Knox stood rooted to the spot, watching the proceedings with bewilderment. It would be funny, he thought, if Dr. Morse had any idea how ridiculous he looked. The least Knox figured he could do was lock the door when engaging in such unseemly behavior. If people knew what was really happening down below, Dr. Morse's reputation would not be so sterling.
Seconds passed, nearly a minute, and Detective Knox grew tired of the waiting game. Dr. Morse was engrossed in his study, unaware of his visitor watching from the doorway. Knox hated to pry him away from his work, but watching was beginning to make Knox feel uneasy. At last Knox spoke.
“Doc, do you have any results on the Hobbes murder?”
Dr. Morse pulled his head from its hiding place, with a look on his face of mingled surprise and aggravation. Knox couldn't read which was the dominant reaction, as before his synapses could begin to fire, his friend had wiped away any trace, his face reverting to its usual jovial expression.
“Detective, do come in, you absolutely must see what I've found in here.”
“Thanks, but I think I'll take your word for it. I don't want to spoil the surprise for the detectives working that case.”
“Ah, a fine idea. They will enjoy this a lot.”
Dr. Morse hopped from his perch, his shoes landing silently on the cold, tiled floor. The thought had crossed Knox's mind before that he may indeed be Death himself, and the constant flow of bodies was the reason for his contentment.
“About the Hobbes case . . .”
“Right. I had a preliminary look at the body, and the results are quite fascinating. Quite a good murder, I must say.”
Knox knew his friend didn't hear how the words sounded to anyone else, but struggled to believe he hadn't slipped up and said something crudely offensive in front of someone with a less understanding disposition. Even if he never talks about work when he's off the clock, Knox told himself, no one with such a tenuous grip on his mouth can possibly keep the wrong thing from slipping out every now and again, which must prompt reactions Knox wished he could see.
“How so?”
“Well, you see, there's no evidence whatsoever to go on.”
“What do you mean there's no evidence?”
“There's no foreign substances on the body, no foreign DNA, nor any wounds that would suggest a struggle. The only thing distinguishing the body from that of a living man is the stab wound.”
“Which is quite a difference, I would say.”
“Indeed it is.”
“What can you tell me about it.”
Dr. Morse didn't need to resort to notes to recall the details; they remained filed away in his mind. He possessed an ability to recall any detail about the thousands of bodies he had examined over the years, a trait that made him invaluable as a resource, but not much fun at the precinct holiday parties.
“It was a clean cut, with precision unlike any I have ever seen in a murder. I was quite impressed, I must say, with how it was done.”
“What about the knife?”
“I can't really say. The entry was clearly done with a blade of supreme sharpness. I didn't find any distinctive markings, so I can't say with any confidence exactly what it was.”
“Damn.”
“Yes, it is a bit frustrating not to know more, especially since it's such a beautiful cut. The way the knife sliced through one wall of the aorta, but didn't completely sever it, was truly artistic.”
“No offense, Doc, but that sounds a bit creepy.”
“Does it? I suppose you lose sight of those things when you spend so much time down here.”
“I can certainly believe it.”
* * *
Detective Knox returned from death's waiting room, a privilege afforded to few people. Lucky though he was to be only a visitor, frustration was building inside him, threatening to overflow the walls he constructed to hold back the tide. Nothing would be easy during this case, he knew, but that didn't mean he had to be blind as he reached into the blackness.
He asked himself what he was supposed to do with the case. He could feel his colleagues' eyes watching his every step, and he knew he was carrying the expectations of the city on his shoulders. Not much could be done about the circumstances, only going back to the scene to see if there was anything they had missed, digging deeper into George Hobbes' life. If he was lucky, he thought, maybe he would be struck by lightning.
Chapter 9
Blessing In Disguise
The members of the Hobbes family arrived together at an awkward intersection in the lobby of the precinct. An air of unease hung over them, as suspicion took root in each one’s mind. Glances were nervous, smiles were fake. The three of them shared the same tempestuous disposition, but although they were bound by blood, little else united them. The saying that you can choose your friends but not your family rang true in their case. Each wanted as little as possible to do with the others. In that way, the death of George Hobbes was a blessing in disguise.
A sense of foreboding hung over them, an understanding that their ties had been severed, and that soon they would be relieved of the burden of appearing to care about one another. They would relish the chance to tear off their masks, but could not avoid the trepidation that would follow from walking away from everything they had ever known. Each thought they wanted to move on, but taking the first step proved difficult.
“We need to talk, but not here.”
The thought was on all their minds, though only Faith managed to say it. The others nodded in agreement, and dutifully followed their mother as she led them to a safer place. Anywhere within sight or sound of the police was too dangerous, given the confessions that might slip out. They all had their secrets, and worked diligently to make sure they didn't see the light of day. But around family, the chances of one seeping to the surface increased.
