“What did you get me up at the crack of dawn for?”
“I might have solved the case.”
“That's nice, but couldn't it have waited for morning?”
“The truth waits for no man, kid.”
“Are you on drugs?”
“A few, yes. But that's not important. What matters is that when that phone rings, Dr. Morse is going to tell me if I'm right. If I am, which I think I am, people will be calling us heroes by the end of the day.”
“Heroes?”
“I know it's garbage, but they're going to, and I'm not going to stop them, if it makes them feel better.”
“I thought you hated attention.”
“I do, but I also like the idea of getting this monkey off our backs.”
“Point taken.”
The phone rang, and Lane picked it up, knowing his partner would not want to. He pressed a button, turning on the speaker, letting himself in on the conversation.
“Doc, do you have some news for me?”
“I think I do. I got your message.”
“And what do you think about it?”
“I can't say I've ever heard of that as a way of killing anyone before. I've seen plenty of murders, but nothing like what you suggest.”
“Killers are always looking for new ways to kill. The question at hand is whether or not you think it's possible. Could someone commit a murder that way?”
There was a pause, as Dr. Morse gave it one last thought. Detective Knox knew he had an answer, or else he would not have called. The pause was either a dramatic flourish, or a bad omen.
“I was going to say that if you're asking if your suggestion is the method in which George Hobbes was killed, I'm going to need more time with the body to figure that out. But if you're asking an abstract hypothetical, I can give you an answer to that.”
“That's all I need.”
“In that case, I can tell you that yes, it is possible to commit a murder in such a way.”
“Thanks, Doc. You take a closer look at the body, and I'll go arrest the killer.”
“We could trade if you want.”
“No thanks, Doc. I don't think you could handle the living.”
“Of course not. Why do you think I'm down here?”
Detective Knox hung up the phone, a sly grin contorting his face. Solving a case, especially one that had seemed impossible, one that had taunted him from the very start, was the closest thing to ecstasy he could imagine. He could not remember ever feeling better about himself than he did at that moment, when he had overcome every obstacle to uncover a truth he wasn't sure existed.
Lane looked at his partner, wondering what thoughts went through his mind when he was supposed to be happy. The concept seemed foreign to Detective Knox, and Lane believed it could only be synthesized as a facsimile in his head. Knox was a mystery to him, and Lane was not yet awake enough to dare poke about for that information.
“Kid, we've got our work cut out for us today. I need you to . . .”
“Wait a second. Are you going to tell me your epiphany?”
“All in due time. It might be fun to see your reaction when everyone else finds out.”
“And you would do that to me, your partner?”
“Of course I would. Don't you know me by now?”
“I like to think you've gained a bit of respect for me.”
“I have, kid. That's why I'm not telling you.”
“That makes no sense.”
“I'm giving you a little more time to try figuring it out for yourself. You know everything I do, and now you know the Doc can find the evidence on the body, so what more do you need?”
“A new partner, for one.”
“Someday, you're going to think this is a great story to tell.”
“You're right. It'll make a great example of how not to treat someone.”
“I'll tell you what, if you come up with the right answer before I reveal it, I'll retire.”
“You have that little faith in my abilities?”
“It's called incentivizing you. I'm giving you a chance.”
“I'll take it.”
“Good. But first, I need you to make some calls. We need to gather together everyone involved in the case. I've always wanted to do one of those big reveals in front of all the suspects.”
“Something strange has gotten into you.”
“Maybe, maybe not. All I know is after the hell this case put us through, we deserve to have a little fun with it.”
“Fun? With a murder case?”
“A little black humor never hurt anyone.”
Chapter 28
The River Of Relief
Excitement filled the empty room, pulsing through the air, strong enough to be tactile to someone in tune with its frequency. Previous forays into the home of George Hobbes had been expeditions into a giant tomb, the feeling of death overwhelming. This time, Detective Knox felt something very different, an energy that tingled in the tips of his fingers. The pages of the book being written were turning over faster, the end racing towards him. The river of relief was flowing, the ice breaking up as rays of hope began to melt the barricades.
Detective Knox stood inside the doorway, leaning against the wall, imagining himself to be the cool outsider in a teenage movie. He was no rebel, but he could feel that sense of supreme confidence, and his posture could not contain his contentment. He knew he should be more careful, that his success was only made possible because of the darkest day of some people's lives, and that his own self-satisfaction was an affront to them, but he was unable to exert enough control over himself to refrain from being the callous person he so often projected himself as.
One by one, the surviving members of the Hobbes family entered, walking past Detective Knox without giving him more than a sideways glance. He could not tell if they saw his interior feelings, and were subtly disapproving of him, or if they were merely being antisocial creatures who wanted no part of reopening their wounds in front of him. Catching killers was more important than massaging feelings, so if some were to be bruised as a means of meting our justice, it was a trade-off Knox felt was more than worthwhile.
He was helped by his contempt for the three Hobbes relatives. All of them had revealed themselves to be people who did not deserve to be treated with the velvet gloves detectives were supposed to wear when handling the grieving. That they did not grieve at all did not strike Knox as strange, for he would do the same in all but the rarest of cases, but that they could not go through the motions of putting on an act when confronted with the possibility of their own responsibility in the murder was beyond his comprehension. Basic self-preservation should have kicked in, should have made them take any steps imaginable to pass the blame — to project it upon someone else. They did not do that, and all of them seemed perfectly willing to take on the mantle of killer.
Detective Knox saw this in them, and considered any damaged psyches that would come as a result of his actions to be collateral damage, possibly a beneficial shattering that would necessitate them being put back together by a professional.
