Detective Knox thought that the process Lane preferred was flawed, that seeing new perspectives was not always enlightening, that it often opened doors that led straight into brick walls. Knox had solved enough cases in his career to trust himself, a feat he had not yet encountered with Lane. Knox did not doubt that Lane could be valuable, but he knew the likelihood of seeing the truth was greater if he focused on himself. He owed it to Lane to correct that, in time, but they were always entrenched in one case or another, and he was not going to jeopardize an investigation for the sake of being a good teacher.
Detective Lane was hesitant to speak, but he knew that Knox had blind spots, and needed to be pushed out of the way, before being run over.
“There's someone else we need to talk to.”
Detective Knox's focus broke, his eyes snapping back to attention, the color flooding back as he began to see again. His head turned slowly in Lane's direction, a dramatic movement that was an affectation of intimidation.
“What are you talking about?”
“We asked the family if they knew anything about the kidnapping, but we forgot someone.”
“Who?”
“The neighbor, Anna Summers. She sees everything that happens in that neighborhood, so there's a chance she might have seen something, don't you think.”
“Actually, you might be on to something. That's not a bad idea.”
“Is this where you trot out that line about blind squirrels finding nuts?”
“Nah. At least the squirrels know what they're looking for.”
* * *
George Hobbes' house was quiet, dark, and stood against the sky like a Gothic still-life. The black outline against the gray sky reminded Detective Knox of a Victorian funeral portrait. It could have been the house itself that was the victim of the most horrific crime. Despite standing for generations, and housing life from beginning to end, the black stain of murder poured over every inch, turning it into a sideshow attraction. No longer would a family look at the facade and see the hope of a rich life, nor would those walls serve as a comforting sense of security. Instead, the house seemed to stand as a monolith of murder, a reminder of the ugliness that lives inside us all.
Knox watched the house from the other side of the street, where he assumed most everyone would stand from then on, only a morbid few daring to venture closer for a better look. It had become a curiosity, a thing to be pointed out while driving by, destined to forever remain the setting for ghost stories. At least, Knox thought, in that way it would continue to live. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.
Detective Lane threw his fist against the door, his bony knuckles striking with a sharp, shrill sound. Knox was once again startled out of his thoughts. This was a habit he needed to cure Lane of, if their partnership were to flourish. He watched the door move, slowly creeping away from the jamb, exposing only an inch of the silent interior.
“What can I do for you, detectives?”
“If you can open the door,” Lane offered, “we just need to ask you a few questions.
Anna pulled back on the handle, sliding the door open enough for her slim frame to slither through the opening, clutching the knob behind her as she stood in the weak daylight.
“What do you think I can help you with?”
“Did you see George Hobbes the day before his murder?”
“Yes, I saw him almost every day.”
“But you didn't talk to him.”
“No.”
“Did you notice anything unusual about him? Anything that, with hindsight, seemed suspicious?”
“When something like that happens, everything seems suspicious.”
“I suppose so, but is there anything in particular you think would help us?”
“No, he didn't seem any different than normal. He was doing the same things he always did.”
“Did he look sick, or injured?”
“I couldn't tell from over here. Sorry I can't be of more help.”
Detectives Knox and Lane turned away and before they had taken a step, they heard the sound of the door shutting behind them. Knox could not blame her for wanting to stay tucked away from the greater world. He would have done the same thing, if he hadn't been hardened to feel a violent end was inevitable. People who have hope should be scared, he thought, because hope is terrifying.
“Well, Lane, how did it feel to lead an interview?”
“It either felt like an accomplishment that you relinquished a bit of control, or it felt like you just wanted to be lazy.”
“Now that you said that, you know which one I'm opting for.”
“Speaking of control, I suppose this is when you're going to tell me that we need to get back over to the kidnapping scene to see if we can find any additional clues.”
“There's no hurry. Nothing is going to change if we wait until after lunch to get over there.”
“I'm glad to hear you say that.”
“Oh you are, are you?”
“Yes. I have something I need to go take care of, so I will meet you there in an hour. How's that sound?”
“That sounds fine, but now I want to know what you're up to.”
“Use your skills of detection. I'm sure you'll find out.”
“Don't fly too close to the sun, kid.”
* * *
Detective Lane ducked into a corner booth, away from the windows, hidden from view. He felt guilty sneaking around like this, not telling his partner what was going on, but getting off the leash was sometimes necessary. Lane put his hand up, signaling for the waitress to put the ubiquitous cup of coffee on the table in front of him. He began sipping reflexively; drinking was a nervous habit more than anything else. The addiction began as a means of filling the stereotype, until the caffeine established a foothold. Now, he struggled to make it through a day without feeding his need, lest he fall prey to withdrawal.
