DARK CITY a gripping detective mystery (11 page)

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?”

“I'll tell you. While you were out gallivanting around, I made some calls to friends in other divisions.”

“Friends? Seriously?”

“Whatever. The point is, I made some calls, and it turns out that even in this godforsaken part of the city, people value their security. They might all be members of various criminal enterprises, but they have cameras plastered all over the place, to keep each other honest.”

“You're telling me this place has cameras? We can't be that lucky.”

“We're not. There aren't any here, but the place across the street has them. None of the gangs down here want to be on the hook for this, so the people in there gave us all the footage we need.”

“They did?”

“You might be surprised to hear this, but most criminals live by a code of honor, the same way we do. It's twisted, sure, but it's there. None of them want to be blamed for anything they didn't do, so they try and bring the competition down whenever they can.”

“So where's the footage?”

“It got sent to the tech guys downtown, but I just got a message. They found a van pulling up right in front here during the window of time when Hobbes was missing.”

“So that might be our suspects.”

“We'll see when we get back to the precinct. We might have gotten lucky.”

“I thought you don't believe in luck.”

“It's a better alternative than thinking this was all a big plan.”

“Yeah, that's true.”

Chapter 21

Film Noir

Silence rode along with Detectives Knox and Lane as they returned to the precinct. Knox preferred silence to any form of conversation; he enjoyed listening to the pistons firing in perfect sequence, waiting for the moment when the mechanism failed, and like everything else the heart of the mechanical beast died. Though he was no mechanic, Detective Knox could hear the sound of death in any form, so much so that he often thought death followed him around like a morbid shadow.

Detective Lane was of a different mind. He craved the camaraderie, the bond that was formed by the sharing of experiences. He was also a prudent man, and understood that pushing Detective Knox beyond the boundaries of their relationship was an exercise that would only serve to alienate him from his partner, would only stop whatever progress he had made towards becoming the detective he ultimately wanted to be. Thus, Lane sat in silence, listening to the engine's chorus rise and fall with each stoplight, feeling not altogether different than the gears themselves, forced to do their jobs with no hope of escape.

Freedom was not something Detective Lane craved. Following orders was a trait embedded in him from his earliest days at the academy, when he realized the risks he would face every day he was on the job. He did not sign up completely naïve, but the reality of life and death strikes more severely when you hold a gun in your hand, and you realize anyone standing opposite you might be doing the same. Freelancing was a signature on a death certificate, a fate Detective Lane preferred to leave up to nature.

They made slow progress through the city, every light red, the fresh bulbs burning brighter than usual, leaving echoes in Lane's eyes as they made their slow procession. The delays gave Lane more time to think, although he did not want to consider the conversation he had with his partner, the betrayal of going behind his back and revealing his distrust of Knox's methods as a teacher, but there was nothing in the moment to distract him. He was consumed by guilt, knowing he had proven all Knox's doubts about him right.

After what seemed like an eternity, the precinct came into view, the cold gray exterior as steely and stoical as the force itself. Lane wondered if the buildings were that way because the architecture had infected them, or if they had metamorphosed to reflect the people inside. Whichever the case, it was an appropriate setting, and encapsulated what policing the city entailed.

Detective Knox swung the car through the last corner; to him red was merely a darker shade of yellow, and he was unaware the car had functional brakes. His hands chopped over the top of the wheel, spinning it wildly from one direction to the other, sending the car onto the edges of the tires, testing their strength as they struggled to keep the air from forcing its way out. Knox stomped on the brake, bringing the heap of rust and steel to a stop, the cabin bouncing on the flabby springs as Lane put a hand to his chest to make sure his heart had not stopped.

Lane exited the car slowly, careful as he placed his feet on the ground, making sure it was solid. He turned his head to see Detective Knox standing at the car's nose, making mental notes about its placement.

“Getting old sucks, except for parking spots. There's something to be said for getting the best spots, because you've got seniority. I love it.”

“If you don't have to fight for a parking spot, why do you insist on driving like it's the last one on earth?”

“It's a game, kid. I see how fast I can go and still put the car squarely between the lines. Plus, I know it scares the hell out of you.”

“Why do you enjoy torturing me?”

“Because you put up such a stink about it. Hearing you complain is fun.”

Detective Lane threw up his hands, admitting defeat. Another lesson had just been taught about the value of silence, how he brought torment upon himself by voicing his complaints. Lane had figured that such juvenile thinking, that needling whoever spoke up loudest, had long since been outgrown. He was wrong, he realized. Those attitudes do not dissipate with time, they merely get reassigned to the few vestiges of the schoolyard that remain in adult life.

