DARK CITY a gripping detective mystery (16 page)

Chapter 29

The Veneer Of Civility

Words flew by one another, overlapping as the bickering and insults flowed freely. Detective Knox had opened the floodgates to a torrent that had been building up, dammed behind the veneer of civility that had been erected to convince the outside world that they were not fundamentally rotten people. The intent was to make them realize they were more alike than they cared to admit, but the plan was a failure, only serving to provide ample evidence than any or all of them were more than capable of murder, and that the wrong member of the family lay in the morgue.

Detective Knox did not often have feelings of empathy, but as he watched the Hobbes family tear themselves apart with their words, he could not help but feel sorry for the deceased. Whatever faults George Hobbes may have had in his life, they were now justified after spending a lifetime in the intolerable position of living with the three of them. No one could endure so much open hostility from their own family, nor spend that much time surrounded by people who were barely human, and not come out scarred by the ordeal.

The conversation had now degenerated to the point of digging up every slight that had amassed over the years, tallying them up to see who was statistically the worst offender. Detective Knox was bothered by the idea that these people had spent their entire lives cataloging every instance where they felt aggrieved, and clung to those petty memories as though they were precious. Enough bad things happened on a daily basis, he knew, that there was no need to preserve residual sins. Doing so was not quite evil, but leaned towards the psychopathic. The only people who would do such a thing, he thought, were those who wanted to feel abused, because the only satisfaction they could achieve was retribution, bringing people down because they were incapable of feeling happy for themselves.

Not being a happy person himself, in general, Detective Knox knew the impulse. He had faced long stretches of black skies, but at no point did he believe raining on a parade would make him feel better about himself. Adding more misery to the world would not lessen his own, it would only suffocate what little hope existed, making it all the more likely he would go the rest of his life without finding any. He was convinced these people didn't know the first thing about life.

Detective Knox stepped forward into the room, spreading his arms, the ringmaster announcing the start of the show. He considered taking a lesson from the movies, and firing his gun into the air to gain their attention, but he knew that doing so would lead to copious amounts of paperwork, and he would not be allowed to farm that task off to Lane. He stifled the impulse, clenching his hand into a fist, throwing it against the wall, hoping not to open a hole. Silence followed, and the family stared at him, shocked expressions on their faces.

“I think we've all heard enough of whatever you have to say, so how about we get on with the reason we're here. Is that good enough for you?”

Afraid to speak, all three nodded their assent, almost in unison.

“As I was saying before, the case has been solved. Do you want to get straight to the arrest, or should I recap everything for you?”

“As long as you aren't arresting me, I'm curious to hear what you found out,” Faith said.

“Me too,” Tory added.

“Whatever. It's not like it matters, but make yourself happy,” Emerson said.

“You already know the basic facts. George Hobbes was found murdered in his office, stabbed through the heart, with the doors and windows all locked from the inside. This would make it impossible for anyone to get in or out of the room, meaning no one could have murdered him.”

“But yet, he is dead,” Faith interjected.

“That he is. Let me explain.”

“Please do,” she said.

“Like you would expect, we looked for any way the killer could have gotten into that room, but came up empty. The only logical conclusion was that George Hobbes had been alone in that room the entire time. No one else went in or out.”

“So how did he die?” Tory asked.

“I'm getting to that. In going through the evidence left behind, we uncovered a flash drive that had a file on it, from which we learned that he had been abducted the day before his murder.”

“We know this already,” Emerson interrupted.

“If you would kindly shut your mouth, I'm getting to the answer. We looked into the abduction, and managed to find the building he was taken to. In there, we discovered blood evidence that placed him at the scene. Our people analyzed the blood, and discovered an anesthetic in his system.”

“What does that mean?” Faith asked.

“What did I just say about interrupting me? Anyway, that particular drug was not the kind to have been used in the course of the abduction, so it tells us he underwent some sort of procedure while he was in their custody.”

“A procedure? What kind of procedure?” Tory asked.

