DARK CITY a gripping detective mystery (15 page)

Chapter 27

An Eternal Fire

The night was crisp, the air cold enough to freeze your lungs if you took too large a breath, the kind of night Detective Knox loved the most. It took a certain constitution to enjoy such nights, a masochistic streak that reveled in making the act of breathing difficult. Standing in that blackness, drawing that air into your lungs, required effort, and a desire to be alive. Life was wasted on the living, he often thought, because they did not understand that life was a precious gift, something that he saw taken each and every day, often without a thought given to the act, more often with no one noticing the absence.

To be alive was not a simple statement of fact, it was a cause to rally around. Whatever lay over the horizon, after this life was over, it was a mystery even Detective Knox did not want to solve. There was only so much time before that end came, little enough that every moment needed to have the happiness squeezed and extracted, to condense the feelings into an elixir strong enough to dull us from the inevitable. Most days, people were more than happy to stare ahead and put one foot in front of the other without considering what was to come, but frigid city nights were different. They required a choice to be made between life and death, between the easy way and the hard. That choice was why Detective Knox preferred the dark, gloomy season.

The painkillers in his system were wearing off, but he still felt nothing. Adrenaline was pumping, coursing a fiery energy through his body. For a moment, he felt like his younger self, before his body had begun its slow slide into the waiting grasp of gravity. Youth was not something he felt anxious to recover, but the feeling stirred in him memories of the past. He was a different man back then, but not a better one. What the physical had taken from him, the mental had given. There were advantages to being a broken-down wreck, not the least of which was being thrown aside and ignored, when the filter between mind and mouth had grown too thin to contain the ugly thoughts that filled the mind.

In the distance, between the squared-off foliage of glass and iron, the sun peered above the horizon. Why it would choose to rise day after day, given the horrors it would shed light upon, was a puzzle to Detective Knox. It was impossible to wash away sins when the blood stained bright red, rather than the eerily beautiful shade of black illuminated by the moon. It seemed to him that the sun was a tormenter, reminding people of the difficulties that lay ahead. Hell was said to be an eternal fire, which, to Detective Knox, was no different than the sun. Perhaps, he considered, everyone had been looking in the wrong direction all along.

He climbed the steps in twos, waiting for the clock to strike, and his body to turn back into a pumpkin. He reached the top without crumbling, without his joints leaking a critical amount of whatever hydraulic was needed to lubricate the gears. The interior struck him in the face, burning like a bird having fallen into a furnace vent. Warmth was connected with positivity, but Detective Knox could not see the sense in massaging away the aches and pains while hunting for the truth. Discomfort built focus, and the precinct was too tempting a retreat for the force to venture out into the city to do their jobs properly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Detective Knox could see Lane waiting for him, his head slumped on his shoulders like an anchor slowly pulling a body down to the depths of the sea. Two cups of coffee sat on the desk in front of him, steaming away, but failing to inject life into Lane's tired body. Knox slapped his hand atop the desk, rousing Lane from his sleep. His head jerked up, his eyes blinking to adjust to the light. They focused on Detective Knox, who had grabbed the other cup of coffee, and was pressing it to his lips.

“What did you get me up at the crack of dawn for?”

“I might have solved the case.”

“That's nice, but couldn't it have waited for morning?”

“The truth waits for no man, kid.”

“Are you on drugs?”

“A few, yes. But that's not important. What matters is that when that phone rings, Dr. Morse is going to tell me if I'm right. If I am, which I think I am, people will be calling us heroes by the end of the day.”

“Heroes?”

“I know it's garbage, but they're going to, and I'm not going to stop them, if it makes them feel better.”

“I thought you hated attention.”

“I do, but I also like the idea of getting this monkey off our backs.”

“Point taken.”

The phone rang, and Lane picked it up, knowing his partner would not want to. He pressed a button, turning on the speaker, letting himself in on the conversation.

“Doc, do you have some news for me?”

“I think I do. I got your message.”

“And what do you think about it?”

“I can't say I've ever heard of that as a way of killing anyone before. I've seen plenty of murders, but nothing like what you suggest.”

“Killers are always looking for new ways to kill. The question at hand is whether or not you think it's possible. Could someone commit a murder that way?”

There was a pause, as Dr. Morse gave it one last thought. Detective Knox knew he had an answer, or else he would not have called. The pause was either a dramatic flourish, or a bad omen.

“I was going to say that if you're asking if your suggestion is the method in which George Hobbes was killed, I'm going to need more time with the body to figure that out. But if you're asking an abstract hypothetical, I can give you an answer to that.”

“That's all I need.”

“In that case, I can tell you that yes, it is possible to commit a murder in such a way.”

“Thanks, Doc. You take a closer look at the body, and I'll go arrest the killer.”

“We could trade if you want.”

“No thanks, Doc. I don't think you could handle the living.”

