DARK CITY a gripping detective mystery

by CHRISTOPHER M. COLAVITO

Remnants of his former life lingered, mostly in the form of his wife, Kat. She was an odd choice to stand by Knox's side, a ray of sunshine that had no surface to reflect off. Anyone who saw the two of them together was left confused, and the inevitable jokes would ensue about how much Knox had to pay her to stay. She understood, because Detective Knox was not the man she had fallen in love with, nor the one she had married. That man, Dylan, was a different animal than the one she now found herself stuck with.

  They had met before Knox's bitterness had fully brewed, when the depths of his cynicism were still covered up by the honeyed taste of hope. Back then, she swore, he was a happy person who sometimes played the part of a misanthrope. Now she could only remember the shape of his smile, though she swore the man he once was still resided inside him. He loved her for this, because she was the only person in his life who could see anything in him other than the grizzled old cop who lived inside his memories.

  Their life together was not without its challenges, mostly due to Detective Knox's inability to decipher human feelings. For a man who spent his life putting clues together to form solutions, Kat was a puzzle he was unable to solve. As frustrating as it was for her to spend her life with a man who did not understand many of the basic tenets of her foundation, she had to admit a sense of pride in being the one mystery her husband had yet to solve. Perhaps, she sometimes thought, that was why he stayed with her. He simply couldn't leave a mystery unsolved.

  Detective Knox drank his scotch in oversized gulps, not worrying about the flavor of the cheap liquor, using it merely as a conduit to a different state of mind. Alcohol, he decided, was not an art that needed to be loved and savored with every sip and drop. To him, alcohol was a tool, so it didn't matter to him if he was drinking the finest example of distilling technology, or gussied-up paint thinner. As long as he got to the point where he could no longer remember who he was, or why he started drinking in the first place, he was happy, or at least as happy as he could ever be.

  Knox heard footsteps behind him, the muted sound of skin on wood. They were not the light approach of a covert operative gaining position without being detected. Kat was not afraid of him, even when he was in no mood to put up with any human, her included. She knew enough about him that the distraction of having to turn on the part of his brain required for caring enough about another person, even as an act, would help him escape the labyrinth of troubles he had trapped himself in.

  “I know you're there.”

  “I'm always here. You're the one who forgets to come home.”

  Knox expected the remark to come with that tone of voice he hated, the one that reminded him of his many failings as a man and husband. Instead, she spoke with the soft inflection of a nurse consoling a dying man before he stepped into the light. Whatever his faults, she refused to let him believe he had erased the memory of who he once was.

  “It's not that I forget, or that I don't want to be here. You know how I get. I become so focused on the problem that I can't sleep until I make some sort of progress, or at least come to the conclusion that there isn't an answer to be found. If I can't sleep, I might as well be at work trying to figure it out.”

  “You say that every time, and it's still not an excuse. Drinking yourself to sleep so you can deal with a problem doesn’t work. Why don't you try talking to someone instead?”

  “You're referring to yourself.”

  “It doesn't have to be me. I'd like to think you could talk to me, but I just want to make sure you're not going to have a nervous breakdown because you're trying to fix the whole world by yourself.”

  Knox put a hand to his knee as he rose, holding the joint in place, not wanting Kat to notice even a hint of weakness in him. He walked over and wrapped his thick hand around the bottle, throwing a wave of bitter ambrosia into the glass, crashing off the side before settling with the stillness of a crime scene. He turned to look at Kat, whose eyes had never left him. Guilt washed over him, and he rested the glass on the table.

  “I just don't see what good talking about this is going to do. We're not going to solve the problem tonight, and the last thing I want to do is put ugly thoughts in your head.”

  “So you being insolent is for my benefit?”

  “You're doing that thing again where you let me hang myself with my own words.”

  Kat smiled, one corner of her mouth turning up like a caricature of the devil. Knox saw the glint in her eye, the evil that shone through her sweet exterior, the thing that initially drove him to love her. He was powerless when she wielded that weapon; he had no armor to protect himself from being taken.

  “Then maybe you should stop tying the noose.”

  She was enjoying the repartee, because she always emerged the victor. In all their years together, Detective Knox had never won an argument with his wife, nor had he become enough of a better man to be worthy of her affection. His development was as slow as the speed of evolution, the fossil record of his love identical from the first sparks until that moment. The phrasing was odd, but Knox liked to think of Kat as the woman who made him feel small, and he was thankful for that, because only when humility was fully engaged could he understand all the ways he was lacking as a man.

  “If only it were that easy. All it takes is one thread, and you spin me around so much there's no way it can't get knotted up.”

  “Then maybe you shouldn't be so easy to manipulate.”

  “You're the only one who thinks I am.”

  “See, now don't you feel better already. You start talking to me, and in two minutes you look like a different person. That job of yours is going to kill you if you don't start looking out for yourself.”

  “You know I have to do it.”

  “Yes, but that doesn't mean you have to do it in the most self-destructive way possible. I'm pretty sure you'll still be able to solve cases if you remember to come home for dinner, and you get a good night's sleep. Who knows, maybe having a life will even help you understand people's motivations a little better.”

