The Best American Mystery Stories 2015

Jeffery Deaver The Adventure of the laughing fisherman From In the Company of Sherlock Holmes

Sometimes it’s overwhelming: the burden of knowing that the man you most admire isn’t real.

Then the depression that you’ve fought all your life creeps in, the anxiety. The borders of your life contract, stifling, suffocating.

And so slim Paul Winslow, twenty-eight, was presently walking into the neat, unadorned office of his on-again, off-again therapist, Dr. Levine, on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

“Hello, Paul, come on in. Sit down.”

Dr. Levine was one of those shrinks who offered basic armchairs, not couches, for his patients. He spoke frequently during the sessions, wasn’t afraid to offer advice, and asked, “How do you feel about that?” only when it was important to know how his patients felt. Which was pretty rare.

He never used the verb explore.

Paul had read Freud’s Psychopathology of Everyday Life (not bad, though a bit repetitive) and the works of Jung and Horney and some of the other biggies. He knew that a lot of what brain docs told you was a crock. But Dr. Levine was a good man.

“I did the best I could,” Paul now explained to him. “Everything was going along okay, pretty much okay, but over the past couple of months it got worse and I couldn’t shake it, you know, the sadness. I guess I need a tune-up,” Paul added, smiling ruefully. Even at the worst times, his humor never wholly deserted him.

A laugh came from the mouth of the clean-shaven, trim physician, who wore slacks and a shirt during the appointments. His glasses were unstylish wire-rims, but that seemed to fit his casual style and friendly demeanor.

Paul had not been here for nearly eight months, and the doctor now glanced through his patient’s file to refresh his memory. The folder was thick. Paul had seen Dr. Levine off and on for the past five years and had been to other shrinks before that. Diagnosed from a young age with bipolar and anxiety disorders, Paul had worked hard to control his malady. He didn’t self-medicate with illegal drugs or liquor. He’d seen therapists, attended workshops, taken medicine — though not regularly and only those run-of-the-mill antidepressants ingested by the ton in the New York metro area. He’d never been institutionalized, never had any breaks with reality.

Still, the condition — which his mother also suffered from — had sidelined him. Never one to get along well with others, Paul was impatient, had little respect for authority, could be acerbic, and never hesitated to verbally eviscerate the prejudiced and the stupid.

Oh, he was brilliant, with an IQ residing well up in the stratosphere. He’d zipped through university in three years, grad school in one. But then came the brick wall: the real world. Teaching at community colleges hadn’t worked out (you don’t necessarily have to get along with fellow professors, but a modicum of tolerance for your students’ foibles is a requirement). Editing for scientific publishers was equally disastrous (the same problem with his bosses and authors). Recently he’d taken up freelance copyediting for one of his former employers, and this solitary job more or less suited, at least for the time being.

Not that money was important; his parents, both bankers, were well off and, sympathetic to their son’s condition, established a trust fund for him, which supported him nicely. Given these resources, he was free to live a simple, stress-free life, working part-time, playing chess at a club in the Village, dating occasionally (though without much enthusiasm), and doing plenty of what he loved most: reading.

Paul Winslow didn’t care much for real people, but he loved the characters in fiction. He always had.

Lou Ford and Anna Wulf and Sam Spade and Clyde Griffiths and Frank Chambers and Mike Hammer and Pierre Bezukhov and Huck Finn... a hundred others made up Paul’s circle of intimates. Harry Potter was a good friend, Frodo Baggins a better one.

As for vampires and zombies... well, better not to get Paul started.

Yet no fiction, high-brow or low-, captivated him like the short stories and novels of one author in particular: Arthur Conan Doyle, the creator of Sherlock Holmes.

Upon his first reading, some years ago, he knew instantly that he’d found his hero — a man who reflected his personality, his outlook, his soul.

His passion extended beyond the printed page. He collected Victorian memorabilia and artwork. Sitting prominently on the wall in his living room was a very fine reproduction of Sidney Paget’s pen-and-ink drawing of archenemies Holmes and Professor Moriarty grappling on a narrow ledge above Reichenbach Falls, a scene from the short story “The Final Problem,” in which Moriarty dies and Holmes appears to. Paul owned all of the various filmed versions of the Holmes adventures, though he believed the old Grenada version with Jeremy Brett was the only one that got it right.

Yet in recent months Paul had found that spending time in the world of the printed page was growing less and less comforting. And as the allure of the books wore off, the depression and anxiety seeped in to fill its place.

Now, sitting back in Dr. Levine’s bright office — shrink contempo, Paul had once described it — he ran a hand through his unruly black curly hair, which he often forgot to comb. He explained that the high he got from reading the books and stories had faded dramatically.

“It hit me today that, well, it’s lame, totally lame, having a hero who’s fictional. I was so, I don’t know, confined within the covers of the books, I’m missing out on... everything.” He exhaled slowly through puffed cheeks. “And I thought maybe it’s too late. The best part of my life is over.”

Paul didn’t mind the doctor’s smile. “Paul, you’re a young man. You’ve made huge strides. You have your whole life ahead of you.”

Paul’s eyes, in his gaunt, narrow face, closed momentarily. Then sprang open. “But how stupid is that, having this hero who’s made up? I mean, they’re only books.”

“Don’t dismiss the legitimate emotional attraction between readers and literature, Paul. Did you know tens of thousands of Victorians were inconsolable when one character in a Dickens book died?”

“Which one?”

“Little Nell.”

“Oh, The Old Curiosity Shop. I didn’t know about the reaction.”

“All over the world. People were sobbing, milling around in the streets, talking about it.”

