Текст книги "Dark City"

Автор книги: Christopher M. Colavito

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Chapter 4

A Necessary Evil

Anna slammed the door with all the force she could muster, still barely enough to shake the floor with the intended authority. Her bile was not reverberating throughout the apartment, instead she glanced back at the entry with narrow eyes, the intransigence giving no help in calming her. She held her breath, trying to keep herself from screaming, from admitting she had no ability to bend life to her will.

“What the hell did you tell him all that about the old man for?”

Craig was taken aback by the outburst, uncomprehending. Instinctively, he took a step back, not wanting to be within range should she have developed the ability to spit fire. Safety, he realized, was found in distance.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

Anna didn't suffer fools gladly, and was especially intolerant of stupidity in one of the few people she let into her life. People bored or infuriated her, and few were deemed worthy of her attention. Their ability to disappoint her was not depressing because of what it said about them, but because if she granted them access to her valuable time and energy, and then turned out to be less than she had believed, it was a black mark on herself. Clearly, she knew, it meant she was not the judge of people's lack of character that she thought herself to be.

“You know exactly what I'm talking about. You went ahead and told that detective you were half expecting him to be murdered. Why did you get involved?”

“When something bad happens and I can help, isn't that what I'm supposed to do?”

The question was genuine, but Craig was not sure he wanted to hear the answer. Anna was not normal, he had long since found out, but he could live with that as long as she maintained a basic sense of human compassion. Giving her the opportunity to dispel such an old-fashioned notion was not optimal.

“No, it's not what you're supposed to do,” she said, emphasizing the last syllables to wring out every ounce of disgust in her voice. “What you're supposed to do is not get involved.”

“I'm sorry you feel that way. I don't see why getting involved is a bad thing.”

“Of course you don't, because you never think ahead. Now that you've talked to them once and given them a crumb, they're going to keep coming back to us over and over again looking for more. You've gone and tethered us to this until they figure out exactly what happened.”

Anna's words did not wipe away the doubt in his mind, did not reveal a new source of clarity. He registered what she was saying, but could not understand how she could say such things with a straight face. A piece of her must be missing, he thought, otherwise she would understand the absurdity of her words.

“So what if they call and ask to talk to us again? It's worth a little bit of an inconvenience if it can help them figure out who killed the old man.”

“Sure, it sounds good when you say it that way, but what happens if they can't figure it out, and every word that we say becomes the basis for their entire case. I don't know about you, but I don't want to have to live with the pressure of knowing that my words might be used to put someone in jail.”

“You're overreacting. Our words won’t be enough to solve the case. Trust me.”

Anna had attempted trust before, a practice that no matter how often she tried to ingrain it would not become natural. She was a solitary creature, and though she knew other people were necessary in order to make it through life without losing what threads of sanity she had left, they were still more a burden than a blessing. Even the best of them did little to move her.

“You don't realize how ridiculous you sound.”

“How am I ridiculous?”

“You live in this little bubble where you believe people are good, that justice always prevails, and that we don't live in a salacious hell-hole. Have you even read the news lately? There's a vigilante killer on the loose leaving bodies scattered around town like breadcrumbs. Excuse me, but I don't want to have my name attached to anything that could give someone like that a reason to know I exist.”

“Now you're being paranoid.”

Anna thought about that word, what it meant. Comics had made a living mining the thesaurus of paranoia, and while she sympathized with those who regarded it as something more than a dysfunction, the time was not appropriate for a bit of dark humor.

“No, I'm not being paranoid, I'm just not wearing rose-colored glasses.”

“There's nothing to worry about. They're probably never going to call us, there is no vigilante killer coming to get you, and nothing terrible is going to happen to us. We did what little we could to help. We did our civic duty.”

“That's not going to win me over.”

“There has to be something more to this than you're letting on. Come on, just tell me.”

There were countless things she had yet to tell, innumerable cards still pinned inside her sleeve. To Anna, keeping secrets was a satisfaction. There was power in the knowledge that she was the only person in the world who possessed a piece of information. That was true power, and to Anna, it meant everything.

“Fine. Did you ever stop to think about what it would mean if you were wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“Everything you said is an assumption. We don't really know what those people are like. We hear whatever comes through the walls and the windows, but impressions can be deceptive.”

“Like how anyone listening to us now would think that you hate me.”

The look on Anna's face said more than any words. Craig read the expression immediately, and regretted the words even before they left his tongue. Perhaps, he thought, she was baiting him into proving her point.

“Just because we hear yelling doesn't mean they hated him, nor does it mean that any of them wanted to kill him. We assume those sorts of things because it's amusing to make up little scenarios, but this is real, it’s no longer a game. The minute you spoke, it suddenly became very real. Now, because of us, they're all going to be looked at to see if they have murder in their eyes. Because of what you said, all those people are now under suspicion.”

“I didn't think about it like that.”

“Of course you didn't.”

“But what do you think the odds are of us making any difference to the case? There has to be all sorts of evidence that will make us irrelevant.”

“I'm not a gambling woman, so I'm not betting on it.”

“I still say we'll be fine. Trust me.”

“We'll see.”

Anna walked into the next room. She nudged the door artfully with her hip, letting it slowly click into place. That sarcastic gesture was more of a statement than a slamming door would ever be

Chapter 5

The Myth Of Safety

Detective Knox preferred the corners of rooms, a vantage point that allowed him to survey his surroundings without being subjected to unwanted prying eyes. From a corner, he could exercise control over a situation, a futile attempt on his part to fight the forces of fate. He knew it made no difference what protestations he made, but the ashes of the dormant fire that remained inside him would not let him succumb without daring a challenge.

