Текст книги "Dark City"

Автор книги: Christopher M. Colavito

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Chapter 23

A Synonym Of Crazy

Detective Lane was waiting for his partner as Knox emerged from the elevator, a Cheshire grin cracking the stony features of his face. Lane had never seen his partner in such a state before, so he was unsure what sordid dealings had gone on in his absence. Detective Knox could not hide his satisfaction. It was an unnatural state, one whose appearance could have been interpreted as an omen of the end of days. Lane chose to be optimistic, assuming that Detective Knox had not been possessed by a demon, in a reversal of the normal trope.

Detective Knox was walking slower than when he entered the building, his steps barely making contact with the ground. Watching from across the lobby, Lane could see how the expression about walking on air came about, because for a moment he swore he could see Knox floating above the tiled floor. It was a striking visual, one he could not explain. Of all the people Detective Lane had ever met, Knox was the last one he could have seen being inhabited by the spirit of the angels.

Detective Knox put his hand on Lane's shoulder as he walked by, prodding his partner to walk with him, and not follow behind like a baby duck chasing its mother. Lane searched his memory, but could not remember another instance of Knox being so intimate with him, which made the moment even more unsettling. Without giving it a thought, Lane swung his eyes from side to side, looking to see if he was being prepared for the reveal of a cruel practical joke.

“You know, kid, sometimes it feels good to get things off your chest.”

“You didn't hurt that guy, did you?”

Lane braced for the assault he knew was coming, having questioned Knox's integrity. Rather than a sharp rejoinder piercing him, he felt Knox's hand slapping him on the back in what he could only assume Knox meant as a show of comity. Clearly, Detective Knox did not know much about the proper expression of positive feelings, but Lane could sense the intent. The absurdity of the moment intensified his worry.

“No, I didn't hurt him. You saw that guy, he was a little pencil-neck. Guys like that break in half if you breathe on them the wrong way.”

“So why do you seem so happy?”

“What? A guy can't be happy?”

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

“Of course I do. It's a synonym of crazy, right?”

“Seriously, what happened up there?”

“If you must know, which I guess you do, I may or may not have made a couple of vague threats that he took to heart. We came to an understanding.”

“That's you're big plan? You threaten a journalist into being nicer to us?”

“There's your problem, you can't see the big picture. I don't care what he says about us. I'm sure everyone calls me any number of colorful things, and I can't say I ever give it a second thought. But when he starts saying things that make our job harder, that's where the line is drawn.”

“So you're saying you're a moral crusader.”

“I'm a superhero. Your words, not mine.”

“What happened to the dour, serious, miserable bastard I normally have to work with?”

“He'll be back soon. This high doesn't last very long.”

“Thank heavens. I don't think I could take much more of it.”

* * *

Detective Knox had barely set foot in the precinct when he heard his name called out. All eyes turned towards him, but Knox was unsinkable, and preferred to consider their looks as a reflection of their scornful jealousy. His name conjured up feelings of deep-seated inadequacy in his fellow-officers. Detective Knox did not consider it his fault that he had become the epitome of a detective, that he had become the bar by which all others were judged. All he had done was go about his business, leaving the politics of the job to those who were more cutthroat. He was not interested in rising up the ranks, which was ironic since he was the obstacle who stood in the way of so many others’ progress.

Detective Lane also heard the call, and his thoughts immediately turned to their expedition. He had considered Knox's happiness an illusion, and the curtain was about to be drawn back. As they made their way to the front desk, their footsteps echoing in the unusually quiet precinct, Lane prepared for the worst. Discipline was new to him, having never colored outside the lines of his job before, to which he could only hope Knox would be able to make a good case for his innocence.

The desk sergeant waited for the detectives to approach the chest-high slab of mahogany, their hands atop the surface, waiting for a ruler to snap down and chide them for their misdeeds. She looked down at them, possibly realizing the expectation in their eyes, stifling a laugh which turned into a snort.

“Relax guys, you're not in trouble.”