“That was a mystery. We couldn't explain what had happened. Last night, I finally discovered the truth. It was confirmed with the medical examiner, so I feel confident in saying it was the key that has led to this moment.”

“Please don't drag this out,” Faith said.

“During the time that he was abducted, George Hobbes had a procedure done to his heart. Someone, very skillfully, opened him up and cut into a major artery. They then stitched him back up, using dissolving stitches. Once he was home, they started to dissolve before the wound could close itself, and he bled to death as a result of those injuries.”

“What are you saying?” Tory asked.

“I'm saying that we could not find who murdered George Hobbes in a locked room, because he was not murdered in a locked room. He had been murdered the previous day, by time delay.”

“I don't believe it,” Faith said.

“I agree it's not the most immediate solution that comes to mind, but the evidence bears it out. That is what happened to George Hobbes, even if it does sound fantastical.”

“But isn't the important question still who murdered him?” Emerson asked.

“Yes it is. We know that as well, which is why you're all gathered here. We wanted to make sure you all heard this at the same time.”

* * *

A hole in the clouds appeared, letting the sun shine directly into Detective Knox's eyes as he led the procession out of the Hobbes home. He exhaled deeply, watching the vapor rise into the sky, growing darker as it absorbed more of the city's essence as it climbed. He had never been a smoker, nor been tempted to essentially live his life with his head stuck in a fireplace, sucking in the soot that marked dead and used-up material. The appeal never struck him, but the one moment that made him wonder about that vice was seeing a curl of smoke ride a current into the sky. There was a beauty in that, in seeing something so toxic and poisonous dance to the rhythm of time, dissipating and becoming harmless.

It was a charming metaphor, but the city spent enough of its existence mired in the throes of winter that Detective Knox did not need to slowly kill himself for that enjoyment. The weather would provide him enough opportunities to re-enact the game with his own breath, which was toxic in its own way. He moved to the side, stopping while Detective Lane led the Hobbes family to the cars, handcuffs covered over with a gray flannel coat. It was an act meant to protect the privacy and dignity of the arrested, but anyone watching knew what the symbol meant, so it was carried on more as a tradition than a useful mechanism. Detective Knox had never stopped to think how such a practice ever began, why deference had to be paid to people brought in for committing heinous crimes, nor why the presence of police cars and flashing lights was ever thought to be mitigated by a piece of cloth covering the iron bracelets.

Much of the world did not make sense to Detective Knox, and he knew he would never live long enough to uncover the answers to all of life's mysteries. What made sense to him was crime. Rules often stood in the way of human desires, and the moral compass malfunctions in times of great distress, leading people down paths they know cannot lead to a positive outcome. They press forward anyway, because the compulsion to satisfy themselves is too great, the need to put things in order overwhelming everything else.

Detective Knox could understand these feelings, because he had them, like everyone else. The difference, as he saw it, was that he was able to channel them into something positive. When he felt himself slipping into the darkness, he used it to fuel his focus, to stop others from following that same path. He did not consider himself heroic for doing what was right, because refraining from allowing himself to be overtaken by evil was not a heroic act. It was a basic tenet of humanity, one that the city had re-branded as something else.

Detective Lane put the Hobbes family in the cars, slapping the roof to signal the driver to move off. They pulled away from the curb, the engines spitting smoke from the exhaust, spewing more poison into the saturated air. Lane walked back up the sidewalk to his partner, turning to watch the cars disappear into the distance.

“You know this isn't the end, right? Something can still go wrong.”

“Kid, something can always go wrong. We got a win, and I'm going to try to enjoy that. You should too.”

“I guess I just don't feel as good about bringing misery into people's lives as you do.”

“I don't feel good about it. It’s just something that happens to be an inevitable side-effect of what we do. There's no way to deliver news about murder that makes people feel good.”

“I suppose you're right.”

“Of course I am. Now, if you're done feeling sorry for yourself, we have to get back to the precinct. Like you said, this isn't the end.”