Paul nodded. “And when it looked like Sherlock Holmes died in ‘The Final Problem,’ Doyle was so hounded, one might say, that he had to write a sequel that brought him back.”

“Exactly. People love their characters. But apart from the valid role that fiction plays in our lives, in your case I think your diminished response to Sherlock Holmes stories is a huge step forward.” The doctor seemed unusually enthusiastic.

“It is?”

“It’s a sign that you’re willing — and prepared — to step from a fictional existence to a real one.”

This was intriguing. Paul found his heart beating a bit faster.

“Your goal in coming to see me and the other therapists in the past has always been to lead a less solitary, more social existence. Find a job, a partner, possibly have a family. And this is a perfect opportunity.”

“How?”

“The Sherlock Holmes stories resonated with you for several reasons. I think primarily because of your talents: your intelligence, your natural skills at analysis, your powers of deduction — just like his.”

“My mind does kind of work that way.”

Dr. Levine said, “I remember the first time you came to see me. You asked about my wife and son — how was he doing in kindergarten? But I didn’t wear a wedding ring and had no pictures of family here. I never mentioned my family and I don’t put any personal information on the Internet. I assumed at the time you were just guessing — you were right, by the way — but now I suspect you deduced those facts about me, right?”

Paul cocked his head. “That’s right.”

“How?”

“Well, as for the fact you had a child and his age, there was a tiny jelly or jam fingerprint on the side of your slacks — about the height of a four- or five-year-old hugging Daddy at breakfast. And you never have appointments before eleven A.M., which told me that you probably were the spouse who took your child to school; if he’d been in first grade or older you would have gotten him to school much earlier and could see patients at nine or ten. You did the school run, I was assuming, because you have more flexible hours than your wife, working for yourself. I was sure she had a full-time job. This is Manhattan, of course — two incomes are the rule.

“Now, why a son? I thought the odds were that a girl of that age would be more careful about wiping her fingers before hugging you. Why an only child? Your office and this building are pretty modest, you know. I guessed you weren’t a millionaire. That and your age told me it was more likely than not you had only one child. As to the wife, I suspected that even if you had had marital problems, as a therapist you’d work hard to keep the marriage together, so divorce was very unlikely. There was the widower factor, but the odds seemed against that.”

Dr. Levine shook his head, laughing. “Sherlock Holmes would be proud of you, Paul. Tell me, that comes naturally to you?”

“Totally natural. It’s kind of a game I play. A hobby. When I’m out, I deduce things about people.”

“I think you should consider using these skills of yours in the real world.”

“How do you mean?”

“I’ve always thought you were misplaced in academia and publishing. I think you should find a job where you can put those skills to work.”

“Like what?”

“Maybe the law. Or... Well, how’s this: you studied math and science.”

“That’s right.”

“Maybe forensics would be a good choice.”

“I’ve thought about that,” Paul said uncertainly. “But do you think I’m ready? I mean, ready to get out in the real world?”

The doctor didn’t hesitate. “I absolutely do.”

Several days later Paul was doing what he often did at 10 A.M. on a weekday: having a coffee at Starbucks near his apartment on the Upper West Side and reading. Today, however, it was not fiction he was engrossed in, but the local newspapers.

He was considering what Dr. Levine had told him and was trying to find some way to use his skills in a practical way. He wasn’t having much luck.

Occasionally he would look around and make deductions about people sitting near him — a woman had broken up with a boyfriend, one man was an artistic painter, another was very likely a petty criminal.

Yes, this was a talent.

Just how to put it to use.

It was as he was pondering this that he happened to overhear one patron, looking down at her Mac screen, turn to her friend and say, “Oh, my God. They found another one!”

“What?” the companion asked.

“Another, you know, stabbing victim. In the park. It happened last night. They just found the body.” She waved at the screen. “It’s in the Times.”

“Jesus. Who was it?”

“Doesn’t say, doesn’t give her name, I mean.” The blonde, hair pulled back, ponytail, read. “Twenty-nine, financial adviser. They shouldn’t say what she does without giving her name. Now everybody who knows a woman like that’s going to worry.”

Paul realized this would be the man — surely a man, according to typical criminal profile — who was dubbed the “East Side Slasher.” Over the course of several months he’d killed two, now three, women. The killer took trophies. From the first two victims, at least, he cut off the left index finger. Postmortem, after he’d slashed their jugulars. There’d been no obvious sexual overtones to the crimes. Police could find no motives.

“Where?” Paul asked the Starbucks blonde.

“What?” She turned, frowning.

“Where did they find the body?” he repeated impatiently.

She looked put out, nearly offended.

Paul lifted his eyebrows. “It’s not eavesdropping when you make a statement loud enough for the whole place to hear. Now. Where is the body?”

“Near Turtle Pond.”

“How near?” Paul persisted.

“It doesn’t say.” She turned away in a huff.

Paul rose quickly, feeling his pulse start to pound.

He tossed out his half-finished coffee and headed for the door. He gave a faint laugh, thinking to himself, The game’s afoot.

“Sir, what’re you doing?”

Crouching on the ground, Paul glanced up at a heavyset man, white, pale white, with slicked-back, thinning hair. Paul rose slowly. “I’m sorry?”

“Could I see some identification?”

“I guess, sure. Could I?” Paul held the man’s eyes evenly.

The man coolly displayed his NYPD detective’s shield. The detective said his name was Carrera.

Paul handed over his driver’s license.

“You live in the area?”

“It’s on my license.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s current,” the detective responded, handing it back.

