling restaurant and outdoor patio. The pavilion was surrounded by tall trees, and on the grass between the trees a multitude of colorful tents had been set up. A huge banner strung between two of the trees declared SOUTH MINNEAPOLIS NEIGHBORHOOD CIRCUS. Temporary floodlights lit the scene. Carnival music blared. On a little stage, a man in a jester’s costume was juggling swords. A tightrope hung a few feet off the ground, and a young woman dressed as a ballerina and carrying a parasol balanced precariously on the line. In front of the tents, local hawkers called to the milling crowd to come inside and see the wonders of two-headed snakes and dogs who did tricks and yogis who could turn themselves into pretzels. There were games of all kinds, and the air was redolent with the smell of cotton candy and mini-donuts, and children ran to and fro trailing balloons on long strings. And everywhere there were clowns.
I made my way among the confusion of bodies to the bridge above Minnehaha Creek and its waterfall. We’d had a wet spring. The creek was full, and the water swept in a roaring torrent over the edge of the falls. Laughing children half-climbed the stone walls that edged the bridge. Their parents called harsh warnings to them or pulled them back. The bridge was lit with glaring streetlamps that had come on with the dark, and the people on it cast shadows so that it seemed as if the bridge was populated by two species, one of flesh and the other of black silhouettes.
I couldn’t see Oliver anywhere, nor could I see a clown that looked like the one I’d seen coming from Palladium Pizza. But I knew Moriarty had used different costumes in the past, so God only knew how he might have been dressed that night. I searched desperately, overwhelmed with a mounting sense of dread.
A scream shot like a rocket above the chaos of sounds around me. It came from the other end of the bridge. The scream of a child. I turned and pushed through the crowd in that direction. Another scream, and my heart raced as the crowd parted before me. I came at last to a place where a little boy stood near a clown who knelt with a huge boa constrictor draped over his shoulders.
“He won’t bite,” the clown assured the boy. “But he might swallow you.”
The clown leaned nearer, with the snake’s head in his hand. The boy screamed again and danced back, but it was clear he was delighted.
The crowd had formed a little circle and was focused on the boy and the snake. That’s when I caught sight of Oliver Wendell Holmes. He was standing off the bridge, in the shadows next to a tree near the edge of the chasm where the creek ran and fell fifty feet to the rocks below. He wore the deerstalker hat and the cape of his own making. He was alone, and I was washed in a great relief.
Then, from behind the tree next to Holmes, the clown emerged, with that grotesque grin painted on his face, that cruel mockery of good intent.
“Oliver!” I cried.
But at that same moment, the boy near the snake screamed again, and the crowd roared with laughter and gave their applause, and my desperate cry was lost.
I watched helplessly as the clown reached out and little Holmes turned suddenly to face him. The clown grasped the boy and shoved him toward the edge of the precipice. Oliver in turn grabbed the clown, and in the next instant, my heart broke as I watched them tumble together over the edge of the precipice.
“Oliver!” I cried again, though I knew it was hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.
I shoved my way across the bridge and off the path to the tree where the boy and the clown had fallen. I knelt, leaned over the edge, and looked down at the bottom of the chasm. The streetlamps on the bridge lit the scene below with a raw glare, and I saw the body of the clown sprawled on the rocks where the water crashed and ran on. But I saw no sign of Oliver.
“I could use a hand, Watson.”
The voice startled me. In disbelief, I stared below where young Holmes hung upside down, flat against the chasm wall, his right ankle secured with a rope that, as I followed it, I could see
was tied to the base of the tree. I drew him up quickly. When I’d pulled him to safety, I couldn’t help myself. I took him firmly into my arms and hugged him dearly.
“Please, Watson, a little decorum,” Holmes whispered into my ear.
“I took his number off my aunt’s cell phone and called him,” the boy explained to me as we stood on the bridge with the rest of the crowd and watched the body being dealt with below. We’d talked with several policemen already and were waiting for a detective who was supposed to arrive soon to take our official statements.
“I told him I knew who he was and that I wanted to meet him here, and that if he didn’t come I would tell my aunt exactly who he was, and I would inform the police as well.”
“You knew about this neighborhood circus?”
He looked at me with disappointment. “I never do anything without knowing everything in advance. I was certain Moriarty would feel quite comfortable in this setting. Bold and, I speculated, reckless.”
“Why didn’t he just skip town?”
“Because I’m Holmes and he was Moriarty. Just as I thought, he couldn’t resist the confrontation. A simple push, that was all he thought it would take. But because I’d anticipated his move and held to him, my own weight carried him over the edge along with me.”
“Except that you had the rope around your ankle.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you just talk to the police?”
“He was a clever fellow. He slipped them in California and Portland and Denver. There was no reason to believe he couldn’t slip them here. No, Watson, this was something I had to take care of myself.”
The detective finally arrived, a tall fellow in an ill-fitting brown suit. “We’ve called your aunt and uncle,” he informed the boy. “When they get here, we’ll all sit down together and talk.”
“May I stay with him?” I asked.
“For now,” the detective agreed.
I looked at Holmes. The crowd had cleared away from him but still stared, as if he was just another of the oddities of the evening. He was a lonely boy, with no friends. But I thought he needed one. Didn’t everybody, even the most brilliant and solitary among us?
Echoes of Sherlock Holmes Page 27