Lane knew nothing of real withdrawal, the pain that comes with cleansing your body of the poisons that give it life. His was but a mere inconvenience compared to those with real problems, but even so, he could sympathize with those who lived their lives in the shadows of their inner demons. Perhaps that made him unfocused, unable to shut off everything else in pursuit of the truth, but he felt it made him a better detective. Being human allowed him to see things Detective Knox could not, even if the proof of that hypothesis had yet to be unearthed.
A man took the seat opposite Detective Lane, slumping down on the ragged vinyl with the weariness that accompanies a life spent uncovering monsters. The look on his face was not one Lane had come across often, one that said more than any words. Still, he pressed on.
“I want to talk to you about your former partner, Dylan Knox.”
“You mentioned that. You work with him already, so what else do you need to know?”
“I'm trying to figure out if he has something against me in particular, or if he just holds all of humanity in contempt.”
“I see, you're at that point where you think he should be acknowledging that you contribute to the team, but he spends most of his time off in his own little world.”
“That's exactly it.”
“Don't sweat it. That's just the way he is. He was like that the day he got his desk, and it never changed. It didn't matter to him that he was low man on the totem pole, he knew he was good at his job, and he didn't think being collegial mattered as long as he was right. Turns out, he wasn't wrong.”
“I get that, but I want to know how you managed to get past that. How did you get his respect?”
“Who said I did?”
“You worked together so long, you had to have a better rapport with him than I do.”
“We got along, but that's because I figured out the key to handling him.”
“Which is?”
“Staying out of his way. If you let him do his thing, and chime in with a good idea now and then, things will go just fine. But if you insist on trying to show him what you're capable of, and mus
cling in on his turf, you're going to get shut out.”
“All I want to do is learn how to do the job well. I can't do that when he doesn't work with me.”
“That's all part of the education, kid. If you watch long enough, you start to see how the whole thing works. It's not that he's trying to shut you out intentionally, even if he does hate you. He's trying to show you, in his own misguided way, that procedure isn't everything. You have to find your own way of working, your own way of thinking. It’s not about drawing a murder board with straight lines. If that's what you're expecting, you're probably in the wrong line of work.”
“Because life's too complicated for that.”
“It is if you're actually trying to get to the truth. Look, it's one thing to solve a case. It's a whole different task to figure out what really happened. That don't always mesh.”
“And what he does is try to figure out the big picture, not just the little bit we get to see.”
“Pretty much. There's more to a mystery than who did it.”
“Finding out the how and why is as important as finding out the who.”
“Now you're starting to get it.”
“Thanks. You've been a big help.”
“That's a first.”
Chapter 20
Sin-Light
A few stray beams of sunlight snuck through the clouds, reflecting off the windshields of the cars lining the street, blinding anyone who didn't shield their eyes. It was rare, in the city, for the sun to bestow the people with rays of hope once they had been roused from their slumber. The city was a dark void, a black hole that sucked the life out of anyone who dared enter its limits. Even sunlight refused to dip a toe in the water, lest it be sucked in like the rest, never to escape.
The city exercised a pull on its inhabitants, and even the most jaded of them stayed long past the point when they should have made the break. It had a way of turning people into prisoners, brainwashing them into believing that life would be no better anywhere else, despite the fact that it could not be any worse. Stockholm syndrome may have made them stay, but it was not a happy accident. The city was a living being, working to control as many lives as possible, breeding a constant supply of fresh souls to harvest.
The glare caught Detective Knox squarely in the eyes, burning them a deeper shade of red. He raised his hand to shield them, cursing the sun for daring to make an appearance. This place, he thought, was not one that should be seen, certainly not with fresh eyes and bright light. The sun illuminated the dried trails of blood that led into every storm drain, the cracked burgundy walkways that traveled the path of death, things best left under the cover of darkness. Sunlight illuminated the sins of the city, which led Knox to call it 'sin-light', a term he felt was more befitting.
Detective Knox understood how absurd it was to be annoyed by clear skies and sunshine, but he also understood that not everything in life was meant to be beautiful. Without the light, the dark was all you knew, and things didn't look so bad. Only the comparison could stop the desensitization that was necessary to live in the city. Sunshine, he thought, was as much a poison as any chemical.
Detective Lane spotted Knox from a block away, leaning on the hood of the car, his breath spiraling into the sky like a plume of pure white smoke. As always, he looked to be lost in thought, oblivious to the bustling world passing him by. It was fitting, Lane thought, that Knox had no idea, in addition to no care, for the progress that threatened to bury him alive.
Knox didn’t notice him until he was standing within inches, well within the bubble of personal space Knox insisted on maintaining. Lane cleared his throat, alerting Knox to his arrival. Knox turned his head, a wedge cut from the dark circles of his eyes by the corner, exposing just enough for both sides to know the connection had been made.
“You really should be more careful about where you are when you go off into your own little world. Standing in the middle of the street probably isn't a good idea.”