He’d renewed two months ago. He said, “It is. West Eighty-Second. Near Broadway.”

They were just north of the traverse road in Central Park, near the pond where the Starbucks woman had told him the body had been found. The area was filled with trees and bushes and rock formations. Grass fields, trisected by paths bordered with mini-shoulders of dirt — which is what Paul had been examining. Yellow police tape fluttered, but the body and crime scene people were gone.

A few spectators milled nearby, taking mobile phone pictures or just staring, waiting to glimpse some fancy CSI gadgets perhaps. Though not everyone was playing voyeur. Two nannies pushed perambulators and chatted. One worker in dungarees was taking a break, sipping coffee and reading the sports section. Two college-age girls roller-bladed past. All were oblivious to the carnage that had occurred only fifty feet away.

The detective asked, “How long have you been here, Mr. Winslow?”

“I heard about the murder about a half hour ago and I came over. I’ve never seen a crime scene before. I was curious.”

“Did you happen to be in the park at around midnight?”

“Was that the time of death?”

The detective persisted. “Sir? Midnight?”

“No.”

“Have you seen anyone in the park recently wearing a Yankees jacket and red shoes?”

“Is that what the killer was wearing last night?... Sorry, no, I haven’t. But is that what the killer was wearing?”

The detective seemed to debate. He said, “A witness from a street-sweeping crew reported seeing somebody walk out of bushes there about twelve-thirty this morning in a Yankees jacket and red shoes.”

Paul squinted. “There?”

The detective sighed. “Yeah, there.”

“And he was in his street-sweeping truck?”

“That’s right.”

“Then he’s wrong,” Paul said dismissively.

“I’m sorry?”

“Look.” Paul nodded, walking to the traverse. “His truck was over there, right?”

The detective joined him. “Yeah. So?”

“That streetlight would’ve been right in his face, and I’d be very surprised if he’d been able to see writing on the jacket. As for the shoes, I’d guess they were blue, not red.”

“What?”

“He would only have seen them for a second or two as he drove past. An instant later his mind would have registered them as red — because of the afterimage. That means they were really blue. And, by the way, they weren’t shoes at all. He was wearing coverings of some kind. Booties, like surgeons wear. Those are usually blue or green.”

“Covering? What’re you talking about?” Carrera was rocking between interested and irritated.

“Look at this.” Paul returned to dirt he’d been crouching over. “See these footprints? Somebody walked from the body through the grass, then onto the dirt here. He stopped — you can see that here — and stood in a pattern that suggests he pulled something off his shoes. The same size prints start up again here, but they’re much more distinct. So your suspect wore booties to keep you from finding out the brand of shoe he was wearing. But he made a mistake. He figured it was safe to take them off once he was away from the body.”

Carrera was staring down. Then he jotted notes.

Paul added, “And as for the brand? I guess your crime scene people have databases.”

“Yessir. Thanks for that. We’ll check it out.” He was gruff but seemed genuinely appreciative. He pulled out his mobile and made a call.

“Oh, detective,” Paul interrupted, “remember that just because the shoe’s big — it looks like a twelve — doesn’t mean his foot is that size. It’s a lot less painful to wear two sizes large than two sizes smaller, if you want to fool somebody about your stature.”

Paul’s impression was that the cop had just been about to say that the suspect had to be huge.

After Carrera had ordered the crime scene back and disconnected, Paul said, “Oh, one other thing, detective?”

“Yessir?”

“See that bud there?”

“That flower?”

“Right. It’s from a knapweed. The only place it grows in the park is in the Shakespeare Garden.”

“How do you know that?”

“I observe things,” Paul said dismissively. “Now. There’s a small rock formation there. It’d be a good place to hide, and I’ll bet that’s where he waited for the victim.”

“Why?”

“It’s not unreasonable to speculate that his cuff scooped up the bud while he was crouched down, waiting for his victim. When he lifted his foot to pull off the booties here, the bud fell out.”

“But that’s two hundred yards away, the garden.”

“Which means you haven’t searched it.”

Carrera stiffened, but then admitted, “No.”

“Just like he thought. I’d have your people search the garden for trace evidence — or whatever your forensic people look for nowadays. You see so much on TV. You never know what’s real or not.”

After he’d finished jotting notes, Carrera asked, “Are you in law enforcement?”

“No, I just read a lot of murder mysteries.”

“Uh-huh. You have a card?”

“No. But I’ll give you my number.” Paul wrote it down on the back of one of the detective’s cards and handed it back. He looked up into the man’s eyes; the cop was about six inches taller. “You think this is suspicious, I’m sure. I also wrote down the name of the chess club where I play, down in Greenwich Village. I was there last night until midnight. And I’d guess the CCTV cameras in the subway — I took the number 1 train to Seventy-Second — would show me getting off around one-thirty. And then I went to Alonzo’s deli. I know the counterman. He can identify me.”

“Yessir.” Carrera tried to sound like he hadn’t suspected Paul, but in fact even Lestrade in the Sherlock Holmes books would have had him checked out.

Still, at the moment, the detective actually offered what seemed to be a warm handshake. “Thanks for your help, Mr. Winslow. We don’t always find such cooperative citizens. And helpful ones too.”

“My pleasure.”

Carrera pulled on gloves and put the bud in a plastic bag. He then walked toward the garden.

As Paul turned back to examine the scene, a voice behind him asked, “Excuse me?”

He turned to see a balding man, stocky and tall, in tan slacks and a Polo jacket. Topsiders. He looked like a Connecticut businessman on the weekend. He was holding a digital recorder.