* * *
The family gathered in Faith Hobbes' apartment, hoping the gilt was soundproof. Nothing about Faith Hobbes was subtle, neither her demeanor nor her taste. Gold cascaded from the ceiling, covering as many surfaces as was allowed by the conventions of good sense. Teetering on the verge of overkill, there was yet a delicate touch to the brazen display that let the people she intended to offend still appreciate the beauty that surrounded them.
The three put as much distance as possible between each other, each one closely watching the others. Trust was a dirty word in the Hobbes family, and in the aftermath of tragedy, asking for the benefit of the doubt was a comedy of errors.
“What did you tell them?”
Faith Hobbes took on the tone of an interrogator, hoping to pry loose the locks her children held around their hearts. She didn't expect them to forgive her for her sins, nor could she ask them to believe in her as a changed woman, but for all her faults, she still felt the animalistic need to protect her family.
“I told them the truth.”
Tory Hobbes looked at her mother with blank eyes, unflinching as the dirt kicked up in her face. Putting on appearances was not something she had inherited, nor a skill she wished to possess. Honesty might not be the best policy, but it was the easiest way to avoid being caught in a web of lies.
“Why on earth would you do that? You never tell them anything more than you have to.”
“That's you, mother. I don't care if people know how I felt about him, or what I do with my life. You might be ashamed of it, but I'm not. I was perfectly happy until this happened.”
Faith was confused, she couldn't understand what happiness had to do with anything. Life, to her, was not a search for happiness. It was a zero-sum game, where everyone was locked in a fight for as much of the limited quantity of comfort as could be stolen. She had played it well, had taken more from life than she, or anyone else, deserved. Happiness was a byproduct of success, not a prize in and of itself.
“It's not that I'm ashamed of you. But who's going to trust anything a stripper says?”
“As if you're any better. You play the ice queen. And anyway, whateve
r they think of me doesn't matter, because I'd be more inclined to believe me over someone who looks and sounds like a pod person.”
“Foolish child, you think innocence matters. The truth of the matter is, no one is innocent.”
Emerson Hobbes had remained quiet, preferring to stand outside the whole circus and watch. Listening to them snipe back and forth became tiring after a lifetime, but provided immense joy in the short run. His spirits were lifted every time a voice was raised, or a curse word was thrown in someone's direction. They reminded him that he was not the only member of the family with problems, and that neither of them could rightfully ever make him feel subservient.
“Will you two please shut up? There's a bigger question here than whether or not some officers are going to stop by the club to get a lap dance.”
“And just what is that?”
“Obviously, they think one of us is a murderer. Did you ask yourself if they might be right?”
The thought had surely come to each of them, but how strongly they had considered it was in doubt. They each believed they were not responsible, but they could not say the same for the others. It was a reality they did not want to face, but could no longer completely ignore.
I don't know about the two of you,” he continued, “but I know I didn't do it. I have an air-tight alibi.”
“As do I.”
“Same here.”
What should have been welcome news brought no relief. It felt entirely too convenient that all three of them had alibis that were unquestionable. It was hard enough to believe a murder had occurred in a locked room, but now that they knew the deck was stacked against any one of them standing out as a suspect, the coincidence became harder to accept.
“What do you think the chances are of all three of us having such tidy little alibis? It's almost as though someone planned the whole thing.”
“Then we know Emerson didn't do it, since he's not smart enough to do anything more complicated than tying his shoes.”
“I'm plenty smart enough to kill Dad if I wanted to . . . not that I did.”
“That sounded like a confession to me.”
“Children, stop fighting. If one of us did kill your father, we're not going to abandon whoever it was. We're still a family, and we're going to stick together. Besides, Tory, you're clearly the better candidate.”
“What? Why me?”
“You and your little stoner friends don't remember half the things you do. You could have done it in a haze of smoke and woken up with no memory of it.”
“Look who's talking. You hated him more than any of us. If anyone was going to kill him, it was going to be you.”
“That's absurd. I got everything I could out of the man. What else could I have wanted?”
“You couldn't stand that he was happier without you.”
“You ungrateful little twerp.”
The argument spiraled out of control, resentment and frustration building to a fever pitch. Faith and Tory circled each other, venom in their eyes, ready to tear the other's throat out. As Tory coiled, her body ready to pounce on her mother, Emerson caught her, pulling her back.
“Let go of me.”
“See, this is what I mean. You have violence in your heart.”
“I haven't killed anyone yet, but you're tempting me.”
“Stop it, the both of you. Fighting isn't going to help anything. We seem to have reached an impasse.”
“One of you kids is guilty. I'm sure of it now. But don't worry, I'm not going to turn my back on you, and you shouldn't turn your backs on each other. We're better off without your father, so let's agree to keep all of this between us.”
“Agreed.”
“Fine.”
They retreated to separate rooms to reflect. There was a murderer among them, they were all now convinced, though they could not agree on whom. Enough misery had befallen the family that they felt no need to add more fuel to the fire. They would keep this discovery to themselves for now, but only for as long as it took to discover which of them was the guilty party. They each hoped they would find the answer before one of them became the second victim.
