DARK CITY a gripping detective mystery

by CHRISTOPHER M. COLAVITO

  The headline was clear, resonating in his head as Knox continued reading. The words were daggers, chipping away at his icy exterior, the anger seeping through the cracks. In all his years as a detective, never before had his abilities, nor his very dedication to the job, been questioned, let alone publicly. The editorial was not just an attack on the police, but on him personally, a broadside that caught him with full force.

  “This is absolute garbage.”

  “I know it is, but what can you do about it? People are going to think what they're going to think.”

  “Thinking it is one thing, but printing it is something else.”

  “Did you ever hear of a thing called freedom of the press?”

  “That doesn't mean they're free to write lies that are going to cause people to panic. It's irresponsible, it's despicable, and everyone who had a hand in that piece should be praying to their deity for forgiveness.”

  “That's a bit much, don't you think?”

  “Maybe. I don't know. I'm not up to date on what religion thinks about stoking the fires of civil unrest.”

  “You could try going to church and finding out.”

  “I told you before, it's not just that I don't want to go. They made it clear they don't want me there.”

  “You've even been deemed unsaveable by the father of forgiveness. Congratulations.”

  “It puts me in strong company.”

  * * *

  Detective Lane rounded the corner, confused as to where he was meeting his partner. Detective Knox had only given him the bare minimum of information about the place, along with a promise that he would tell all when Lane arrived. Being left in the dark was not a new experience for him, but it was usually explained by Knox exploring new trains of thought, and not having the time to bother informing everyone else of the possibilities. This time, however, Lane could think of no reason why they would be meeting in this particular place, nor what connection it could have to their latest clue.

  Detective Knox was standing, impatiently shuffling his weight from one foot to the other, his hand already on the door handle, waiting to pull it open. As Lane came into view, Knox flung the door wide, throwing himself inside. Lane rushed to catch up, if only to find out the cause of such a frenzy. He had never seen Knox move so quickly, or show such a display of emotion. For as long as Lane had known him, Knox was as stoical and philosophical a person as he had ever met. For him to be so unlike himself was a cause for worry.

  Knox was waiting for him at the elevator, his large hand holding back the door as the motor struggled to shut it. Lane jogged over as carefully as he could in slick-soled shoes, taking care not to fall on his face and further delay their progress. Though he did not know the circumstances they found themselves in, Lane knew better than to do anything to increase Knox's ire. A quiet man explodes the loudest was the proverb, or parody of one, that Lane thought to himself as he boarded.

  “What's going on?”

  “Did you read the paper this morning?”

  “No, I can't say I did. I don't care to learn about even more bad news than we encounter on a daily basis.”

  “That's not a bad idea. I wish I hadn't today, but then these people would get away with it.”

  “With what?”

  “That putz who's been writing those editorials about how we can't solve the Hobbes murder was at it again, only this time he's telling everyone to fear for their lives, because we can't protect them.”

  “I see where this is going.”

  “Yeah, the paper's offices are upstairs, and I'm going to give them a piece of my mind. They can't print that kind of trash without expecting a bit of blow-back.”

  “I'm not telling you to stop, but did you think about what the brass is going to say when they get wind of what you're doing?”

  “I had plenty of time to think about that, since you were late, and they're going to give me a gold-plated coffee mug for this. Someone has to stand up for us.”

  “I just hope you know what you're doing.”

  “Don't worry, kid. If anything happens, everyone will know to blame me.”

  The Herald's offices were meager, a large smoke-stained room containing a handful of people and the sound of furious typing. Ringed around them, like nobles in the Coliseum watching gladiators die, were management’s dimly lit offices. Detective Knox looked at the writers toiling away, beating their fingers into dust at the keys, all for naught. Nothing they wrote for a paper like The Herald would ever give them a career in journalism. They were pawns being run into the ground until they were of no more use, to be replaced by the next eager candidate who was not smart enough to see the job for what it was.

  Detective Knox despised those who made use of others, because they violated the fabric of what he considered decency. Parasitic relationships were only permissible if both sides were aware before signing on the dotted line. The writers Knox watched had been lied to, sold a dream that could never become real. Honesty is the cornerstone of humanity, Knox thought, and people who traded in deceit deserved no mourning when they met their end.

  Detective Lane followed as they made their way past the desks, past the smell of rotting plywood and water damage, to an office at the back. The door was ajar, leaking the air of arrogance, so the pressure did not build up to dangerous levels. Without breaking stride, Knox put his foot into the door, burying the knob in the wall.

  “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “You'd better be William McNeal, or I just made an embarrassing mistake.”

  “I am. What do you want?”

  “I want to talk to you about the filth you printed in what you generously call a newspaper this morning.”

  “I stand by every word.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “For now.”