Chapter 30

Jealous Knives

A throng of onlookers lined the hallways as the officers entered the precinct, leading the arrested through the mass of people, and into the interrogation room. The air bristled, full of wide-eyed stares. Disbelieving whispers could be heard, asking whether justice really had been done. None would dare give voice to the concerns, but the precinct had been filled with doubt, in Detective Knox, in whether the case could be solved, even in their own sanity for believing such a scenario could be real. Detective Knox had felt the weight on his shoulders, the yoke around his neck as he struggled to pull the boulder uphill. His self-confidence was not tied to the thoughts of anyone but himself, so whether his back was struck by congratulatory slaps, or jealous knives, made no difference.

Any satisfaction Detective Knox might feel, as he walked into the station, was entirely internal. To persevere through the hardship of suffocating doubt, to overcome the demons he had fought within himself; that was the victory that mattered most. The city would be safer with a killer off the streets, and the survivors would grudgingly admit they were relieved, but these were not the people Detective Knox worked himself to exhaustion for. He knew it was selfish, but he undertook these cases for himself alone, to test his skills and revel in being able to say he was the only person smart enough to catch killers.

He would say nothing of this to Kat, Detective Lane, or anyone else. Having them think he was so self-centered would have pushed Knox perilously close to the breaking point. They may have already had such thoughts in their minds, but like Detective Knox, they kept their judgments to themselves. It was an unwritten agreement, and each side would go on playing their role through the facade of naïveté. The act made everyone feel better, and though Detective Knox lived a life committed to uncovering the truth, he was more than comfortable failing to live up to those standards in his personal life.

Detective Knox often thought about how to best present himself in an interrogation; as the good cop who knows bad things can spiral out of control before anyone knows what happened, as the bad cop who steps over the line and uses a suspect’s nightmares against them, or as the sympathetic sounding board who knows the sensation of tasting death. Mostly, he chose to be a blank canvas, allowing the suspect to paint onto him their own worst fears. What they did not know was that Detective Knox was not pretending to be anything during their interrogations; he was naturally devoid of any feeling towards them. His entire focus was on ‘the case.’ The people who took part in it were ancillary nuisances.

Detective Knox motioned to Lane, instructing him to wait with the family and assorted onlookers, to watch through the one-way glass while he conducted the interview himself. Lane understood, realizing that a killer was more likely to let his guard down with one person, especially one who could play on his sympathies. The chances of a killer trusting multiple people with their murderous proclivities was far lower.

The door clicked shut with a satisfying, deep sound, the workmanlike grating of heavy-duty steel. The tiled walls echoed the sound, informing anyone inside that escape was impossible. The beast had been caged, and the only ways out were death or confession. Detective Knox took his seat at the table, placing the case file in front of him, leaving it closed. The pretense of rifling through the pages, placing the photographs in front of the killer, would be useless. When a killer is without remorse, without compassion, there is no reason to let them admire their handiwork.

Emerson Hobbes was calm. He displayed none of the signs of anxiety or fear that the majority of suspects could not hide. Detective Knox admired this quality in his adversaries, the ability to believe in the righteousness of their actions. There was no skill or satisfaction in catching someone who could not live with themselves, who desperately wanted to be punished for what they had done. Emerson Hobbes was not that variety of low-hanging fruit, and he could not truly believe that he was guilty of committing a cardinal sin. His sense of morality may have been twisted, but he was sincere, an important sign of character. Actions define a man, it is true, but so too does character. People who do vile things can still be men of honor, a distinction that few people could wrap their heads around. Detective Knox was one of them, in both senses of the phrase.

“Emerson Hobbes, you have been arrested for the murder of your father, George Hobbes. Do you understand the charges?”

“I do.”

“So let's start at the beginning. What made you want to kill your father?”

“The question you should be asking is why he should have been allowed to live. He was a bad man, and a worse father. He had failed on so many levels that it seemed unfair for him to be allowed to continue ruining our lives.”