Detective Knox would not intentionally cause them harm, even if he knew doing so would require them to get the help he saw they needed. He did not consider himself always a good man, but he was not an evil one, and deliberately bringing pain upon others was just that. Pain was unavoidable, but so long as it was accidental, he could not be blamed for being its cause. While he considered letting each of the family members tie their own noose, knowing none would grieve their loss, he would not have been able to live with himself if he had. His conscience, no matter how often he thought it was a vestigial organ that prevented him from being his best self, remained stubbornly tethered to his mind.
With the family gathered, Detective Knox kicked his heel back against the wall, scuffing the paint as though signing a masterpiece, pushing himself forward into the room. He entered slowly, surveying the frozen faces of the occupants, relishing the moment of drama
as he pulled the hat from his head.
“I'm glad you could all join us here.”
Faith Hobbes was visibly impatient, her fingers tapping against her thigh. Detective Knox, in a different state of mind, would have stared and counted the beats, to see if she was unconsciously sending a coded message.
“Would you please tell us why you brought us all here?”
“You are gathered here because we know how George Hobbes was murdered.”
This revelation did not elicit the reaction Detective Knox hoped for. Those gathered did not appear shocked, or relieved. They gave no indication of any feelings at all, which fed into Knox's assessment of them. He judged people based on how he felt he would react in situations, despite knowing he was not what people would describe as normal. There were times when that fact was useful, such as when people displayed even less of a response than he would have. That level of abnormality was terrifying, and a sign of something more going on underneath the surface.
“Does it matter how he was killed? I thought the point was to find out who did it,” Tory Hobbes said.
“And does it even matter if we find that out? It's not like it's going to bring him back,” her brother added.
“Yes, it matters. Since one of you three killed him, I would think the other two would want to make sure we lock the killer up, if only to make sure you aren't next.”
Normally, Detective Knox would not have been so blunt, but he considered the circumstances special. Watching the three tear into one another with distrustful looks and snide comments was by no means necessary, but he thought if they were not interested in the solving of the murder, he should at least be able to entertain himself along the way.
“What do you mean, one of us killed George?” Faith asked.
“It's a fairly plain-spoken sentence. One of you is the murderer. I figured you assumed that right from the start. It was like each of you said, you couldn't imagine why anyone else would want to kill him. Therefore, it had to be one of you.”
“But that doesn't make any sense,” Tory said.
“Of course it does. You can protest all you want now about how much you miss him, and how heartbroken you are, but I saw you in the first moments after it happened. None of you showed the slightest bit of grief for your loss. That told me right there all I needed to know about whether any of you were capable of murder.”
“You really think all of us are potential murderers?” Emerson asked.
“I do, but only one of you could have actually done it.”
“Excuse me, but if I recall, you already interviewed us, and we all have alibis,” Faith said.
“Yes you do, but unfortunately for you, they aren't alibis for the murder anymore.”
“Wait. What?” Tory asked.
“I was hoping someone would ask that. As it turns out, our investigation has led us to a new realization. George Hobbes was not killed in this house.”
“Of course he was. You stood over his body,” Emerson said.
“I did, that is true. But he was killed somewhere else.”
“And just how do you suppose someone moved his body into the house, into that room, and locked it from the inside?” Faith asked.
“They didn't.”
“I'm confused,” Tory said.
“That's why I gathered you all here, to explain what happened.”
“I already know what happened. My no good drunk of a son killed my poor, beloved husband, because he's a greedy little sociopath,” Faith said.
“The hell I am. You probably killed him by stopping his heart, because you're so cold,” Emerson responded.
“Stop it, both of you. How can you think that any of us would have killed him? We're family,” Tory said.
“Exactly. No one hates quite like family. And since you said that, it was probably you,” Faith said.
Detective Knox took a step back, listening to the bickering with a hint of a smile on his face. A good show was hard to come by, and he was witnessing one here. The Hobbes family was boiling over, with Knox wondering how many years of therapy it would have taken to dredge up as much dysfunction as he had uncovered. He came to the conclusion that no amount of therapy could fix people who were fundamentally broken, because talking is not a solution. Talk can caress feelings, but it cannot rewire our brains, it cannot change who we are.
Transformations of the necessary kind, the ones that allow us to learn from our mistakes and never repeat them, require a hunger and desire for change. Speaking the words is not enough, it must be a belief that reaches the deepest recesses of our core, where it can be burned as a fuel to seep into every cell of our bodies. Detective Knox listened to the accusations flying back and forth, and what he heard were not genuine expressions of outrage and denial, but merely the facade being stripped off their communication. For the first time, they were saying what they truly thought of one another.
Detective Lane put his hand on Knox's shoulder, pulling him out into the hallway.
“This is getting ugly.”
“No, kid, this is getting real.”
“How long do we let them go on?”
“Just long enough to see if any of them realize just how screwed up they are, and how much they hate each other.”
“What's the point of letting them do that?”
“There isn't a point, really. I just think it might do them a little bit of good to get some of this out of their system before this is over, and they have no reason to speak to one another again.”
“That almost sounds like you care about them.”
“Don't speak of such heresy. My motives are still as selfish as ever.”
“Sure they are.”
“I swear. I'm getting a show right now, and then they hopefully won't kill each other when this is done, so I won't have to deal with them ever again.”
“That's what you tell yourself, but I know better. You want to help them, because that's what you do. You don't normally have the first clue how to do it, other than solving murders, but these are your kind of people. They're screwed up, just like you.”
“I can screw you up, you know.”
“Yeah, but you wouldn't do that to me. Not now. You'd never survive having to break in a new partner.”
“You're right. I'm too old for that.”
“So do you think they've had enough yet?”
“Yeah. It's time for the grand reveal.”
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 peop
le 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.”
DARK CITY a gripping detective mystery Page 16