“I’m Franklyn Moss. I’m a reporter for the Daily Feed.”

“Is that an agricultural newspaper?” Paul asked.

Moss blinked. “Blog. Feed. Like RSS. Oh, that was a joke.”

Paul gave no response.

Moss asked, “Can I ask your name?”

“I don’t know. What do you want?” He looked at the recorder. Something about the man’s eager eyes, too eager, made him uneasy.

“I saw you talking to the cop, Carrera. He’s not real cooperative. Kind of a prick. Between you and I.”

You and me, Paul silently corrected the journalist. “Well, he was just asking me if I saw anything — about the murder, you know. They call that canvassing, I think.”

“So, did you?”

“No. I just live near here. I came by forty-five minutes ago.”

Moss looked around in frustration. “Not much good stuff, this one. Everything was gone before we heard about it.”

“Good stuff? You mean the body?”

“Yeah. I wanted to get some pix. But no luck this time.” Moss stared at the shadowy ring of bushes where the woman had died. “He rape this one? Cut off anything other than the finger?”

“I don’t know. The detective—”

“Didn’t say.”

“Right.”

“They always play it so close to the damn chest. Prick, I was saying. You mind if I interview you?”

“I don’t really have anything to say.”

“Most people don’t. Who cares? Gotta fill the stories with something. If you want your fifteen minutes of fame, gimme a call. Here’s my card.” He handed one over. Paul glanced at it and then pocketed it. “I’m writing a sidebar on what people think about somebody getting killed like this.”

Paul cocked his head. “I’ll bet the general consensus is they’re against it.”

All the next day, Paul had been in and out of the apartment constantly, visiting the crime scenes of the Upper East Side Slasher, getting as close as he could, observing, taking notes. Then returning and, as he was now, sitting at his computer, continuing his research and thinking hard about how to put into practical use everything he’d learned from his immersion in the Sherlock Holmes books.

His doorbell rang.

“Yes?” he asked into the intercom.

“Yeah, hi. Paul Winslow?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Detective Carrera. We met the other day. In Central Park?”

Hm.

“Sure. Come on up.” He hit the button to unlock the door.

A moment later there came a knock on the door. Paul admitted the detective. Breathing heavily from the two-story walkup — he apparently hadn’t waited for the elevator — the man looked around the apartment. Maybe his cop training precluded him from saying, “Nice digs,” or whatever he would say, but Paul could tell he was impressed by the small but elegant place.

His trust fund was really quite substantial.

“So,” Paul said. “Did you check me out? I’m guessing you did, ’cause you don’t have your handcuffs out.”

Carrera, who was carrying a thick dark-brown folder, started to deny it but then laughed. “Yeah. You weren’t much of a suspect.”

“Perps do come back to the scene of the crime, though.”

“Yeah, but only the stupid ones give the cops advice... and good advice, in your case. The shoe was a Ferragamo, size twelve — you got a good eye. So our perp’s pretty well-off.”

“And you checked the indentation?”

“It was pretty deep. He’s a big man, so the shoe’s probably the right fit.”

“How old was the shoe?”

“They couldn’t tell wear patterns.”

“Too bad.”

“And you were right about the jacket. The street cleaner didn’t really see the logo. He was speculating — because it was black and had the cut of a Yankees jacket his kid owns. Trying to be helpful. Happens with witnesses a lot.”

“Remember the back lighting. It might not have been black at all. It could have been any dark color. Can I get you anything?”

“Water, yeah. Thanks.”

“I’m having milk. I love milk. I drink a glass a day, sometimes two. You want some milk?”

“Water’s fine.”

Paul got a glass of milk for himself and a bottle of Dannon for the detective.

He returned to find the man studying the shelves. “Man, you got a lot of books. And that whole wall there — true crime, forensics.”

“I’m thinking maybe someday I’ll study it. Go to school, I mean. I’ve got degrees in math and science.”

“That’s a good start. All the good crime scene cops I know have science backgrounds. Hey, let me know if you need advice on where to go, what courses to take.”

“Yeah? Thanks.”

Carrera turned away and said, “Mr. Winslow?”

“Paul.”

“Okay, and I’m Al. Paul, have you heard that sometimes police departments use civilians when there’s a tough investigation going? Like psychics.”

“I’ve heard that. I don’t believe in psychics. I’m a rationalist.”

“Is that somebody who doesn’t believe in the supernatural?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, that’s me too. But one thing I have done in the past is use consultants. Specialists. Like in computer work. Or if there’s been an art theft, we’ll bring in somebody from a museum to help us.”

“And you want me to be a consultant?” Paul asked, feeling his heart pounding hard.

“I was impressed, what you told me in the park. I’ve brought some files from the UNSUB two-eight-seven homicides — that’s what we call the perp.”

“Police don’t really use the word slasher much, I’d guess.”

“Not too, you know, professional. So, Paul. I was wondering if you could take a look at them and tell us what you thought.”

“You bet I would.”

George Lassiter was upset.

The forty-year-old Manhattanite, whose nickname in the press was the sensationalist but admittedly accurate “Upper East Side Slasher,” had a problem.

No one was more meticulous than he was when it came to planning out and committing his crimes. In fact, part of the relaxation he experienced from murder derived from the planning. (The actual killing — the execution, he sometimes joked — could be a letdown, compared with the meticulous planning, if, say, the victim didn’t scream or fight as much as he’d hoped.)

Taking scrupulous care to select the right kill zone, to leave minimal or confusing evidence, to learn all he could about the victim so there’d be no surprises when he attacked... this was the way he approached all his crimes.

