“That's interesting, you used the present tense one time.”
“I did? How odd. I suppose people never die as long as you don't remember proper grammar at all times.”
“That's one way of looking at it.”
* * *
Emerson Hobbes was less stoical than his mother, his demeanor more indifferent than insolent. With his feet resting atop the table, he reclined to ease the flow of blood to his extremities, reducing the wear and tear on the heart people were not sure he had. Detective Knox despised him, as he did all those who refused to apologize for the arrogance that privilege bestows upon them. His position, Knox thought, might make it possible for blood to actually reach his brain and engage it, not that it contained any wisdom worth hearing.
Detective Knox took his seat, waiting for Emerson to remove his feet. The pause grew, until Knox was sufficiently aggravated with his guest. Bracing himself, he put both hands under the lip of the table, and lifted it shoulder high, sending Emerson Hobbes tumbling off balance. His chair dug in, but the soft linoleum gave way as the rotted threads tore apart, and Emerson fell squarely onto his back, his head making a hollow thud as it hit the ground.
Emerson jumped to his feet as Detective Knox returned the table to its original position. His eyes were ablaze, wide with the sobriety that had been missing in them during their previous conversation. Knox could see the wheels spinning behind his eyes, as Emerson Hobbes struggled to comprehend what had just happened.
“Sit down Mr. Hobbes.”
“Are you kidding me? Did you really just assault me?”
If he had intended to assault Emerson, which he could have easily justified, he would have made it perfectly clear. Such treatment was specifically outlawed by the department, for legal purposes, which Knox knew meant he could not be engaged in such activity while sitting in front of one of the station's security cameras.
“All I did was put your feet back on the ground. In fact, I think you dented our floor.”
“This is outrageous. I could have your badge for this.”
“Kid, you don't know how lucky you are. So you look stupid for a few minutes, and maybe you get a bump on the head. That's nothing compared to what happens to people who are actually suspects. You don't want to make that list, do you?”
Detective Knox's words brought Emerson Hobbes down from the ledge, his anger seeping out like a slow leaking balloon. His chest sunk in, his face hollowed, and he took his seat. There was still a wary look in his eye, but he could see how the game was played, and it was his turn to act.
“I didn't do anything, so no, I don't want you running a vendetta against me.”
“Good. All you have to do is answer a couple of questions, and then you can go.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Did your father tell you about anything unusual that might have happened to him the day before his death.”
“Nothing that I can recall, but I might have had a little too much to drink by that point, so I wouldn't really know.”
“So you didn't hear anything about a kidnapping?”
Detective Knox was not an expert in psychology, or biomechanics, but he knew what to expect of people, and he could see from the expression on Emerson Hobbes' face that he was genuinely surprised to hear about a kidnapping. It was possible he was merely caught off-guard that it had been discovered, but Knox didn't believe that. Emerson did not know anything useful, which was exactly what Knox had expected.
“No. Are you telling me he was kidnapped before he was murdered?”
“It looks that way. Can you think of anyone who would want to take your father?”
“Just my mother, but I know she didn't do it.”
“ Very funny.”
“I'm sorry, but I'm having a hard time believing this. It doesn't make any sense.”
“I know it doesn't. Murder rarely does.”
* * *
Tory Hobbes was in a trance when Detective Knox entered the room, her consciousness somewhere other than the precinct. This stirred up feelings of jealousy in Knox, who had always wanted to be able to do just that. He snapped his fingers in front of her face, drawing her back from wherever she had been. Tory looked up at him, making an uncomfortable amount of eye contact, following him as he took his seat.
Detective Knox was not fond of eye contact, or any form of intimacy. It felt foreign to him to invite someone to look into the deepest recesses of his essence. It was akin to asking to be emotionally burgled, a phenomenon he did not wish to experience. Tory was not of this mind, wanting to share as much of her human experience as possible, believing that only through sharing can we truly be alive. She invited everyone in, and felt saddened when people like Detective Knox refused her hospitality.
Faith and Emerson Hobbes were people Knox could understand, flawed characters that were focused on their own self-interest at all costs, because that was the type of man he was. Caring about other people, about all people, in the way Tory did was beyond Knox’s comprehension. Knox did not think that such love was possible, even when confronted by the evidence. The world may be a better place for having people like her in it, he thought, but people like Tory were the lambs whose slaughter would feed the rest.
“So tell me, detective, why am I here?”
“Metaphysically, or actually?”
“You're still denying yourself an appreciation of the greater experience, aren't you?”
“I'll get around to it when I'm done with this narrow one.”
“You can't change a mind that doesn't want to change.”
“Good point. To answer your query, you're here to answer a few questions.”
“Do proceed.”
“Did your father tell you about anything unusual that had happened to him the day before his death?”
“No, we didn't talk about anything substantive.”
“So you didn't know he had been kidnapped?”