“Of course not. Why do you think I'm down here?”

Detective Knox hung up the phone, a sly grin contorting his face. Solving a case, especially one that had seemed impossible, one that had taunted him from the very start, was the closest thing to ecstasy he could imagine. He could not remember ever feeling better about himself than he did at that moment, when he had overcome every obstacle to uncover a truth he wasn't sure existed.

Lane looked at his partner, wondering what thoughts went through his mind when he was supposed to be happy. The concept seemed foreign to Detective Knox, and Lane believed it could only be synthesized as a facsimile in his head. Knox was a mystery to him, and Lane was not yet awake enough to dare poke about for that information.

“Kid, we've got our work cut out for us today. I need you to . . .”

“Wait a second. Are you going to tell me your epiphany?”

“All in due time. It might be fun to see your reaction when everyone else finds out.”

“And you would do that to me, your partner?”

“Of course I would. Don't you know me by now?”

“I like to think you've gained a bit of respect for me.”

“I have, kid. That's why I'm not telling you.”

“That makes no sense.”

“I'm giving you a little more time to try figuring it out for yourself. You know everything I do, and now you know the Doc can find the evidence on the body, so what more do you need?”

“A new partner, for one.”

“Someday, you're going to think this is a great story to tell.”

“You're right. It'll make a great example of how not to treat someone.”

“I'll tell you what, if you come up with the right answer before I reveal it, I'll retire.”

“You have that little faith in my abilities?”

“It's called incentivizing you. I'm giving you a chance.”

“I'll take it.”

“Good. But first, I need you to make some calls. We need to gather together everyone involved in the case. I've always wanted to do one of those big reveals in front of all the suspects.”

“Something strange has gotten into you.”

“Maybe, maybe not. All I know is after the hell this case put us through, we deserve to have a little fun with it.”

“Fun? With a murder case?”

“A little black humor never hurt anyone.”

Chapter 28

The River Of Relief

Excitement filled the empty room, pulsing through the air, strong enough to be tactile to someone in tune with its frequency. Previous forays into the home of George Hobbes had been expeditions into a giant tomb, the feeling of death overwhelming. This time, Detective Knox felt something very different, an energy that tingled in the tips of his fingers. The pages of the book being written were turning over faster, the end racing towards him. The river of relief was flowing, the ice breaking up as rays of hope began to melt the barricades.

Detective Knox stood inside the doorway, leaning against the wall, imagining himself to be the cool outsider in a teenage movie. He was no rebel, but he could feel that sense of supreme confidence, and his posture could not contain his contentment. He knew he should be more careful, that his success was only made possible because of the darkest day of some people's lives, and that his own self-satisfaction was an affront to them, but he was unable to exert enough control over himself to refrain from being the callous person he so often projected himself as.

One by one, the surviving members of the Hobbes family entered, walking past Detective Knox without giving him more than a sideways glance. He could not tell if they saw his interior feelings, and were subtly disapproving of him, or if they were merely being antisocial creatures who wanted no part of reopening their wounds in front of him. Catching killers was more important than massaging feelings, so if some were to be bruised as a means of meting our justice, it was a trade-off Knox felt was more than worthwhile.

He was helped by his contempt for the three Hobbes relatives. All of them had revealed themselves to be people who did not deserve to be treated with the velvet gloves detectives were supposed to wear when handling the grieving. That they did not grieve at all did not strike Knox as strange, for he would do the same in all but the rarest of cases, but that they could not go through the motions of putting on an act when confronted with the possibility of their own responsibility in the murder was beyond his comprehension. Basic self-preservation should have kicked in, should have made them take any steps imaginable to pass the blame — to project it upon someone else. They did not do that, and all of them seemed perfectly willing to take on the mantle of killer.

Detective Knox saw this in them, and considered any damaged psyches that would come as a result of his actions to be collateral damage, possibly a beneficial shattering that would necessitate them being put back together by a professional.

Detective Knox would not intentionally cause them harm, even if he knew doing so would require them to get the help he saw they needed. He did not consider himself always a good man, but he was not an evil one, and deliberately bringing pain upon others was just that. Pain was unavoidable, but so long as it was accidental, he could not be blamed for being its cause. While he considered letting each of the family members tie their own noose, knowing none would grieve their loss, he would not have been able to live with himself if he had. His conscience, no matter how often he thought it was a vestigial organ that prevented him from being his best self, remained stubbornly tethered to his mind.

With the family gathered, Detective Knox kicked his heel back against the wall, scuffing the paint as though signing a masterpiece, pushing himself forward into the room. He entered slowly, surveying the frozen faces of the occupants, relishing the moment of drama as he pulled the hat from his head.

“I'm glad you could all join us here.”

Faith Hobbes was visibly impatient, her fingers tapping against her thigh. Detective Knox, in a different state of mind, would have stared and counted the beats, to see if she was unconsciously sending a coded message.