But apparently he’d screwed up in the latest Central Park murder near Shakespeare Garden and Turtle Pond a few nights ago.

The solidly built man, dressed in slacks and a black sweater, was now outside an apartment on Eighty-Second Street, on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Lassiter had returned to the crime scene the next morning, to see how far the police were getting in the investigation, when he’d noted a skinny young man talking to Albert Carrera, whom Lassiter had identified as the lead detective on the case. The man seemed to be giving advice, which Carrera was obviously impressed with.

That wasn’t good.

After the young man had left the crime scene, Lassiter had followed him to his apartment. He’d waited a half hour for someone to exit the building, and when an elderly woman walked down the stairs, Lassiter had approached her with a big smile. He’d described the man and had asked his name, saying he looked like somebody Lassiter had been in the army with. The neighbor had said he was Paul Winslow. Lassiter had shaken his head and said that no, it wasn’t him. He thanked her and headed off.

Once home, he’d researched Paul Winslow at the address he tracked him to. Very little came up. No Facebook page, Instagram, Twitter, Flickr, LinkedIn... no social media. A criminal background check came back negative too. At the least, it was pretty clear the young man wasn’t a professional law enforcer, just a private meddler.

Which didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.

He might even have seen Lassiter step out of the hiding place in the Shakespeare Garden and grab Ms. Rachel Garner around the neck, throttling her to unconsciousness and then carrying her into the park. For the knife work.

Or seen him slip away from the scene around midnight after he was through. That was more likely; after all, Lassiter had seen Paul staring at the very spot where he’d slipped away from the bloody murder site.

Why hadn’t he called the police then? Well, possibly he’d spent the night debating the pros and cons of getting involved.

It was Paul’s apartment that he was surreptitiously checking out at the moment. His intention had been to follow the young man again and find out where he worked, perhaps learning more about him.

But then, lo and behold, who came knocking at the front door, carrying a big fat file folder?

Detective Carrera, in need of a tan and a workout regimen.

What to do, what to do?

Several thoughts came to mind. But, as always, he didn’t leap to any conclusions right away.

Think, plan. And think some more.

Only then could you act safely and your crimes be successful.

“We did find something,” Al Carrera was telling Paul as he spread the contents of the case file out before them on the coffee table. “In the rocks, where you said the UNSUB waited — Shakespeare Garden.”

“What was it?”

“Indentations that match the bootie prints. And a tiny bit of wrapper, food wrapper. Forensics found it was from one of those energy bars that campers and hikers eat. From the paper and ink analysis we found it was a Sports Plus bar — their four-ounce peanut-butter-and-raisin one. Probably the perp’s, because of the dew content analysis. That told us it’d been dropped on the ground about midnight.”

“Your people are good,” Paul said. He was impressed. He recalled that Sherlock Holmes had his own laboratory. Conan Doyle, a man of science himself, had been quite prescient when it came to forensics.

The detective lifted an envelope, eight and a half by eleven. “These’re the pictures of the crime scenes — and the victims. But I have to warn you. They’re a little disturbing.”

“I don’t know that I’ve even seen a picture of a real body. I mean, on the news I have, but not up close.” He stared at the envelope, hesitated. Finally he nodded. “Okay, go ahead.”

Carrera spread them out.

Paul was surprised to find they were in color — vivid color. He supposed he shouldn’t have been. Why would police photographers use black-and-white when nobody else did nowadays?

As he stared at the unfiltered, bloody images, Paul felt squeamish. But he thought back to the Sherlock Holmes stories and reminded himself to be as detached and professional as his hero.

He bent forward and concentrated.

Finally he offered, “Some observations. He’s really strong. You can see the bruises on their necks. He didn’t have to reposition his hands. He just gripped and squeezed and they went unconscious — not dead, mind you. The amount of blood loss tells us they were stabbed while still alive. Let’s see, let’s see... All right, he’s right-handed. A lefty pretending to be right wouldn’t have gotten the cuts so even in the soft tissue.”

“Good.”

“Also he’s cautious, very aware and observant. Look at his footprints in the dirt at all three scenes. He’s constantly standing up and walking to the perimeter and looking for threats. Smart.”

Carrera wrote.

Paul tapped the picture that showed the perp’s bloody handprint on the ground, perhaps as he pushed himself up to a standing position. “Look at the thumb. Interesting.”

“What?

“It’s not spread out very far — which you’d think it would be if he was using the hand for leverage to rise.”

“I see it.”

“That might mean that he spends a lot of time on a computer.”

“Why?”

“People who regularly type tend to keep their thumbs close in, to hit the spacebar.”

Carrera’s eyebrow rose and he jotted this down too.

Paul gave a faint smile. “He’s a fisherman.”

“What?”

“I’m fairly certain. See those marks on the victims’ wrists?”

“Ligature marks.”

Paul squinted as he shuffled through the pictures. “They’re about the thickness of fishing line. And see how he made those incisions before he removed the victims’ fingers. That’s how you skin fish. And, yes, the energy bar — just the sort of food a fisherman would take with him for lunch or a midmorning snack.”

Paul sat back and glanced at Carrera, who was writing feverishly. The young man said, “If he is a fisherman, which I’m pretty sure he is, he probably has a lake house somewhere in the tri-state area. We know he’s got money. He’s not fishing with the locals in the East River. He’ll go out to the country in his BMW. Wait,” Paul said quickly with a smile, noting Carrera had started to write. “The Beemer’s just a guess. But I’m sure his car’s a nice one. We know he’s upper-income. And the arrogance of the crimes suggests that he’d have an ostentatious car. Mercedes, BMW, Porsche.”