Inside, he felt more comfortable, as the droning routine of the job took over. By now familiar with the drill, he hugged the wall, heading to retrieve two cups of coffee, while Detective Knox went to their desks. When Lane made his way to his seat, Knox was hanging up the phone in his usual way, throwing the receiver and hoping it would end the call. If it missed, he at least was content that no one would be able to call and disturb him.

“Bad news?”

“Not at all. The tech guys said the footage should be on our computers now, so we don't have to make a trip down there. Pull it up, will you? Let's see what we have.”

Lane found the notification on the screen, and opened the file as Knox came around to have a closer look. These instances were among the few in which Lane felt valuable, when he knew he was important, because Knox had neither the skills nor the patience to deal with the technological side of being a detective. Knox liked to think of the world as film noir, a place where crimes could be solved with a carton of extinguished cigarettes and an empty bottle of whiskey. He had not evolved with the times, and the necessity of having a partner who could operate the modern world for him could have explained much of Knox's seeming misanthropy.

The footage was dark, grainy, a relic of a time when moving images were seen as a trick of the devil. Through the driving rain and thick, foggy air, the outline of a van appeared. Black as the night, the shadowy outline moved into camera view, then out to the edges. It sat still as Lane moved the footage further along, then after waiting for some time, it left again. Lane played it back, then again, each time scouring a different part of the screen, looking for some detail that might have escaped them.

Detective Knox turned away after the first viewing, preferring to ruminate on the various undertones of dirt that made every cup of coffee that Lane made taste different. It was necessary for him to distract his mind so that a sudden jolt of wisdom could strike like a bolt of divine lightning, instead of leaving him wondering why he was pumping sludge through his body.

“What do you see on this tape?”

“I didn't see anything, because there's nothing to see. It's a van pulling up in front of a building.”

“I know. I was hoping we would get some sort of glimpse of the people who took George Hobbes.”

“That was wishful thinking. The people who kidnapped Hobbes were professionals. They weren't going to be dumb enough to get caught on a camera while moving him in and out of their hideout.”

“Hideout, really?”

“What else are you going to call it?”

“Good point.”

“Exactly.”

Lane's screen flashed, alerting him to a new message. He opened it as Knox held up his cup, examining the pattern the grounds left glued at the bottom. It was a habit he could not break, despite the connotations that came with looking into the filth of the liquid he had just consumed. Lane blocked those thoughts from his mind, reading what was in front of him.

“Hey, I just got a message from the tech guys. They were able to enhance the image and get a number on the plate. We can run it, and if we're lucky we'll get a hit.”

“I wouldn't count on it.”

“Just let me try it before you tie me to a lead balloon, will you?”

“By all means, go ahead.”

Detective Lane punched in the numbers, his fingers trembling. at the tips, though he could not say if it was excitement or fear. He hit the last key with a flourish, making sure Knox was paying attention. Seconds later, his screen displayed the answer.

“We found our van.”

“You got a hit?”

“Yes I did. The van was . . .”

“Was what?”

“It was reported stolen the day before the abduction.”

“So it's another dead end.”

“Unless you think we'll be lucky enough for there to have been a camera watching the van when it got taken.”

“I don't.”

“Me neither. It was a good shot, though.”

“The only good shot is a kill shot.”

Detective Knox had learned to tune out the drones that worked in the station, buzzing around. Their movements were blurs to his eyes, smudges of color that only told him when and where was safe to walk. Pushing aside so much of humanity was not an easy skill, but it was one Knox felt was paramount, because he believed every person contained a finite quantity of caring, and spreading it to thin would dilute it to the point of being worthless.

Those thoughts flashed in Knox's mind as an envelope fell onto his desk, sliding off the haphazard stacks of files, and landing on his lap. It seemed to materialize out of thin air, and only when his concentration was broken did Knox look around for the source. By then, he was too late, and the drones had blended back into a faceless wash. He picked the envelope up, reading his name in bold on the front. He ripped it open with the edge of his finger, mangling the package as he pulled out the contents.

He pored over the page, taking in each word carefully. By the time he had finished, his mind was racing, attempting to synthesize everything he had just read. Detective Knox wanted an immediate answer to come to mind, something to point him in the right direction, but he was caught off guard, and his reeling intellect was struggling to regain its footing.

“You don't look so good. What was in that letter?”

“You're not going to believe this.”

“Try me.”

“You know how excited you were about this being a locked room murder? I just got a letter from the killer, taunting me, telling me we're never going to catch them.”

“Seriously?”

“Yup. It says there is no solution to the perfect murder, only imperfect guesses by imperfect men.”

“That's a bit self-aggrandizing, don't you think?”

“That's not the point. It might be right.”