Chapter 10
Remnants Of Evil
Detective Lane was waiting for his partner to return from the bowels of the building. He didn't lack the disposition necessary to frequent the autopsy room, but felt he was of better use in other places. His focus would wane the longer he stood surrounded by dead bodies, experience told him. Pictures would tell him as much as an actual body, maybe more. This was the wonderful thing about the advancement of technology; one could see things the naked eye could not discern. Lane embraced this shift to modernity, whereas Detective Knox was more resistant to giving up on tradition.
To Knox, experience was everything. Without seeing, hearing, or feeling evidence for himself, he struggled to believe it was real. It was a philosophical point of contention, but one he clung to desperately. Information did not exist for him if it were in numbers and words, it needed to be more tangible than a sheet of paper. Depth was lost when it was reduced to two dimensions, and while other people may be comfortable working with the remainder, Detective Knox needed to have everything in front of him.
“That was another dead end.”
“That's becoming a refrain.”
“Did I ever tell you I hate music?”
Lane wanted to pause the conversation and explore that point. He couldn't comprehend how someone could live without a fundamental piece of the human experience. Detective Knox's admission was almost a confession that he wasn't quite human. Lane needed to say something, but knew it would have to wait for a more opportune time.
“No, I would have remembered something that crazy.”
“I lose track of these things.”
“So what about the body? You said it was a dead end.”
“Doc says there wasn't a shred of evidence to be found. No prints, no DNA, no nothing. He can't even tell what sort of knife was used.”
“Sounds like I didn't miss anything by not joining you down there.”
“Maybe not, but that's not an excuse. What were you doing?”
“I was starting to look into the victim’s background, see if there was anything about him that might point to who would most want him dead.”
Detective Knox didn't enjoy putting pressure on his partner, but saw it as a vital part of his job. Without someone pushing Lane he would never progress as a detective. It was only when his back was against the wall that he would push through his limits, and that kind of situation happened all too infrequently. Though he would come across as insensitive and boorish, Knox was doing what he thought was in Lane's best interest.
“That's a good idea. Have you come up with anything?”
“I'm not sure. I don't see anything suspicious in the financial records, but that doesn't mean money wasn't the motive. And there are some emails I can't get access to yet that we'll need to send to the tech guys. But from what I've seen, it's not going to be anything salacious.”
“That's what I figured. We're not going to catch a break anytime soon.”
“It doesn't seem like it. So what's our next move?”
Knox wanted to admit the truth, that they didn't have a next move, that giving up and admitting defeat would be the most prudent move. Every hero has a nemesis who gets the better of them, and this case might be the one they were destined not to solve. It was not weakness or cowardice to admit failure; it was a necessary step in assessing their own abilities.
Despite this, Knox was unwilling to bow to the forces of evil, because he knew all too well the soul-crushing feeling that resulted from a file being put in the pile of cold cases. Lane had yet to go through this rite of passage, and though Knox was certain it would happen one day, he was determined not to be the one leading the suicide charge.
“We head back to the scene and see if we missed anything. Maybe something will look different in light of what we've garnered from the family.”
“Good thinking. Besides, we could use a little fresh air.”
* * *
Sunlight gave the scene a new appearance, purifying it of the horror they felt the last time they set foot within the walls. The golden aura hanging above them shone down with a hopeful warmth, in stark contrast to the harsh lines and cold shadows they were used to. This time, they could see the scene not as a container storing the remnants of evil, but as a place a family might consider home. The sunlight filtered through the windows, cut into prisms, filling every inch of the building with life. This new light made the recollection of what had happened all the more tragic.
Detective Lane peeled away from his partner, who was headed straight for the murder scene. Lane preferred to get a sense of the bigger picture, looking all around to soak up as much of the atmosphere as he could. Every picture revealed something about the people who lived there, and the few photographs strategically placed around the house gave small glimpses into a family the two of them had yet to understand.
What Lane could see in those pictures was the lack of love between the people who called themselves family. In none of them could he read affection on their faces; their body language was stiff to the point where he could not tell if the picture had captured only a second in time. Everything he saw defied expectations, and brought to mind more questions. He felt as though he was standing in a doll house, a facsimile built to describe what life must be like.
Lane's musings were interrupted as a heavy groan filled the air, echoing off the empty walls. His first thought was not to rush towards the sound to see what was happening, it was to note that he found himself in what he might well consider the worst place possible to commit a violent murder. The thought came and went in a flash, and Lane, once again clear-headed, took off in pursuit.
An eerie sense of deja vu struck Lane as he turned into the room. Detective Knox lay on the floor, in the same spot where George Hobbes had lain the previous night. It was as though he had stepped back in time, and he stood, frozen in the moment, until Knox's voice rose above the silence.
DARK CITY a gripping detective mystery Page 5