  “Let me tell you something. You can sit here feeling high and mighty, and judging us for the job we're doing, but you don't have a damn clue what it actually takes to do a real job. All you do is sit in this little office, think your big thoughts, and make yourself feel smart. Guess what? It doesn't work like that in the real world. You want to know why we haven't solved the Hobbes murder? Because this isn't television, and it takes real work, which is something you wouldn't know about. Normally, I wouldn't care if you don't think we're good at our jobs, but there are some lines you just don't cross. Telling people to be afraid, to feel like they aren't safe, that's one of them. Only a bottom-feeder would think that was in anyone's interest. It might get you a bit more attention, but it's not worth it if you no longer own your soul.”

  “You don't need to get so angry about a piece in a newspaper. I play a part, it's a character.”

  “That doesn't make it any better. I almost wish you were that stupid.”

  “So what, you're going to threaten me?”

  “Lane, go wait outside.”

  Detective Lane looked at his partner, who nodded his head. He looked back at William McNeal, who was not a good enough actor to hide his fear. He admitted to playing a character, so Lane assumed it was Detective Knox's turn to do the same. He turned to the door, feeling a growing unease as he walked away.

  “We have recorders all over this place. You'll regret it if you threaten me.”

  “I'm not here to threaten you, I'm here to enlighten you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that I know you're not a stupid man, so you'll understand what I'm about to say. You see, eventually, the fear you're stoking in people is going to come to a head. When it does, something bad is going to happen, and you're going to look down and see blood on your hands. When you write the next story about something evil that happened, it's going to be your fault that it did. You're going to have to live with that.”

  “And if I can?”

  “Kudos to you, in that case. I didn't know people could live without spines, but y
ou're a medical marvel. In any event, you might want to take your own advice and be afraid. I heard that this address isn't being protected by the police anymore. Something about the people thinking they were just as safe without us.”

  “Now that sounded like a threat.”

  “Nope. Just friendly advice.”

  “No offense, but you're not a friend I want to have.”

  “That's what everyone says. Oh, and one more piece of advice.”

  “Oh good, there's more.”

  “Next time you have a source trying to feed you information about my case, you might want to ignore their calls. Do I look like the sort of guy who shares information with the kind of people who would talk to you.”

  “No.”

  “So we have an understanding?”

  “Yes, I think we do.”

  Chapter 23

  A Synonym Of Crazy

  Detective Lane was waiting for his partner as Knox emerged from the elevator, a Cheshire grin cracking the stony features of his face. Lane had never seen his partner in such a state before, so he was unsure what sordid dealings had gone on in his absence. Detective Knox could not hide his satisfaction. It was an unnatural state, one whose appearance could have been interpreted as an omen of the end of days. Lane chose to be optimistic, assuming that Detective Knox had not been possessed by a demon, in a reversal of the normal trope.

  Detective Knox was walking slower than when he entered the building, his steps barely making contact with the ground. Watching from across the lobby, Lane could see how the expression about walking on air came about, because for a moment he swore he could see Knox floating above the tiled floor. It was a striking visual, one he could not explain. Of all the people Detective Lane had ever met, Knox was the last one he could have seen being inhabited by the spirit of the angels.

  Detective Knox put his hand on Lane's shoulder as he walked by, prodding his partner to walk with him, and not follow behind like a baby duck chasing its mother. Lane searched his memory, but could not remember another instance of Knox being so intimate with him, which made the moment even more unsettling. Without giving it a thought, Lane swung his eyes from side to side, looking to see if he was being prepared for the reveal of a cruel practical joke.

  “You know, kid, sometimes it feels good to get things off your chest.”

  “You didn't hurt that guy, did you?”

  Lane braced for the assault he knew was coming, having questioned Knox's integrity. Rather than a sharp rejoinder piercing him, he felt Knox's hand slapping him on the back in what he could only assume Knox meant as a show of comity. Clearly, Detective Knox did not know much about the proper expression of positive feelings, but Lane could sense the intent. The absurdity of the moment intensified his worry.

  “No, I didn't hurt him. You saw that guy, he was a little pencil-neck. Guys like that break in half if you breathe on them the wrong way.”

  “So why do you seem so happy?”

  “What? A guy can't be happy?”

  “Not you. You don't know the meaning of the word.”

  “Of course I do. It's a synonym of crazy, right?”

  “Seriously, what happened up there?”

  “If you must know, which I guess you do, I may or may not have made a couple of vague threats that he took to heart. We came to an understanding.”

  “That's you're big plan? You threaten a journalist into being nicer to us?”

  “There's your problem, you can't see the big picture. I don't care what he says about us. I'm sure everyone calls me any number of colorful things, and I can't say I ever give it a second thought. But when he starts saying things that make our job harder, that's where the line is drawn.”

  “So you're saying you're a moral crusader.”

  “I'm a superhero. Your words, not mine.”

  “What happened to the dour, serious, miserable bastard I normally have to work with?”