After he finished writing, Carrera asked, “Is there any reason he’d take the index finger?”

Paul said, “Oh, I think it’s an insult.”

“Insult. To who?”

“Well, to you. The police. He’s contemptuous of authority. He’s saying someone could point directly to the killer and you’d still miss it. He’s laughing at you.”

Carrera shook his head at this. “Sonofabitch.”

Paul looked over the pictures once more. “The laughing fisherman,” he mused, thinking that would make a good title for a Sherlock Holmes story: “The Adventure of the Laughing Fisherman.”

Carrera snapped, “Laughing at us, the prick.”

Then Paul cocked his head. “Fish...”

“What?” Carrera was looking at Paul’s focused eyes as the young man strode to his computer and began typing. After a moment of browsing he said, “There’s fishing in Central Park — the Lake, the Pond, and Harlem Meer. Yes! I’ll bet that’s where your perp goes fishing... for his victims.” He glanced at Carrera eagerly. “Let’s go take a look, maybe see if we can find another wrapper or some other evidence. We could set up surveillance.”

“It’s not authorized for a civilian to go on field operations.”

“I’ll just tag along. To observe. Offer suggestions.”

Carrera debated. “Okay. But if you see anyone or anything that looks suspicious, I take over.”

“Fine with me.”

Paul collected his jacket from the den and returned to the living room. Pulling it on, he frowned. “There’s something else that just occurred to me. I’ll bet he knows about you.”

“Me? Personally?”

“You and the other investigators.”

“How?”

“I’m thinking he’s been to the crime scenes, checking out the investigation. That means you could be in danger. All of you. You should let everyone on your team know.” He added gravely, “Sooner rather than later.”

Carrera sent a text. “My partner. He’ll tell everybody to keep an eye out. You should be careful too, Paul.”

“Me? I’m just a civilian. I’m sure I don’t have anything to worry about.”

Paul Winslow’s apartment was pitifully easy to break into.

After James Lassiter had seen Paul and Carrera leave the place — it was about two hours ago — he’d had slipped around back and jimmied the basement door. Then up a few flights of stairs to the apartment itself. The lock-pick gun had done the job in five seconds, and he’d slipped inside, pleased to note that the place didn’t have an alarm.

Piece of cake.

He now stood in the bay window of the dim living room, scanning the street. He was wearing latex gloves and a stocking cap. Lassiter had been impressed with the fancy apartment; the opulence worked to his advantage. Having so many nice things in an unalarmed house? Just the place for a robbery. He’d decided that Paul couldn’t be a victim of the Upper East Side Slasher, because then Carrera and the other investigators would know immediately that Paul’s advice — which might lead to Lassiter — was accurate. No, the crime would be your basic break-in, the burglar surprised when Paul stepped into his apartment.

His plan was that if Carrera returned with Paul, he’d slip out the back and wait another day. But if the young man returned alone, Lassiter would throw him to the floor and pistol-whip him. Blind him, shatter his jaw. Put him in the hospital for months and render him useless as a witness. Murder ups the ante exponentially in a crime. Police frankly don’t care so much about a beating, however serious.

Jesus, look at all the books... Lassiter almost felt bad thinking that blinding him would pretty much finish his days as a reader.

But it’s your own fault, Mr. Meddling Winslow.

A half hour later, Lassiter tensed. Yes, there was Paul returning from the direction of Central Park. Alone. The cop wasn’t with him. When the young man stepped into a quick mart, Lassiter drew his gun and hid behind the front door, which opened onto the hallway of Paul’s building.

Three minutes passed, then four. He was awaiting the key in the latch, but instead heard the sound of the buzzer.

Lassiter cautiously peered through the eyehole. He was looking at a fisheye image of a pizza delivery man, holding a box.

He nearly laughed. But then wondered, Wait, how had the guy gotten through the front security door without hitting the intercom from outside?

Oh, shit. Because Paul had given him the key and told him to ring the buzzer, to draw Lassiter’s attention to the front door. Which meant—

The gun muzzle touched the back of Lassiter’s neck, the metal cold. Painfully cold.

“Settle down there, Lassiter,” Paul said in a calm voice. “Drop the gun, put your hands behind your back.”

Lassiter sighed. The pistol bounced noisily on the wood floor.

In an instant, expertly, Paul had cuffed his hands and picked up the gun. Lassiter turned and grimaced. The young man did not, it turned out, have a weapon of his own. He’d bluffed, using a piece of pipe. Paul nodded to the door and said, “I gave him the key outside and told him to let himself in the front door. If you were wondering. But you probably figured.”

The buzzer rang again and Paul eased Lassiter onto the floor.

“Don’t move. All right?” The young man checked the gun to see that it was loaded and ready to fire, which it was. He aimed at Lassiter’s head.

“Yes. Right. I won’t.”

Paul pocketed the gun and turned the apartment lights on. He stepped to the door, opened it.

He took the pizza box and paid. He must’ve left a real nice tip; the young man said an effusive, “Well, thank you, sir! You have a good night! Wow, thanks!”

Paul didn’t care much for pizza. Or for any food really. He’d only placed the order to distract Lassiter and give him the chance to sneak in the back door. He did, however, have a thirst. “I could use a glass of milk. You?”

“Milk?”

“Or water? That’s about all I can offer you. I don’t have any liquor or soda.”

Lassiter didn’t respond. Paul walked into the kitchen and poured a glass of milk. He returned and helped Lassiter onto a chair. He sipped from the tall glass, reflecting on how different he felt, how confident. The depression was gone completely, the anxiety too.