“We didn't think we were.”

“Uh huh. I see that look in your eye. You were up to something.”

“Something isn't anything until someone complains.”

“You rely on that too much. One of these days you're going to get burned.”

“Who, me? People love me.”

This time, she could not contain even a fraction of her laughter, which echoed through the station. Knox looked back to see the same faces once again turn in his direction, and quickly return to their work upon realizing his nose had not been bloodied.

“You keep telling yourself that.”

“So what did you call us over for?”

“Doctor Morse has something to tell you. He wants you to meet him down in his lab.”

* * *

Detective Lane was filled with trepidation as they stepped out of the elevator, into the deepest recesses of the precinct. These areas were avoided by all but the most morbid, a house of death that had seen the souls of thousands clinging to the earth, until their grip was lost and they were dragged to their final destination.

Detective Knox was not one to be bothered by such thoughts. Death was a natural phenomenon, and the presence of the dead should not have made a place any more disconcerting than any other. Even if the crack-pots he locked up during his early years working the streets were right, and those rooms were actually haunted by the ghosts of decades of the dead, Knox did not care. He had spent his life avenging these lost souls, and tracking down their killers, so he could see no reason any would desire to haunt him.

Knox swung the door open, bumping it with his hip, careful not to touch the handle. Though he was not afraid of death, he felt no need to cover himself in any of the residual effects of it. He would be dead soon enough, he figured, so there was no need to get accustomed to the feeling until it was absolutely necessary. His imagination could fill in the details for the time being. As Knox swung through the door, he was confronted by a scene straight out of a black comedy. Dr. Morse was crouched alongside the examination table, the entire length of his forearm disappeared inside a body. Detective Knox put a hand to his face, pinching the excess skin between his eyes, putting the comedy of the situation into perspective. Just behind Knox, Detective Lane turned back into the hallway, his stomach trying to jump out of his mouth.

“Doc, please tell me you aren't trying to use that body as a hand puppet.”

“What? Oh, no. I'm trying to retrieve an item without making the body unfit for an open-casket funeral.”

“You know that's his backside, right?”

“You haven't seen his face. They might want to display him this way.”

Detective Knox chuckled at the thought, and nodded to himself that the idea was not so absurd. In his time, he had encountered more than his share of people he deemed assholes, so displaying the deceased ones in their true light seemed fitting. He imagined how many of the people in his life would have said the same about him.

“You have a point there, Doc.”

Dr. Morse removed himself from his compromising position, the final extrication letting out a loud burst of air. From outside, Detective Knox could hear Lane once again fighting to keep his organs inside his chest. Dr. Morse peeled off his glove, lightly placing it atop the trash heap, and turned to face his guest.

“Where did your partner go?”

“He's not used to this sort of stuff, so he can catch up on it later. What did you call us down here for?”

“I have some news about your case, and I thought it was better you hear it in person.”

“You're either setting me up for great news, or horrible news. Which is it?”

“Actually, I'm not sure.”

“Let me have it.”

“I ran the blood sample you brought back from where George Hobbes had been taken. It's definitely his, but I noticed something weird about it.”

“Weird how?”

“There were traces of drugs in his system.”

“That's not uncommon. Drugging someone is the best way to take them without causing a scene.”

“Yes, but these weren't those kind of drugs. There were traces of a mild anesthetic in the sample, a kind that needs to be administered in a hospital setting. It's not something you can put on a rag and have someone breathe in.”

“So what does it mean?”

“I can't say. That's your job to figure out.”

“So now I have a victim who was murdered in a locked room after being abducted and loaded up with anesthetic. None of this makes a lick of sense.”

Dr. Morse pulled a new glove out of a box, teasing the length of latex. He pushed his hand inside, feeling a sense of satisfaction he dared not reveal. The glove snapped against his arm as he checked the fit.

“Isn't that always the way?”