  “He'll be back soon. This high doesn't last very long.”

  “Thank heavens. I don't think I could take much more of it.”

  * * *

  Detective Knox had barely set foot in the precinct when he heard his name called out. All eyes turned towards him, but Knox was unsinkable, and preferred to consider their looks as a reflection of their scornful jealousy. His name conjured up feelings of deep-seated inadequacy in his fellow-officers. Detective Knox did not consider it his fault that he had become the epitome of a detective, that he had become the bar by which all others were judged. All he had done was go about his business, leaving the politics of the job to those who were more cutthroat. He was not interested in rising up the ranks, which was ironic since he was the obstacle who stood in the way of so many others’ progress.

  Detective Lane also heard the call, and his thoughts immediately turned to their expedition. He had considered Knox's happiness an illusion, and the curtain was about to be drawn back. As they made their way to the front desk, their footsteps echoing in the unusually quiet precinct, Lane prepared for the worst. Discipline was new to him, having never colored outside the lines of his job before, to which he could only hope Knox would be able to make a good case for his innocence.

  The desk sergeant waited for the detectives to approach the chest-high slab of mahogany, their hands atop the surface, waiting for a ruler to snap down and chide them for their misdeeds. She looked down at them, possibly realizing the expectation in their eyes, stifling a laugh which turned into a snort.

  “Relax guys, you're not in trouble.”

  “We didn't think we were.”

  “Uh huh. I see that look in your eye. You were up to something.”

  “Something isn't anything until someone complains.”

  “You rely on that too much. One of these days you're going to get burned.”

  “Who, me? People love me.”

  This time, she could not contain even a fraction of her laughter, which echoed through the station. Knox looked back to see the same faces once again turn in his direction, and quickly return to their work upon realizing his nose had not been bloodied.

  “You keep telling yourself that.”

  “So what did you call us over for?”

  “Doctor Morse has something to tell you. He wants you to meet him down in his lab.”

  * * *

  Detective Lane was filled with trepidation as they stepped out of the elevator, into the deepest recesses of the precinct. These areas were avoided by all but the most morbid, a house of death that had seen the souls of thousands clinging to the earth, until their grip was lost and they were dragged to their final destination.

  Detective Knox was not one to be bothered by such thoughts. Death was a natural phenomenon, and the presence of the dead should not have made a place any more disconcerting than any other. Even if the crack-pots he locked up during his early years working the streets were right, and those rooms were actually haunted by the ghosts of decades of the dead, Knox did not care. He had spent his life avenging these lost souls, and tracking down their killers, so he could see no reason any would desire to haunt him.

  Knox swung the door open, bumping it with his hip, careful not to touch the handle. Though he was not afraid of death, he felt no need to cover himself in any of the residual effects of it. He would be dead soon enough, he figured, so there was no need to get accustomed to the feeling until it was absolutely necessary. His imagination could fill in the details for the time being. As Knox swung through the door, he was confronted by a scene straight out of a black comedy. Dr. Morse was crouched alongside the examination table, the entire length of his forearm disappeared inside a body. Detective Knox put a hand to his face, pinching the excess skin between his eyes, putting the comedy of the situation into perspective. Just behind Knox, Detective Lane turned back into the hallway, his stomach trying to jump out of his mouth.

  “Doc, please tell me you aren't trying to use that body as a hand puppet.”

  “What? Oh, no. I'm trying to retrieve an item without ma
king the body unfit for an open-casket funeral.”

  “You know that's his backside, right?”

  “You haven't seen his face. They might want to display him this way.”

  Detective Knox chuckled at the thought, and nodded to himself that the idea was not so absurd. In his time, he had encountered more than his share of people he deemed assholes, so displaying the deceased ones in their true light seemed fitting. He imagined how many of the people in his life would have said the same about him.

  “You have a point there, Doc.”

  Dr. Morse removed himself from his compromising position, the final extrication letting out a loud burst of air. From outside, Detective Knox could hear Lane once again fighting to keep his organs inside his chest. Dr. Morse peeled off his glove, lightly placing it atop the trash heap, and turned to face his guest.

  “Where did your partner go?”

  “He's not used to this sort of stuff, so he can catch up on it later. What did you call us down here for?”

  “I have some news about your case, and I thought it was better you hear it in person.”

  “You're either setting me up for great news, or horrible news. Which is it?”

  “Actually, I'm not sure.”

  “Let me have it.”

  “I ran the blood sample you brought back from where George Hobbes had been taken. It's definitely his, but I noticed something weird about it.”

  “Weird how?”

  “There were traces of drugs in his system.”

  “That's not uncommon. Drugging someone is the best way to take them without causing a scene.”

  “Yes, but these weren't those kind of drugs. There were traces of a mild anesthetic in the sample, a kind that needs to be administered in a hospital setting. It's not something you can put on a rag and have someone breathe in.”