“There was nothing in particular that set you off?”

“No, I had just reached the end of my rope.”

“Tell me, why did you go through the trouble of setting up this elaborate plan? Why not just kill him and argue self-defense? If you were smart enough to stage a locked room murder, surely you could have done that.”

“He didn't deserve that.”

“How so?”

“He deserved to die without anyone knowing how or why. He would just disappear, and become a faded memory somewhere down the line. No one would care about who killed him, or why. He would become a footnote on the obituaries page.”

“So tell me how you came up with your plan.”

“Dad's plan for me was to be a doctor, before I refused to play his little game. I had a couple of pre-med classes, and you'd be amazed what an evil mind can do with that kind of knowledge.”

“I've seen almost everything.”

“You hadn't seen this before.”

“You're right, I hadn't. You did show me something new.”

“Thank you. So I snuck up on him while he was distracted and knocked him out. I took him to that building, and I enjoyed what I did to him. It was all I could do not to cut his heart out then and there so I could feel it take its final beats.”

“But you didn't.”

“No, I stuck with my plan. I stitched him back up, and brought him home. I went out and got drunk, then got myself arrested to make sure I had an alibi. All I had to do then was wait for the call telling me he was dead.”

“And you don't feel bad about what you did?”

“Of course not. The only thing I feel bad about is getting caught. Having this make the front page, with the books and movies that are sure to tell the whole story ad nauseam, ruins everything I was trying to do. He's not going to die an anonymous lump of flesh. People are going to care now.”

“Where is the murder weapon?”

“There isn't one.”

“That's being semantic. Where are the medical supplies you used?”

“I drove halfway across the city and threw them out. They're probably in the dump by now.”

“Do you have anything I should tell your mother and your sister?”

“Tell them I did this for them. We all wanted him dead; I was just the one willing to go through with it.”

“Thank you for your confession.”

“You make it sound like I'm not proud of what I did.”

“I was being semantic.”

* * *

Exiting the interview room, Detective Knox was met by a familiar face. Anna Summers stood in front of him, her head tilted to one side. He could see confusion in her eyes, their bright colors dimmed. He put a hand on her shoulder, doing the best impression of a father he could manage, and pulled her aside.

“Detective, I saw all the police cars outside, and then you leading them all out of the house. I came down here to see what was going on, and I heard what he said in there. I can't believe it. I can't believe he killed his own father like that.”

“I know it's hard to believe, but you never can tell who's capable of doing those kinds of things. People get pushed too far, and before you know it, they find themselves covered in blood, wondering what just happened.”

“I'd prefer not to think about that.”

“We all would, but it's the price we pay for being alive.”

“You must be very proud of yourself for catching him. I'm sure you'll be in line for a commendation for this.”

“Those things don't matter to me. I don't do this job for the medals, or the money. Heck, I don't even do it to say I take bad people off the streets.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“Honestly, I do it because I like knowing I outsmarted someone who thought they could get away with murder. The fact of the matter is that it's easier to do than you would think.”

“I'm sure you're exaggerating.”

“I'm not. People get away with murder all the time. There aren't enough cops in the world to care enough to solve every single case that comes our way. When there isn't public outcry or a family that's demanding we do everything humanly possible, these cases get thrown under the rug.”

“That's depressing.”

“It certainly can be, depending on how you look at it. At least in this case it's not something you have to worry about. George Hobbes' killer is going to be brought to justice.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

“Me too.”

Anna looked up into Detective Knox's eyes, trying to measure how much he believed the words he spoke. He was a difficult man to read, and required her undivided attention to decipher. Distracted, she did not notice Detective Knox reach for her hand, locking a handcuff around it. She was too shocked to resist as he grabbed her other hand, completing the matched set. She looked down at her wrists, and her head shot upward, her eyes once again locking with Detective Knox's.

“I don't understand.”

“Like I said, George Hobbes' killer is going to be brought to justice.”