  “We've tried that before. I promise to spend more time here with you, we make plans to go out and do things, and then we fall right back into the same old patterns. We are who we are, and it's too late for us to go changing that. There comes a point where certain things are etched in stone.”

  “Yeah, a tombstone.”

  “I'm trying to be serious here.”

  “So am I. I watch you stumble in here every night, drink yourself stupid, and then go back out in the morning like all of this is normal. You never look at yourself, so you can't see that you're starting to fall apart. The way you're going can't be sustained. It's like you're withering on the vine, and you refuse to admit it. You can only go so far down that path before there's no turning back, and for better or worse, I love you too much to let you run yourself into the ground. You need a break.”

  “I just got one in the case.”

  The look on Kat's face was not one of amusement, the reaction Knox was hoping for. Comedy was not a skill he was well versed in, his attempts usually simple wordplay meant to evoke a knowing chuckle more than a true laugh. His pitiful skills were cute, like a dog trying to climb a tree.

  “Stop being smart.”

  “I thought I was being charming. Wasn't I?”

  “You don't know the meaning of the word.”

  “Probably not. You didn't marry a knight in shining armor.”

  “Don't I know it.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Oh come on, all you need to do is polish your armor, and it'll be as shiny as anyone's.”

  “You're still trying to distract me, aren't you?”

  “Yes, and it's working. Just look at yourself, you're almost smiling, and you've let that scotch sit there long enough that someone could have dusted it for prints.”

  “So you're saying that you could be my scotch instead?”

  “I'm saying that you don't need to lock yourself away from me just because you're in the middle of a case. I know you think fo
cus is the only thing that matters, but you stare at a problem so long you go cross-eyed, and then you're looking at it all backwards. Getting away from it is the best thing you can do, and I might be selfish in saying it, but yes, I think I would be a good diversion. Hell, I've stopped you from thinking about crime for a few minutes now, and I didn't even have to put on makeup.”

  “I'm not touching that one.”

  “Do you understand what I'm saying?”

  “I think so. Look, I'm grateful that you still care enough about me to bother trying to protect me from myself. I don't know what I did to deserve it, since I know I haven't been as good to you as I should have, but I appreciate it.”

  “So you're going to stop being a crank and obsessing?”

  “I can't change overnight.”

  Kat smiled, knowing that a promise was only as good as the intention behind it. She wasn't convinced he would ever be able to change, but she believed in his attempts to try, for her.

  “But you'll try.”

  “Yes, I will try. Right after this case is over with.”

  “But . . .”

  “You already got me to agree, so take the win. This is one I'm going to do my way, because there might not be another one if I don't close the book on it.”

  “Don't get my hopes up.”

  “I promise. I won't kill myself running this one down.”

  “You'd better not, or I'll kill you.”

  “There's my girl.”

  Bumbling Police Are Threat To Citizens:

  By William McNeal

  With each passing day, it becomes more and more clear that the people of this city are not safe. Crime exists in every city and town, no matter the size. There is no escaping the evil that lurks in the shadows, but what separates this city from all others is the inability to shine a light into those dark corners and assuage the fears of the people.

  In any normal city, with a police force that can do the job they have been tasked with, the murder of a prominent man in his own home would entail a massive investigation, and would end in the arrest of his killer, in short order. But we do not live in a normal city, so that is not what we have been watching. Instead, we continue to watch a police force that has no idea how to do the most basic functions of their jobs, and cannot communicate to us, the people they protect, what they are doing to keep us safe.

  One of the main responsibilities they hold is making sure that we know everything is being done to maintain our safety, and bring killers to justice. But there has been no noise coming from headquarters, not a single word that can comfort us in knowing that an arrest is imminent. Instead, the brass in the department refuses to comment on what they call an 'ongoing investigation', despite the fact that fear has now become this city's most traded commodity. It is a shocking lack of transparency, and basic human decency, to allow the public to twist in the wind like this.

  It all leads to a single question: Are we safe?

  With a police force that is incapable of doing their job, and murderous psychopaths on the streets killing in the name of the greater good, it is not difficult to believe that we have been left to fend for ourselves. The official word is that detectives are working on several promising leads, but my sources tell me there is a feeling in the department that the killer will never be found. If that is the case, someone in the administration owes it to the people to come forward and announce that they cannot protect the people of this city.

  Maybe then we can scrap the department and start from scratch, which might be the only solution.

  Chapter 17

  Ghosted Echo

  Sunlight heralded the arrival of the new day, casting a hue of gold over the city. For a few brief moments, those precious seconds between opening your eyes and remembering where you are, the world was beautiful. Windows glistened with the rain of the night, shining like diamonds studded in their settings of concrete. The city was not a jewel, nor would it ever be confused with one, but for a few moments, on lucky days, there was reason to remember what hope felt like.

