DARK CITY a gripping detective mystery (14 page)

Chapter 25

Literary Murder

Detective Lane had watched from afar, not wanting to interrupt what appeared, from his vantage point, to be a moment of honest humanity from his partner. Missing the details of the conversation, relying on his rudimentary lip-reading skills, was not his preferred method of staying involved in the investigation, but he considered the trade-off worth the reward of seeing a new side of Detective Knox. Detective Lane watched Anna leave, and with her departure, Knox's transformation back into himself. Never before had he seen so clearly the ability of people to wear masks and play roles, to alter every quality of themselves for the sake of someone else. He was impressed with Knox's dedication to the craft, but equally dismayed that he was not able or willing to produce the farce more often.

As his partner, Lane was privy to Detective Knox’s raw interior. Their relationship was not one of courtesy, or one that required them to embrace their human feelings for one another, not that Lane was sure his partner had any. Regardless, Lane knew it was better to see the man for who he really was, rather than build up a false image, only to have it unravel and leave him reeling.

Detective Lane looked down, seeing the cups of coffee in each hand. Without realizing it, he had strained himself holding them to his chest the entire time, and his hands had sapped the heat from their very core. They were cold containers of brown sludge, a tepid brew that was viscous and vicious. He turned his back before Detective Knox could look in his direction, quickly preparing two new cups. With steam warming his face, he filled his lungs in a single sharp breath, and made his way towards his desk.

For once, Detective Knox was not lost in thought, and he noticed Lane before he sat down. This caught Lane off-guard; feeling invisible seemed to him rather appropriate. His existence was that of a ghost, only called to appear when the séance was ordered, but strangely he felt it was a proper arrangement. Having Knox's eyes on him was more uncomfortable than he anticipated. Perhaps, he thought, people avoided Detective Knox not because he ignored them, but because they were afraid he wouldn't.

“What took you so long?”

“You know how terrible those machines are.”

“Well, you missed the whole conversation, and I'm not going to recap the entire thing for you.”

“Did she have new information on the case?”

“It wasn't that kind of conversation.”

“So why would I need to know about it?”

“That's a good point. You don't.”

“So how about we talk about what I do need to know, namely what our next step is.”

“I can't tell you things I don't know.”

“So we're stuck again?”

“Pretty much. We don't know the who, the how, or the why. All we know is when and where it happened, and those are the parts that don't tell us anything. All our suspects have alibis.”

“But you still figure it has to be one of the family members, don't you?”

“I don't see anyone else who would want the guy dead. The problem is, unless we figure out how the murder was committed, I'm not sure we can figure out which one of them it was. They don't seem like the kind of people who can't live without the truth coming out.”

“I've noticed that too. Do you happen to have any suggestions for how we're going to figure it out?”

“I have one.”

“I'm all ears.”

“We drink. A lot.”

“That's your answer for everything. When things get hard, you drink. When things go well, you drink. You're like one of those musicians who says he needs to be doing drugs in order to perform.”

“The difference between them and me is that I can perform even when I'm sober. I just prefer not to be.”

“Fine. Go home and drink. I'll bet you it doesn't put you on the right path, but have at it.”

“That's a bet I'm willing to take.”

“Let me guess, because you get to drink even if you're wrong.”

“See, you're starting to figure things out.”

* * *

Detective Knox closed the door behind him, inhaling the familiar scent of home as he tore the flimsy brown paper away from the bottle. His hand strangled its neck, clutching the glass with the ferocity of true love. In his mind, Detective Knox knew this temptation was unhealthy, and that he indulged himself too often in the name of mental health, but he also believed himself to be a weaker man than people gave him credit for. Strength was not physical, it came from being able to do the right thing, when every fiber of your being wanted something else. That fortitude was lacking in him, his need for gratification often swallowing his common sense whole.

As he stared at the bottle, tracing the lines of filigree on the label with his eyes, noticing the first beads of condensation growing on the surface, he stopped to consider what he was doing. Lane's words echoed in his head, and the thought occurred to him that if Lane had noticed his problem, it must have gotten worse than the last time Knox had evaluated himself. These thoughts were quickly dispatched, as his mouth cried out for the liquor, the memories of that taste washing back on him, begging to be revisited.

Detective Knox broke the seal, taking in the aroma of the golden potion before putting the bottle to his lips. The first sip took him out of the moment, to a place where he imagined all users went after denying themselves their drug of choice for too long a time. Detective Knox did not consider himself an addict, merely someone driven by circumstances to seek relief more often than was healthy. If it was not his choice, if he had been driven to pour the whiskey down his throat, he could hardly be blamed.