Chapter 24

A Badge Of Honor

Detective Lane was crouched against the tiled wall, his head held against the cold mosaic, to provide resistance to the reversal his tract was threatening. Not normally squeamish, Lane was disappointed in himself as he shook and retched, feeling weak in more than one sense of the word. He dealt with death on a daily basis, and no matter how high the tally of bodies had piled, he had never before been bothered by the grim realities. An iron stomach was a point of pride among the force, a badge of honor that showed they had been through hellfire and lived to tell the tale, which made his condition all the more shameful. Lane could have lived with the insult to himself, but he knew word would soon spread throughout the station, and he would become a laughing stock.

Faint traces of sound came through the door, just enough for Detective Lane to grasp the tenor of the conversation he was supposed to be a part of. He heard neither an exclamation of enlightenment, nor a pained howl of frustrated intemperance, which told him the mystery they were exploring had only gotten more mysterious. The optimist in him knew that the bleaker the prospects of cracking the case looked, the more doubt that poured from the sky to try to wash them into the gutter with the killer they could not catch, the end result would be that much more satisfying.

He had faith that the world contained enough vestiges of justice that the solution would be revealed at the last moment, and their tenacity and persistence would be rewarded. By whom he did not know, but Lane felt it important to remain confident in their own abilities, even if he could sense Detective Knox was struggling to do the same. In his eyes, Detective Knox was that fabled character from the stories that got passed around amongst the beat cops, the infallible oracle who could pull suspects out of thin air. Such myths do not take root without having a degree of truth to them, and Lane was sure that enough magic remained for Detective Knox to pull one more rabbit from his hat.

Detective Lane did not turn his head as the door opened, preferring to pretend he was invisible. Detective Knox looked at him, shaking his head, not at his partner's physical condition, but the fragile mental state he had created for himself. Knox had, like everyone, suffered his share of setbacks and embarrassments. The measure of a man is how those are dealt with, and Lane was failing the test.

“Are you done feeling sorry for yourself?”

“No, I don't think I've quite hit bottom yet.”

Knox took a few steps, until he stood directly in front of Lane. He snapped his fingers, and Lane lifted his head in preparation for the lashing he knew was coming, one he knew he deserved.

“I know you haven't. Trust me, I know what it looks like. But you can't beat yourself up because you couldn't handle seeing something Doc did. Everyone knows the guy's a bit nuts.”

“I should be able to handle it.”

“Maybe, maybe not. I can't say I've ever seen anything like that before either. But I have bad eyes, and I'm practically the living dead, so maybe I'm not the best gauge of how to properly respond to things.”

“It wasn't even that it was disgusting on that level. Gross is one thing, but this was disturbing at a more sub-textual level.”

“Fancy word. What do you mean by it?”

“It was like I was seeing my entire childhood destroyed in front of my eyes. I don't think I can ever look at or remember a puppet again without tasting vomit in my mouth.”

“You should be more upset that you have fond memories of puppets. Those things are creepy.”

“This isn't a discussion about my childhood.”

“I know it's not, but at least you don't look like a ghost anymore.”

Without realizing what had happened, Detective Lane had regained control. He was no longer trembling, his stomach had calmed, and the color had returned to his face. By separating his mind from the moment, Lane had been rebooted, and felt up to the challenge of standing. His legs were soft, but not weak, as he rose. As soon as his knees locked themselves straight, Detective Knox turned and began walking. Lane lurched into motion, following along.

“I think I gathered that we don't have any answers yet.”

“No, we don't. As if we didn't have enough to consider, now we have to figure out why George Hobbes would have been anesthetized. Doc says it couldn’t have been to aid the abduction, so I have no ideas.”

“That is unusual. We'll figure it out, though.”

“You keep saying that.”

“They say if you tell a lie enough times, it becomes the truth.”

“I tried that before, but no one thought I was a nice person.”

“That's because you weren't lying, you were dreaming.”

“Well, look who's feeling better.”