Thank you, Dr. Levine.

Paul regarded the glass. “Did you know milk has a terroir too, just like wine? You can tell, by analysis of the milk, what the cows were eating during the lactation period: the substances in the soil, chemical residues, even insect activity. Why do you wrap your trophies in silk? The fingers? That’s one thing I couldn’t deduce.”

Lassiter gasped and his eyes, wide, cut into Paul’s like a torch.

“I know it wasn’t on the news. The police don’t even know that.” He explained, “There was a single bloody thread at one of the scenes. It couldn’t have come from a silk garment you were wearing. That would be too ostentatious and obvious for a man on a killing mission. Silk is used for cold-weather undergarments, yes, but you wouldn’t have worn anything like that in these temperatures; very bad idea to sweat at a crime scene. Weren’t the days better for people like you when there was no DNA analysis?”

Did a moan issue from Lassiter’s throat? Paul couldn’t be sure. He smiled. “Well, I’m not too concerned about the silk. Merely curious. Not relevant to our purposes here. The more vital question you have surely is how I found you. Understandable. The short answer is that I learned from the newspaper accounts of the murders that you’re an organized offender. I deduced you plan everything out ahead of time. And you plan the sites of the killings and the escape routes meticulously.

“Someone like that would also want to know about the people tracking him down. I decided you’d be at the scene the morning after the killing. I observed everyone who was there. I was suspicious of the man sipping coffee and reading the sports section of the Post. I was pretty sure it was you. I’d known that the clue about the Ferragamo shoe was fake — why take off the booties in the dirt, when you could have walked three feet farther onto the asphalt and pulled them off there, not leaving any impressions for the police? That meant you weren’t rich at all but middle-class — the shoes were to misdirect the cops. I knew you were strong and solidly built. All of those described the Post reader pretty well.

“When I left the scene I was aware that you followed me back here. As soon as I got inside I grabbed a hat and new jacket and sunglasses and went out the back door. I started following you — right back to your apartment in Queens. A few Internet searches and I got your identity.”

Paul enjoyed a long sip of milk. “An average cow in the U.S. produces nearly twenty thousand pounds of milk a year. I find that amazing.” He regarded the unfortunate man for a moment. “I’m a great fan of the Sherlock Holmes stories.” He nodded around the room at his shelves. “As you can probably see.”

“So that’s why the police aren’t here,” his prisoner muttered. “You’re going play the big hero, like Sherlock Holmes, showing up the police with your brilliance. Who’re you going to turn me over to? The mayor? The police commissioner?”

“Not at all.” Paul added, “What I want is to employ you. As my assistant.”

“Assistant?”

“I want you to work for me. Be my sidekick. Though that’s a word I’ve never cared for, I must say.”

Lassiter gave a sour laugh. “This’s all pretty messed up. You think you’re some kind of Sherlock Holmes and you want me to be your Watson?”

Paul grimaced. “No, no, no. My hero in the books” — he waved at his shelves — “isn’t Holmes. It’s Moriarty. Professor James Moriarty.”

“But wasn’t he, what do they say? Holmes’s nemesis.”

Paul quoted Holmes’s words from memory: “In calling Moriarty a criminal you are uttering libel in the eyes of the law — and there lie the glory and the wonder of it! The greatest schemer of all time, the organizer of every deviltry, the controlling brain of the underworld, a brain which might have made or marred the destiny of nations — that’s the man!”

He continued, “Holmes was brilliant, yes, but he had no grand design, no drive. He was passive. Moriarty, on the other hand, was ambition personified. Always making plans for plots and conspiracies. He’s been my hero ever since I first read about him.” Paul’s eyes gazed affectionately at the books on his shelves that contained the stories involving Moriarty. “I studied math and science because of him. I became a professor, just like my hero.”

Paul thought back to his session with Dr. Levine not long ago.

The Sherlock Holmes stories resonated with you for several reasons. I think primarily because of your talents: your intelligence, your natural skills at analysis, your powers of deduction — just like his...

Dr. Levine had assumed Paul worshipped Holmes, and the patient didn’t think it wise to correct him; therapists presumably take role modeling of perpetrators like Moriarty, even if fictional, rather seriously.

“Moriarty only appeared in two stories as a character, was mentioned in just five others. But the shadow of his evil runs throughout the entire series, and you get the impression that Holmes was always aware that a villain even smarter and more resourceful than he was always hovering nearby. He was my idol.” Paul smiled, his expression filled with reverent admiration. “So. I’ve decided to become a modern-day Moriarty. And that means having an assistant just like my hero did.”

“Like Watson?”

“No. Moriarty’s sidekick was Colonel Sebastian Moran, a retired military man who specialized in murder. Exactly what I need. I wondered whom to pick. I don’t exactly hang out in criminal circles. So I began studying recent crimes in the city and read about the Upper East Side Slasher. You had the most promise. Oh, you made some mistakes, but I thought I could help you overcome your flaws — like returning to visit the scene of the crime, not planting enough fake evidence to shift the blame, attacking victims who were very similar, which establishes patterns and makes profiling easier. And for heaven’s sake, eating a power bar while you waited for your victim? Please. You are capable of better, Lassiter.”

The man was silent. His expression said he acknowledged that Paul was correct.

“But first I needed to save you from the police. I helped Detective Carrera come up with a profile of the perp that was very specific, very credible... and described someone completely different from you.”

“Maybe, but they’re out there looking for me.”

“Oh, they are?” Paul asked wryly.

“What do you mean?”