Satisfied for the moment, he shuffled across the carpet, kicking up bolts of static lightning with each step. Detective Knox took a glass, pouring the drink from an extended arm, to heighten the drama of the amber waterfall. Swirling the glass, he examined his poison, taking it in with all his senses. He was enraptured, distracted to the point of nearly losing his grip and spilling the drink when he heard a voice calling out from behind him.

“You like that stuff more than you do me, don't you?”

Detective Knox paused, taking the time to consider his words. If he was not careful, he would walk into a trap because, while he loved his wife, there were moments when what he craved at his core was the sweet embrace of the bottle. If faced with the choice, his decision may have rested on how long it had been since his last drink.

“No, you're the one I choose to be with.”

“That's hardly a denial.”

“Why is it such a big deal if I want to have a drink or two in order to stop my brain from running in circles?”

“I'm just giving you a hard time. Why, what's wrong?”

Detective Knox tilted the glass, drinking down the contents. He swallowed in one gulp, feeling better as the warmth moved down his body. Soon, he knew, he would be numb enough to feel what he assumed normal must be like.

“It's this damn case. Every time I think I'm moving forward, I run straight into a new wall.”

“And you think drowning your frustrations is going to help?”

“No, but it will at least get me to stop thinking about it for a few hours.”

“In that case, let me think about it for you.”

“I want to say something, but I don't want it to be construed as offensive.”

“I already know you don't think I'm capable of being as brilliant as you are. It’s not a well-kept secret, in case you didn't know. I just meant that maybe having someone else look at it, having some fresh eyes, would be helpful. You never know what you're not seeing because you've been staring at it for too long.”

“That's not a bad point.”

“See, I have my good qualities.”

“You make it sound like I thought you didn't.”

“I have to check every now and again.”

Kat moved closer, taking the bottle out of Knox's hand before he could pour himself another overflowing glass. Her skin brushed against his, warmer to the touch, as the bottle slid through Knox's fingers, out of his control. She raised the bottle to her lips, taking a long drink, running her finger around the edge of the mouth when she had finished. For a moment, Detective Knox lost track of everything, remembering the power Kat could wield over him.

The level in the bottle continued to drop as Detective Knox recounted as much of the case to Kat as he could think of. She sat, curled on the couch, listening to his words become less defined as the whiskey sedated his tongue. Her face gave no clues regarding the thoughts she was hiding, a fitting mirror of the confusion he felt about the case. Detective Knox finished, waiting for Kat to tell him how simple the answer was, if he could get out of his own way. Neither spoke for minutes, and the silence unnerved Knox more than his own failures. After what seemed an eternity, Kat spoke.

“That certainly is a tough puzzle.”

“Don't I know it.”

“The one thing I don't get is the whole locked room thing. In theory, shouldn't that make it easier to solve the case? There are only so many ways to kill someone in one of them, so that takes away a lot of options.”

“Say that again.”

“There are only so many ways to kill someone in a locked room.”

“You're brilliant.”

“Why yes I am. How so?”

“You're right. There are only so many ways to kill someone, and all of them have to have been written already.”

“So what does that mean?”

“It means there's a good chance the answer I'm looking for is in one of the books on the shelf.”

“Can you read when you're drunk?”

“I don't get drunk. I just get less miserable.”

“That's debatable.”

Detective Knox did not hear Kat's quip. He had shifted gears, his focus turned to his shelves of mystery novels. They had always struck him as an odd thing for a detective to collect, but people found it amusing to give them as gifts. The number of his friends and family made for a small collection, one he augmented on his own to look less pitiful. Along the way, he discovered an affinity for collecting, filling shelves with novels he read the last few pages of and nothing else. His memory was not what it once was, and looking at the vertical titles on the spines, none cracked at its center, brought no solutions to mind. Kat watched, slowly finishing the bottle for him, as he tore through book after book, devouring the possibilities.

Sometime later she awoke to find her husband still rifling through the amassed pages. The shelves were bare, the manuscripts piled in heaps all around him, covering the floor with literary murder.

“You haven't found anything yet.”

“No. Not a single one of these can help solve my case. It was a good idea, but I think we have to chalk this up as another failure.”

Detective Knox got up, his knees fighting to raise his weight, and he moved closer to Kat. He sat beside her, a move she welcomed, though it was unexpected. He picked up the bottle, examining the film of liquid still coating the bottom. There was not enough for even the most desperate man to drink. Already frayed, his nerves snapped, his anger getting the better of him. He threw the bottle against the nearest wall, shards of glass raining back at him like sharp rain, the shrapnel of dangerous ideas.