The word did not resonate with Tory, as though she could not wrap her mind around the idea of being forcibly removed from her life. To her, there was only the here and now, wherever that may be, so a kidnapping seemed merely to be a change of scenery, and not the grave action it was viewed as by others.
“Of course not, although now that you've mentioned it, something is starting to make sense.”
“What's that?”
“That day, he didn't quite seem to be himself. Well, he was, but he was moving a little bit slower, as though he had worked out too much and was sore. Of course, he never worked out, so it wasn't that. It never occurred to me to ask what was wrong. I figured he must have been coming down with the flu or something.”
“And you're sure you saw what you're saying you did?”
“Absolutely. He was his usual self, just without as much energy. You never would have noticed anything was different if you didn't spend every day with him.”
“Thank you for your help.”
“Of course, detective. And whenever you're ready to open yourself up, let me know. I would love to help you.”
“Don't sit up waiting.”
Chapter 18
Fruit Juice and Murder
Detective Knox emerged from the interviews without a clear picture in his mind. In front of him, he could see a web of stories, the threads spun and hung in ornate patterns. He followed each strand towards the center, but they broke apart and drifted off in the wind before he could arrive at the hub. The answers existed, he was sure, but they were hidden from his sight, taunting him as he sank deeper and deeper in his futile attempts to extricate himself from the fog.
He refused to admit that he might not be able to piece the case together and find the killer. It was a reality in every case he was assigned, but it weighed heavier on him this time. There was a moral imperative to solve every murder, to find killers and bring them to justice, to give comfort to the grieving survivors by providing them with closure. Detective Knox knew it was his duty to give that to every victim, but certain c
ases unfold in a manner that makes that impossible, where doing the right thing isn't enough. In those cases, he would carry the regret home with him, and allow it to eat away at his soul. It did not matter to him that he hadn't committed the crime, merely that not being able to do what he was tasked with was enough to consider himself a sinner.
This case was different, he knew, because if the killer continued to walk the streets of the city without fear of being caught, if the public knew that no one was safe from random acts of evil, it would be more than a mere sin to be washed away through a religious rite. Not catching this killer would end Detective Knox's career, either as a direct result of being a scapegoat for the failings of the justice system, or as an indirect result of never being able to live with himself if he let down the people depending on him.
Detective Knox took his seat at his desk, dropping heavily the last few inches into the chair, stressing it to see if it would spring back. His body landed stiffly, the wheels creaking as the chair tried to move through the sticky varnish of grime, giving up the fight before it could budge. The chair gave him hope, as much as he allowed himself to feel. If it could endure through time and his abuses of it, there was hope that he could do the same, that he could rise up from the pit of doubt he was in to stand his ground in a war against injustice.
His interior monologue was interrupted by Detective Lane, who placed a fresh cup of coffee under his nose, leading him back into the conscious world with the temptation of caffeine. Knox was not a man of many indulgences, not that he considered coffee to be one, but he felt it an integral part of the process. Only by drinking a brew as dark and bitter as he considered life to be could one become connected with the spirit of evil that imbued the sorts of crimes he investigated. To Knox, fruit juice and murder were not conducive to one another. It had to be coffee.
“I don't know what to make of those people. They're all weird, even for people overcome by grief.”
“Well, kid, I think the problem is that they aren't grieving. They don't seem to be giving much, if any, thought to the fact that a man who was a big part of their lives is dead. You're a normal person, so you see that as bizarre. I've never been accused of being the most human of people, so I understand it a bit better.”
“Really? You do?”
“Not entirely, but to a degree. Just because you're family doesn't mean you have deep emotional ties that bind you together. When you're rich and entitled, you get separated not just from the people you supposedly love, but from people as a whole. Money rots you from the inside, so there's not really much left to feel when something like this happens. People like the Hobbes' aren't really people anymore. They're sort of living dolls that look and act like normal people, but when you crack them open, you only find empty air and corrosion where their heart's power supply died.”
“Did anyone tell you what a vivid storyteller you are?”
“Do you get what I'm saying?”
Lane bit down on his pen, hard enough that Knox expected to see an eruption of black ink. The thin plastic held, sparing Lane the indignity of tasting the dark fluid.
“I think so. You're saying they're all so detached and self-absorbed that they don't understand what really happened, and how they're supposed to react.”
“More or less, yeah.”
“That must be a trip. I can't imagine what it must be like to not be fundamentally normal.”
“Trust me, you do.”
“Very funny. But seriously, what do you make of what they said?”
“I think they're all either very good liars, or they don't know anything. Either one is likely.”
“And what about that bit about him looking sick or tired? Could that mean anything?”
“Absolutely, it could. And equally it could mean nothing. We don't know enough right now to be able to say if it's important. We'll keep it in the back of our minds, and when we get more information, it might start to make sense.”
