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.”