He found the cable box remote. He fiddled for a moment. “You know, in the past we’d have to wait until the top of the hour to see the news. Now they’ve got that twenty-four/seven cycle. Tedious usually but helpful occasionally.”

The TV came to life.

Actually it was a Geico commercial.

“Can’t do much about those,” Paul said with a grimacing nod at the screen. “Though they can be funny. The squirrels’re the best.”

A moment later an anchorwoman appeared. “If you’re just joining us—”

“Which we are,” Paul chimed in.

“NYPD officials have reported that the so-called Upper East Side Slasher, allegedly responsible for the murders of three women in Manhattan and, earlier tonight, of Detective Albert Carrera of the NYPD, has been arrested. He’s been identified as Franklyn Moss, a journalist and blogger.”

“Jesus! What?”

Paul shushed Lassiter.

“Detective Carrera was found stabbed to death about 5 P.M. near the Harlem Meer fishing area in Central Park. An anonymous tip—”

“Moi,” Paul said.

“—led authorities to Moss’s apartment in Brooklyn, where police found evidence implicating him in the murder of Detective Carrera and the other victims. He is being held without bond in the Manhattan Detention Center.”

Paul shut the set off.

He turned and was amused to see Lassiter’s expression was one of pure bewilderment. “I think we don’t need these anymore.” He rose and unhooked the handcuffs. “Just to let you know, though, my lawyer has plenty of evidence implicating you in the crimes, so don’t do anything foolish.”

“No, I’m cool.”

“Good. Now when I decided I wanted you as an assistant, I had to make sure somebody else took the fall for the killings. Whom to pick? I’ve never liked reporters very much, and I found Franklyn Moss particularly irritating. So I datamined him. I learned he was quite the fisherman, so I fed Carrera this mumbo-jumbo that that was the killer’s hobby.

“Earlier today I convinced Carrera we should go to Central Park, one of the fishing preserves there, to look for clues. When we were alone at the Meer I slit his throat and sawed off his index finger. That’s a lot of work, by the way. Couldn’t you have picked the pinkie? Never mind. Then I went to Moss’s apartment and hid the knife and finger in his garage and car, along with some physical evidence from the other scenes, a pair of Ferragamos I bought yesterday, and a packet of those energy bars you like. I left some of Carrera’s blood on the doorstep so the police would have probable cause to get a warrant.”

Paul enjoyed another long sip of milk.

“The evidence’s circumstantial, but compelling: he drives a BMW, which I told Carrera was his vehicle — because I’d seen it earlier. Public records show he has a lake house in Westchester — which I also told Carrera. And I suggested that the ligature marks were from fishing line, which Moss had plenty of in his garage and basement... You used bell wire, right?”

“Um, yes.”

Paul continued, “I also fed the detective this nonsense that the killer probably spent a lot of time keyboarding at a computer, like a blogger would do. So our friend Moss is going away forever. You’re clean.”

Lassiter frowned. “But wouldn’t Carrera have told other officers you gave him the profile? That’d make you a suspect.”

“Good point, Lassiter. But I knew he wouldn’t. Why bring the file to me here in my house to review, rather than invite me downtown to examine it? And why did he come alone, not with his partners? No, he asked my advice privately — so he could steal my ideas and take credit for them himself.” Paul ran his hand through his hair and regarded the killer with a coy smile. “Now, tell me about the assignment — about the person who hired you. I’m really curious about that.”

“Assignment?”

But the feigned surprise didn’t work.

“Please, Lassiter. You’re not a serial killer. I wouldn’t want you if you were — they’re far too capricious. Too driven by emotion.” Paul said the last word as if it were tainted food. “No, you came up with the plan for the multiple murders to cover up your real crime. You’d been hired to murder a particular individual — one of the three victims.”

Lassiter’s mouth was actually gaping open. He slowly pressed his lips back together.

Paul continued, “It was so obvious. There was no sexual component to the killings, which there always is in serial murders. And there’s no psychopathological archetype for taking an index finger trophy — you improvised because you thought it would look suitably spooky. Now, which of the three was the woman you’d been hired to kill?”

The man gave a why-bother shrug. “Rachel Garner. The last one. She was going to blow the whistle on her boss. He runs a hedge fund that’s waist-deep in money laundering.”

“Or — alternative spelling — ‘waste-deep,’ if it needs laundering.” Paul couldn’t help the play on words. “I thought it was something like that.”

Lassiter said, “I’d met the guy in the army. He knew I did a few dirty tricks, and he called me up.”

“So it was a one-time job?”

“Right.”

“Good. So you can come to work for me.”

Lassiter debated.

Paul leaned forward. “Ah, there’s a lot of carnage out there to perpetrate. Lots of foolish men and women on Wall Street who need to be relieved of some of their gains, ill- or well-gotten. There’re illegal arms sales waiting to be made, and cheating politicians to extort and humans to traffic and terrorists who may hold intellectually indefensible views but have very large bank accounts and are willing to write checks to people like us, who can provide what they need.”

Paul’s eyes narrowed. “And, you know, Lassiter, sometimes you just need to slice a throat or two for the fun of it.”

Lassiter’s eyes fixed on the carpet. After a long moment he whispered, “The silk?”

“Yes?”

“My mother would stuff a silk handkerchief in my mouth when she beat me. To mute the screams, you know.”

“Ah, I see,” Paul replied softly. “I’m sorry. But I can guarantee you plenty of opportunities to get even for that tragedy, Lassiter. So. Do you want the job?”

The killer debated for merely a few seconds. He smiled broadly. “I do, professor. I sure do.” The men shook hands.