Kat covered her eyes, and when she dared to look again, she saw her husband sitting expressionless, bleeding from an open wound on his hand. She reached out and took his hand, examining the flow of blood. The cut was deep, too severe for her to tend to. Detective Knox could not feel anything, nor did he seem to notice the blood as it poured down his fingers, dripping onto the fake spatter printed on the covers of the books.

“This is bad. We need to get you stitched up.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This cut needs to be stitched. We're going to the hospital.”

“Do I have to?”

“This isn't an argument. Someone has to take care of you.”

Chapter 26

Human Machinery

Detective Knox never understood why hospital walls were painted white. They looked sickly, gave no comfort to the addled, and served as a canvas upon which every germ was visible. His only theory that made sense was that in better places, where care is taken, the cleanliness of pure white was supposed to convey a sense of pride and competence. But in the city, where nothing was ever as it should be, attempts to live up to standards only revealed how far short everything fell. In most places, doctors were sworn to an oath to help heal the sick, but in the city doctors were nothing but mechanics, who kept the human machinery running as long as they could, until replacements were brought in.

Anatomy drawings hung from invisible hooks, peeling back the layers and revealing the true nature of the beast. They were intended to be educational, to illustrate in detail the beauty and mystery making up every person. Detective Knox, however, remained unmoved. That webs of blood and nerve could organize into such exquisite networks, that a clump of cells could create the very nature of consciousness, was in a way a miracle. So much of the art was beyond the grasp of all but the most ardent devotees of the form that they hung like grotesques in the eyes of many of the souls unfortunate enough to sit in their presence.

Detective Knox could see the intricate wonder, as he traced his eyes over the route blood would traverse as it carried the nutrients of his liquor-based diet throughout his body, and ultimately flushed it through the wound he was covering. Rather than be awestruck by sights that went beyond his understanding, he looked at those illustrations as virtual autopsies. In them, he could see the mechanisms of murder, the limitless ways life could be ceased by human hands. His mind had been trained to see death, and even when he knew it was not real, the sensation was too familiar and powerful to ignore.

Kat paced the room, her shoes clicking against the tiled floor, the sound echoing off cold walls. She was more nervous than her husband, sharing his compulsion for control. Their circumstances were in the hands of the hospital staff, a reality that did not satisfy Kat. With each step she took, her husband was losing more and more blood, and in the back of her mind she wondered if he had enough of a heart to continue pumping that much of it to waste.

Those thoughts disturbed her, both because she should not entertain such topics, and because she could not deny there was likely to be some truth to them. She loved her husband, and she believed he loved her in return, but theirs was not a normal romance. While friends and fairy tales talked of whirlwinds, their relationship was more practical. She understood it did not make their love any less real, but it did make her wonder if there was an analogue to love they had discovered, instead of what is commonly known.

Kat's frustration grew as the hands slowly circled the clock, and the bandage wrapped around Detective Knox's hand grew a darker, richer shade of red. She ripped the door open, poking her head into the hallway, looking for anyone who could give them some attention. Kat thought about the alternative, of doing the job herself. She knew the basics of sewing, though it was a skill she seldom used. Her modest abilities should have been enough to make sure her husband did not bleed to death in what was supposed to be a center of healing, but she knew her husband would never let her take on the task. He was as stubborn as she, and preferred to let the professionals do what they were best at.

Time passed slowly, each second stretching out as it was counted, until the last strands of Kat's patience were frayed through. She felt the grasp she held on her composure slipping, and just as it was falling through her fingers, the door opened. The doctor entered. There was no sign of apology on his face. He looked down at the chart, scribbled something with a careless stroke of his pen, and turned his attention to the patient.

“It says here you need a wound stitched up. Let's have a look at it.”

Kat did not stand in his way, but she was not going to let him carry on as though he had not insulted them, nor wasted their time. Her conscience knew better than to get involved, but one of the things she had learned from her husband was to never get taken advantage of. Detective Knox had a penchant for making those around him into better people, often without his knowledge or effort.

“Excuse me, doctor, but my husband has been bleeding out here for an hour while nobody so much as checked on him to make sure he wasn't dead.”

“Ma'am, we do the best we can. If we thought his injury was that serious, we would have gotten to him sooner.”

Despite her age, nothing infuriated Kat more than the use of that title. It was not without merit, but the connotation made her feel either more matronly than her years, or akin to the stock characters from an old-time western movie. In either case, the term did not accurately describe Kat, and being so casually dismissed, even with a term of supposed respect, was a bone of contention.