“Would you please tell us why you brought us all here?”

“You are gathered here because we know how George Hobbes was murdered.”

This revelation did not elicit the reaction Detective Knox hoped for. Those gathered did not appear shocked, or relieved. They gave no indication of any feelings at all, which fed into Knox's assessment of them. He judged people based on how he felt he would react in situations, despite knowing he was not what people would describe as normal. There were times when that fact was useful, such as when people displayed even less of a response than he would have. That level of abnormality was terrifying, and a sign of something more going on underneath the surface.

“Does it matter how he was killed? I thought the point was to find out who did it,” Tory Hobbes said.

“And does it even matter if we find that out? It's not like it's going to bring him back,” her brother added.

“Yes, it matters. Since one of you three killed him, I would think the other two would want to make sure we lock the killer up, if only to make sure you aren't next.”

Normally, Detective Knox would not have been so blunt, but he considered the circumstances special. Watching the three tear into one another with distrustful looks and snide comments was by no means necessary, but he thought if they were not interested in the solving of the murder, he should at least be able to entertain himself along the way.

“What do you mean, one of us killed George?” Faith asked.

“It's a fairly plain-spoken sentence. One of you is the murderer. I figured you assumed that right from the start. It was like each of you said, you couldn't imagine why anyone else would want to kill him. Therefore, it had to be one of you.”

“But that doesn't make any sense,” Tory said.

“Of course it does. You can protest all you want now about how much you miss him, and how heartbroken you are, but I saw you in the first moments after it happened. None of you showed the slightest bit of grief for your loss. That told me right there all I needed to know about whether any of you were capable of murder.”

“You really think all of us are potential murderers?” Emerson asked.

“I do, but only one of you could have actually done it.”

“Excuse me, but if I recall, you already interviewed us, and we all have alibis,” Faith said.

“Yes you do, but unfortunately for you, they aren't alibis for the murder anymore.”

“Wait. What?” Tory asked.

“I was hoping someone would ask that. As it turns out, our investigation has led us to a new realization. George Hobbes was not killed in this house.”

“Of course he was. You stood over his body,” Emerson said.

“I did, that is true. But he was killed somewhere else.”

“And just how do you suppose someone moved his body into the house, into that room, and locked it from the inside?” Faith asked.

“They didn't.”

“I'm confused,” Tory said.

“That's why I gathered you all here, to explain what happened.”

“I already know what happened. My no good drunk of a son killed my poor, beloved husband, because he's a greedy little sociopath,” Faith said.

“The hell I am. You probably killed him by stopping his heart, because you're so cold,” Emerson responded.

“Stop it, both of you. How can you think that any of us would have killed him? We're family,” Tory said.

“Exactly. No one hates quite like family. And since you said that, it was probably you,” Faith said.

Detective Knox took a step back, listening to the bickering with a hint of a smile on his face. A good show was hard to come by, and he was witnessing one here. The Hobbes family was boiling over, with Knox wondering how many years of therapy it would have taken to dredge up as much dysfunction as he had uncovered. He came to the conclusion that no amount of therapy could fix people who were fundamentally broken, because talking is not a solution. Talk can caress feelings, but it cannot rewire our brains, it cannot change who we are.

Transformations of the necessary kind, the ones that allow us to learn from our mistakes and never repeat them, require a hunger and desire for change. Speaking the words is not enough, it must be a belief that reaches the deepest recesses of our core, where it can be burned as a fuel to seep into every cell of our bodies. Detective Knox listened to the accusations flying back and forth, and what he heard were not genuine expressions of outrage and denial, but merely the facade being stripped off their communication. For the first time, they were saying what they truly thought of one another.

Detective Lane put his hand on Knox's shoulder, pulling him out into the hallway.

“This is getting ugly.”

“No, kid, this is getting real.”

“How long do we let them go on?”

“Just long enough to see if any of them realize just how screwed up they are, and how much they hate each other.”

“What's the point of letting them do that?”

“There isn't a point, really. I just think it might do them a little bit of good to get some of this out of their system before this is over, and they have no reason to speak to one another again.”

“That almost sounds like you care about them.”

“Don't speak of such heresy. My motives are still as selfish as ever.”

“Sure they are.”

“I swear. I'm getting a show right now, and then they hopefully won't kill each other when this is done, so I won't have to deal with them ever again.”

“That's what you tell yourself, but I know better. You want to help them, because that's what you do. You don't normally have the first clue how to do it, other than solving murders, but these are your kind of people. They're screwed up, just like you.”

“I can screw you up, you know.”

“Yeah, but you wouldn't do that to me. Not now. You'd never survive having to break in a new partner.”

“You're right. I'm too old for that.”

“So do you think they've had enough yet?”

“Yeah. It's time for the grand reveal.”