DARK CITY a gripping detective mystery

by CHRISTOPHER M. COLAVITO

  “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 somethin
g 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.”

  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. Ad
renaline 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.