“Maybe you don't understand, doctor. You can't just leave us alone in a room for that long without at least telling us that there's nothing to worry about. It's disrespectful, and I'm sure you would never put up with it, if you were in our shoes.”

“Like I said, I'm getting to your husband as quickly as I can. Now are you going to let me do my job, or do you want to continue lecturing me?”

“Go ahead.”

The doctor removed the bandage, pulling strings of congealed blood away, exposing the wound. The sight of his own blood did not disturb him, but piqued his curiosity. He was struck by the dedication of the human body to continue sending blood through the open floodgate, when it could have been put to better use elsewhere.

The doctor slid his chair over, scraping trenches into the tiles, spreading powdered remnants of the floor around his feet. He retrieved a small tray, gathering the needle in his hand as he slid back into position. His work was quick, his hands moving with the precision that came from supreme confidence and skill. Kat watched from the side, wondering if the fluidity of his stitching was nothing but careless abandon. The doctor bore none of the hallmarks of focus or effort, and looked as though he was going through the motions of a meaningless, mundane, task.

The needle fell to the floor as the doctor cut the string, racing a drop of blood to the landing point. It landed in silence, a small arc of blood rebounding, staining the dust. The doctor looked at his work, and, satisfied he had done an adequate job, turned his attention back to Kat.

“Your husband will be just fine. You had nothing to worry about.”

“I did, since none of you people saw fit to tell me that in the first place. It's a little bit of common courtesy to let someone who's obviously in distress know that everything will be fine. Wouldn't you agree?”

“I don't deal with patients, ma'am. I just sew them back up.”

“That figures.”

“We're doing the best we can. Look, there's only so many of us to go around, and in case you haven't noticed, this place is booked solid every night. There isn't always time to be nice.”

“That's a lousy apology.”

“Well, it's the only one you're going to get.”

The doctor was done discussing his conduct with Kat, and instead turned back to Detective Knox. He watched his patient as Knox examined the burgeoning scar that closed the wound.

“You're going to want to be careful for a day or two. Don't do anything too strenuous, or else you might rip the stitches out, in which case you'll be right back here. I don't think any of us want that, do we?”

Detective Knox did not respond to the question. The doctor's words had set off a firestorm in his mind, his thoughts racing faster than he could sort them. He stayed silent, letting the tidal wave of ideas tear down the doubts he had erected, eroding the fuzzy edges of the mystery. Clarity was coming, quickly, flashing before his eyes as he gave in to his subconscious.

The doctor had left without Detective Knox being aware of his absence. He saw only Kat when he lifted his head. She could see something different in him, not the frustration and resignation that had taken hold in the midst of his alcohol-fueled torment. For the first time since he had taken on the case, she could see her husband as she remembered him, his sharp eyes that saw through the masks and makeup that covered reality. He was himself again, and relief came over her when she realized he was not lost to her.

“Kat, I just had an idea.”

“I can tell.”

“I don't even know if it's possible, but I think I might know how George Hobbes was killed.”

“Really? How?”

“I don't think it's a real thing, but I can't jinx it until I know for sure. I need to call Lane.”

Kat picked up her husband's coat, patting down the pockets for his phone. She slipped her hand into the interior pocket, pulling it out with two extended fingers. She held it up, but didn’t hand it over.

“I'll give you your phone, but you have to promise me something.”

“What?”

“That if your idea is right, and you solve this case, you're not going to put yourself through this hell anymore. You know I love you, but I don't know how much longer I can put up with you when you're like this.”

“What, you want me to retire?”

“Of course not. That would kill you. I just want you to promise that you're going to try to let other people help you more, and you're going to realize you don't have to solve every crime that is committed.”

“Fine. I promise. Now can I have my phone, or do I have to go searching for the one pay phone left in the world?”

Kat handed over the phone, and Knox tapped two buttons before putting it to his ear. He listened to the ringing, impatient for Lane to answer him. Detective Knox had no idea of the hour, only that Detective Lane should not have been asleep, because there was a case that needed to be solved, and answers can come at any time. Five rings later, he heard the click of the line, and began talking before Lane could even offer a groggy greeting.

“Kid, I think I know how George Hobbes was killed. We've got a long day ahead of us, so get yourself down to the precinct. I'll meet you there as soon as I can.”

“What's going on? What time is it?”

“That's not important. Just do what I said, and you'll be able to sleep soon enough.”

“Whatever. Just make sure to bring coffee.”

“This time it's on me.”