“If you hang around long enough, you realize nothing is a good idea.”
“I'm sure it's not, but you don't want your obituary to say that you got hit by a car while you were busy thinking, do you?”
“Hey, I'm proud of the fact that I actually think.”
“That's not what I meant.”
“Lighten up, will you? So where were you?”
Detective Lane was fortunate that Knox was not a proponent of eye contact; as it would have been much more difficult to lie to his partner. Able to cast his eyes aside, Lane felt more comfortable, picking his words carefully so they would not be truly deceitful.
“I had something personal to take care of. It's nothing you need to worry about.”
“I'm not worried. I just didn't realize we were hiding things from each other.”
“You hide things from me all the time. You barely tell me anything.”
“Fair enough. I should say I didn't realize you were hiding things from me.”
“You can't just let me have this, can you?”
“What kind of partner would I be if I didn't give you a hard time?”
“A good one.”
“That's debatable. So really, where were you?”
Lane wondered for a moment whether to tell Knox the truth. There would be some embarrassment to be sure, but maybe his partner would consider it a sign of initiative that he’d gone out and made an effort to become a better detective. The most likely scenario, he realized, was that Knox would not care at all, and the angst he was feeling about his decision would be for nothing. His conscience would get the better of him in time, he knew, so it was better to rip the bandage off the wound and take the pain, to at least save himself the trauma of endless anxiety.
“I was talking to your old partner. I thought he might be able to tell me a few things about how to satisfy you.”
“You might want to rephrase that.”
Detective Lane's face reddened, a mix of anger and embarrassment. Even in moments of honesty, words had a penchant for twisting themselves into problems. Saying what was intended was not as simple as just transcribing a thought. Language had a way of playing games with your head.
“I was getting some advice on how to live up to the ridiculous standards you set.”
“They aren't ridiculous. All I want is for you to learn how to do the job.”
“If that's the case, how about you spend a couple of minutes teaching me what that entails, rather than leave me twisting in the wind, wondering if everything I do is wrong.”
“That's the whole point. Haven't you figured that out yet?”
“No. What are you talking about?”
“Doubt. The key to being a good detective is doubt. You need to doubt everything you know, everything you see, and every idea you have. Only when you assume you're wrong all the time will you start to see what's possible.”
“I'm still lost.”
“Let me put it to you this way; most times, your first idea is going to be wrong. That's true for all of us. What the book doesn't tell you is that you're going to waste half your career chasing down the wrong leads. If you start out with the assumption that the idea in your mind is wrong, you can move on and try to think of other possibilities. More often than not, one of those will be the right answer.”
“Expect failure to find success?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
“You make this a lot harder than it needs to be.”
“No, everyone believes it's a lot easier than it really is.”
“Can we get back to the case now?”
“Sure. I made some calls while you were busy.”
The detectives crossed the street, walking back into the heart of the abandoned building that George Hobbes had been taken to. As ugly as it was the first time they laid eyes upon it, the sunlight accentuated its ghastly features, highlighting the crumbling decadence and inch thick grime that painted the exterior. Whether originally intended or not, the structure was an abattoir for souls, a mass
grave unnoticed in the midst of ordinary life.
The interior looked no better in daylight, the relics of life merely allowed the dust to collect at different heights, creating a topographical map of rot. Some would say it was a fitting place for a kidnapping to wind up, but Knox felt differently, amazed that life could survive within those walls for more than a few minutes at a time. Even the air seemed to have given up; it was thinner and failed to fill the lungs.
“So what do you think we're going to find here?”
“Probably nothing, but now that we know this is where he was taken, we need to make sure we didn't miss anything. Since we didn't know what we were looking for, exactly, something could have been overlooked easily.”
“I thought you didn't make mistakes like that.”
“Nobody's perfect, even me.”
“I wish I had my recorder on when you said that.”
“Get to looking.”
The scene looked no different than on their previous visit. The dust and dirt blanketing every inch showed that nothing could have disturbed the scene for decades without being noticed. Detective Knox was confident they had not missed anything, that there was nothing to miss, but due diligence was still a necessity. They turned their attention to the space in the center of the large floor that had been swept clean of the marks of age. The stains from George Hobbes' blood remained, soaked into the concrete, impossible to wash away.
No one had tried; there was no need. Crime scene or not, no one was going to enter that building. The dark residue of spent life was not going to scare anyone off; that had already been done. The building would stand as it was, uninhabited even by rats, until the structure finally collapsed under the burden of carrying the sad weight. The ensuing rubble would likely be an improvement.
“I don't think we missed anything. This place is spotless, or as spotless as a decrepit old building can be.”
“For once, kid, you're right.”
“So what was the point of coming here, other than crossing t's and dotting i's?”
DARK CITY a gripping detective mystery Page 11