* * *

Detective Knox’s desk was his retreat, a place where he could lose himself in his thoughts without having to put up with the pesky creatures that were always popping up at inopportune times, standing in the way of his happiness. Horror movies often started from the conceit of being the last man on earth, a fact that kept Detective Knox from enjoying such cinematic masterpieces, because he could not understand why the situation was supposed to be unsettling. He knew his thoughts veered close to the line of complete misanthropy, but he did not consider himself such a person. So long as people left him alone, his attitude was one of apathy, not hatred.

People rarely held up their end of the bargain. No matter how clear Detective Knox made it that he would rather not take part in the day to day drudgery of society, he continually found himself dragged into that slog. People were, to him, an annoying game of real life whack-a-mole. As soon as he got rid of one, another would pop up and stop him from enjoying the sound of silence.

This thought came to mind as Detective Knox turned the corner and laid eyes upon his desk. He had given consideration to laying down a circle of salt, using black magic to inoculate his personal space from the mouth-breathing masses, but he worried that the stained, sticky floor was not clean enough for the dark arts. Even evil, he reasoned, was not slovenly enough to abide by such a pitiful level of hygiene.

Anna Summers was sitting at his desk, in a rickety metal chair meant to discourage potential visitors by making them so uncomfortable anyone with a degree of common sense would leave before spending any length of time waiting. Anna was different, and not easily put off. She sat quietly, her body not shifting or moving to find a spot of less discomfort. She was stoical, calm, and Knox could tell she was not the type of person to give up if he walked away and left her there alone.

Resigned to this, Detective Knox motioned for Lane to get coffee, and proceeded towards his desk. He took his seat, and only when he was settled did Anna acknowledge his presence. Her movements were odd, as though she was an actress playing the part of a person, and Knox could only imagine that other people saw him in the same light.

“Hello Detective.”

“Is there something you came here to tell me?”

“Oh, no. Nothing like that. I was walking past, and I couldn't help but come in to ask how your investigation was going. I read the paper this morning, and it made me start to worry all over again.”

“That filthy rag. Don't worry about that. It was a lousy piece written by someone who was just trying to sell papers.”

“So it's not true?”

“Well, it's not true, but it's not untrue either.”

“I don't understand.”

“It should have never been written. That's the bottom line.”

“So I do need to be worried.”

“No, you most definitely do not. Contrary to what some newspaper might say, you are perfectly safe, as long as you aren't getting yourself mixed up in organized crime.”

“But it is hard to believe that, if you're telling me you haven't made any progress in solving that murder.”

“It's an ongoing investigation, so I can't talk about it.”

“That's not a very convincing answer.”

“No, but it's the only one I can give.” Believe me, I'd like to be able to tell you there's no reason for you to be down here and worried, but circumstances don't allow for that.”

“I sense you're frustrated with your lack of progress. Am I right?”

“Please don't tell me you think you're psychic.”

“Of course not. I'm just an observer of people. I watch them, and I learn from them. I can sense that you are nervous about not being able to solve this case. The skin under your eyes has grown darker with fatigue, and you have more coffee stains on your tie than the other times we met. Those are obvious signs that you're running yourself ragged trying to push things along.”

“You sound like you'd make a pretty good detective.”

“You flatter me, but I can assure you I wouldn't. I understand people, not the ugly things they do.”

“And you don't think they're one and the same?”

“People are capable of just about anything, if they’re given the right motivation. That doesn't mean they are those things, just that they felt they had no other choice. I wouldn't want to be defined by my worst moments, just as I'm sure you wouldn't.”

“Too late. I already am.”

“I'm very sorry to hear that. Detective, all I can tell you is that this will all work out as it was supposed to.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that either you will catch your killer and be a hero, or a murder that leaves no grieving family will go unsolved. I know the kind of man you are, that you would find it entirely unsatisfying, but it is not the worst of all outcomes.”

“I don't think you know as much about me as you believe.”

“Maybe I don't, but I do know that you will work yourself to the bone before you give up. Take care of yourself, Detective. There are plenty of people who need you.”

“We'll agree to disagree on that.”

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.