  Detective Knox opened his eyes to the beam that shone through his window, unmoved by the wonder of nature. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, muttering a curse under his breath, wondering if the sun was a torture device planted by God to slowly torment him into madness. While the rest of the city was reveling in a few moments of warmth and optimism, he was rubbing his eyes to remove the ghosted echo of the sun, already sure the day was on a path to ruin. Optimism was a disease, Knox thought, one that he had been fortunate never to contract. In those rare moments when he understood why people could embrace optimism, he wondered how people could live with such a burden.

  As a pessimist, Detective Knox was only surprised when the strangers known as success and happiness paid unexpected visits, arriving under a cloak of mystery. Not expecting them made those moments of genuine happiness that much stronger, steeping the feelings in the boiling tumult that was his soul. Little victories that passed unnoticed for most people, were, for him, minor miracles. Optimists might be happier more often, but their feelings were shallow in comparison to his. Only men who embraced the dark side of life, like Detective Knox, could truly appreciate when the skies parted.

  Detective Knox was in his usual foul mood by the time he arrived at the precinct, fresh coffee stains dotting circles on his tie, the roof of his mouth smooth where he had burned himself. His tongue ran over it endlessly, feeling the dying skin as it slowly separated, blistering that reminded him of how even the things he loved the most could hurt him. It was a lesson he did not need to recall on a daily basis, much less on a day when he knew he was walking down the staircase into his own personal hell.

  Detective Lane was already at his desk when Knox arrived, his head buried in reports. His hand moved furiously, scribbling notes that would defy archaeologists in the future, giving rise to what seemed like a new language. Knox took his seat, waiting to see how long it would take his partner to notice his arrival. Lane continued, covering the paper with ink, only stopping when all the spaces were filled.

  “Oh, hey, I didn't notice you get in. You must have snuck up on me.”

  “Or you just really like paperwork.”

  “One of us has to fill them out, and we both know it's not going to be you.”

  “You do know me.”

  “So we've got all three of the family members here already.”

  “Rich people showed up on time? What's the world coming to?”

  “Yeah, go figure. Anyway, they're all here, so we can start anytime. Did you want to talk to them all together, or one at a time?”

  “As much as I'd like to get this done as quickly as possible, I don't think I could stand to listen to them if they got into an argument. We'll take them one by one.”

  “Will do. Mrs. Hobbes is in interview room one.”

  * * *

  Faith Hobbes sat behind the plank of wood masquerading as a table with an air of dignity, a grace that belied the situation she found herself in. Although she was not being interrogated, her surroundings should have sparked a degree of disgust in a woman of her status. Her eyes remained fixed ahead, unwilling to drift towards the corners of the room, where lines of mildew grew like wildflowers. The edges of the floor were stained a rich, deep brown, as though coffee had been the only cleaning agent used. The room was a box, a utilitarian setup that served only the purpose of isolation, with little use for anything approaching comfort. It seemed to her perfectly appropriate that a building that housed so many monsters should look as inhuman as they were.

  Detective Knox read the lines on her face, or the places where they should have been, looking for signs of her mood. She was a stoic creature, one well-adapted to keeping her emotions in check. Knox appreciated this, as he was uncomfortable having to hold the hands of grieving family members who could only speak to him through a wash of their tears. Faith Hobbes was not one of those women; she was a steely creature who treated other people like chattels, tools to be used to achieve
her own ends. Knox made no moral judgments, he merely agreed with her that some people were tools.

  “Detective, I don't know why I'm here. I already told you everything I know, so unless you've caught my ex-husband's killer, I really don't see the point.”

  “I'm afraid we haven't caught his killer yet, but we do have a new lead we're working on. That's where we were hoping you would be able to help us.”

  “I don't see how, but go ahead.”

  “It's come to our attention that something happened to your ex-husband the day before his murder. Do you know anything about it?”

  For the first time, Faith Hobbes' facade cracked. Her brow lowered in the middle, the painted streaks of black turning into an expression that resembled confusion. Detective Knox had trouble seeing it through the thick layers of makeup, and the forced immobilization of her face, but he swore he could see the muscles twitching, though not firing, in an attempt to move her towards humanity.

  “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

  “So he didn't tell you about anything strange that may have happened to him?”

  “I assure you he did not. He was a boring man, so I think I would remember if he said something that wasn't.”

  “You paint a lovely picture of him. So you didn't know that your ex-husband had been kidnapped?”

  Even an untrained observer of human nature could see the very idea bounce off her, sliding down to the floor. Kidnapping, Faith Hobbes thought, required a victim someone desperately wanted. She could not fathom how anyone might feel that way about her ex-husband.

  “Kidnapped? Heavens, no. Who would want to take him?”

  “That's what we were hoping you could tell us.”

  “I'm sorry, but I don't know who would think he was valuable enough. He isn't exactly the kind of target you would associate with such a thing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Isn't it obvious? He had money, yes, but almost all of that was going to a family member already. Other than money, he was an ordinary person. The whole thing seems like a joke, because he is about the last person to waste your time kidnapping. Whoever did it must have been amateurs.”