“We've been saying that a lot. It's getting frustrating.”
“You don't have to tell me.”
Detective Knox returned to his coffee as the conversation paused, regretting his verbal engagement with Lane, as a liquid matching the room's icy temperature passed his lips. Coffee needed to be hot, because it needed to be dangerous if it was to be effective. Cold coffee might be as potent, but not nearly as satisfying as surviving the danger of being burned. Finishing a cold cup did not feel like a victory over anything, except perhaps bad taste.
Thankfully, as Knox believed, he was interrupted before he had to endure the remainder of his tepid drink. A faceless drone caught the corner of his eye, racing towards his desk with all the haste of the tortoise, as the hare napped. Knox should have known the man's name, he realized, but between his own indifference to people, and his reputation for being cold and aloof, his knowing people was not something either side was keen on exploring.
He handed Knox a file, turning before Knox had secured it in his grip, retreating hastily. The drone seemed genuinely terrified of spending more than a few seconds in Knox's presence, which was not at all an unwelcome development, but did stir a line of thought that made Knox ask if there would ever come a time when his coarse exterior would rub someone the wrong way in a time of need.
Detective Lane got up, circling around Knox so as to read the file alongside his partner. As Knox’s partner, he was well aware that he would only be given the bare minimum of information, so he sought out the rest on his own. Knox would not take kindly to the invasion of his personal space, or the lack of trust the move indicated, but he was not going to protest and create a conversation that would last even longer.
Inside the creased manila folder, dented in the shape of white fingertips clutching with the power of a racing heart, sat a single sheet of paper. It was worn thin, as though it had already been through a lifetime of handling, and the ink was a gray shadow of what a proper document should have been. Like everything else in the city, the department's printer was dying, and he held the symptoms in his hands.
Reading with the care of a frenzied beast, Knox found the key words, skipping over the boilerplate language that made every paragraph three sentences longer than it needed to be. It would have been a waste of paper, he agreed, to simply print the three lines of important information on a page, but it would have saved everyone time and trouble. Knox could feel Lane's breath on his neck as his partner pored over every word. Knox shut the folder, not waiting for him to finish.
“Hey, I was reading that.”
“Then you should learn how to read.”
“I know how to read.”
“No, you don't know how to read reports. You read every word like they're all important.”
“They could be.”
“No, they never are. You have to understand, everything that's ever on a page was written by someone who thinks their words matter. That means there's going to be a lot more of them than there need to be, just because the writer wants to justify their own existence.”
“And you know this how?”
“Observation. It's what we do.”
“So while I was wasting my time, you read the important stuff. That's what you're saying.”
“Yes it is.”
“And if I ask you what that is, you'll be able to tell me.”
“Of course.”
“Go on.”
“It's a simple blood report. The blood we found in that building belongs to the deceased George Hobbes.”
“That's it?”
“Yes, that's it. Like I said, not every word is important, but the information is.”
“Because now we know that Hobbes was in that building, so we know the kidnapping was real. It wasn't just a story.”
“Finally thinking like a detective.”
“But what does it mean?”
“It means we have a lot more work to do.”
Chapter 19
A Monolith Of Murder
Over the years Detective Knox had lea
rned that an investigation, unlike time, is not a linear progression. Facts had a way of spinning the world off its axis, sending him careening off into unexpected places. What at first appeared simple would later turn out to be an intricate lattice of lies, trip-wires waiting to rise up and cut off an investigation at the knees. The job, Knox knew, was not just about being able to wade through the muck and mire long enough for the truth to be forced to the surface, it was about seeing every possible route through the maze.
Detective Knox thought about how crazy it sounded in his head, that he was working a case in which a man murdered in a locked room had been kidnapped the day before, with no one knowing anything about either incident. Such a scenario was implausible, even for the myopic denizens of the city, but yet it appeared to be the truth. He turned the thought over in his mind, letting the dark, rich soil at the bottom come to light, hoping to find a buried molecule of reason amidst the tilling.
Detective Lane watched from across the desk, trying to figure out how the mechanism was turning in Knox's brain. Though he hadn't been a detective long, he was confident he had the aptitude and skill to succeed, but his partner was inexplicable. With each passing day, Lane's confidence in himself waned, bleached by the power of Knox's star. There was much he could learn from Detective Knox, but Lane grew frustrated that he was not being given the chance to prove himself, that he was not given the trust to be let in on the secrets of the process
Left to himself, Detective Knox would have spent the entire day lost in his own thoughts, oblivious to the world around him. It was a process Lane had watched before, one that he could not grasp. The art of detection, he was told, lay in looking past what you already know to make connections that are not always clear. By avoiding discussion, by removing the opportunity to see the evidence from more than one perspective, Lane felt that Knox was limiting himself.
DARK CITY a gripping detective mystery Page 10