The words loomed in his head, an aural ghost staking its claim to his consciousness. This case would be the death of him, he thought, if he didn't think death would be a preferable alternative to living out the pressure of the chase.

“We have one of those old-fashioned locked room mysteries.”

The words loomed in his mind.

Detective Lane had said the words with a twinkle in his eye. Being trapped inside an unsolvable puzzle was not a cause for celebration, it was a millstone to be worn around their necks. But that twinkle was misplaced. For, as long as the case remained unsolved, they were no longer just detectives searching for the truth; they were responsible for giving hope to the hopeless. They were the only thing standing between the city and complete anarchy.

Letting the case go unsolved was not an option, not in a city as familiar and as comfortable with death as the one they lived in. If evil knew it was so easy to get away with murder, there would be no end to the bloodshed that bathed the streets and gave a demonic glow to the endless stretches of asphalt. Center stage would beckon them, the spotlights would converge at their feet, and it would be up to them to prove they could withstand melting under the heat of a ravenous audience.

“You're being awfully quiet. What are you thinking?”

Detective Lane asked the question, unsure if Knox was even listening to him. He was used to being ignored by his partner, for he hadn’t yet proven himself to his elder. Time may have been able to prove any doubts wrong, but time moved too slowly for his liking. Not an unintelligent man, Lane knew that he would make little progress as a detective if he couldn't convince the man he spent all his time standing beside that he was worthy of his place.

To Detective Knox, his partner was nothing but a babysitter who, imposed on him, offered little in the way of support. Knox worked alone, his mind sifting the pieces until their jagged edges began to align. It was solitary work, and not the sort any partner could assist in. He held no grudge against Lane, nor did he think him incompetent. The problem was Knox himself, and the way his methods didn't fit the neat little box the department insisted he sit within.

“I'm thinking that we're screwed.”

Lane was unable to find the proper reaction to this. Detective Knox seldom agreed with his perceptions, but surely on this occasion he would have to concede that his partner was correct.

“What do you mean?”

“I see that look in your eye. You think we've just hit the jackpot, and we're about to become famous for taking on a real life novel. Let me tell you from experience, things aren’t so simple. Once this gets out in the press, everyone in this city is going to be watching our every move, they're going to question every decision we make, and they're going to be calling for our heads until we solve this thing. Every armchair detective who's ever read a story and figured out the ending is going to think they can do a better job than us, and it's going to leave us with a never-ending stream of lunatics calling in to give us the answer. I'm telling you, this is a no-win situation.”

“You're exaggerating. It won't be that bad.”

Knox did not appreciate being told how things were going to be by someone who had seen only a fraction as much as he had. Lane was still naïve about how far the depths of depravity extended, and how little respect men in their positions commanded. The police in the city were no heroes; they were a bunch of liars, peddling the myth of safety. Those who were paying attention saw through the lies, and much to Knox's dismay, the number grew with each passing sunrise.

This kid has no idea what he's talking about, Knox thought. He knew they were going to have to solve this case while hanging from a cross, and his clueless partner stood next to him with a smile on his face.

Detective Knox thought of him as a dog who doesn't realize he's being taken to get fixed, and wondered how he had been saddled with such a burden.

Knox swallowed his thoughts before they could become words, well aware that people always say they appreciate honesty right up until the minute the truth hits them in the face. Then, when reality can't be denied, they fall back into the bubbles of ignorance they prefer. Knox couldn't blame them; he wished at times he was able to do the same.

“I've learned a few things over the years. Chief among them is that no matter how bad you think things are, they can always get worse. I'm not trying to be a pessimist, I'm just accepting reality.”

“I deny your reality, and substitute my own.”

“Very funny. You have no idea what's about to happen.”

“Maybe not, but I have something you don't. I have faith. I have faith that we're going to solve the case, I have faith people are going to appreciate the work we do, and I have faith that there's going to be a bonus waiting for us on the other side of all this. It's going to be the best thing to ever happen to us.”

“The best thing that could ever happen to me is being pulled off this case.”

“But you always say how much you love the mystery, the puzzle. You finally get the big one, and all of a sudden you're walking away, afraid to take on the challenge.”

This show of fortitude made Knox smile. Perhaps, he thought, there was a fire inside Lane after all. The trouble was, that drive would push him towards failure and not away from it. They may have been standing at the beginning of the end of their careers, but Lane was not put off by the risks. Respect was beginning to emerge in Knox, a strange brew he was uncomfortable accepting.

“You know what? You're right. I do like puzzles, and I do like mysteries. What I don't like is having my future tied to one, but if you don't care that this could kneecap you before you even learn to walk, I might as well strap myself in and go along for the ride.”

“That's the spirit . . . I guess.”

“Cheer up, kid. We've got a genuine mystery to solve.”

“You're right. Do you have any initial insights?”

“It's a bit early for me to have much of an opinion. I need some time to sit down and go through my thoughts.”

“Oh, I see.”

Knox could feel Lane deflating, his interest waning as he was sidelined. Wasting time before one could assess the merit of each piece of information was not something Knox was comfortable with, but if Lane was going to be kept afloat, until they were dragged to the bottom together, such accommodations would have to be made.

“What about you? What's your initial take on all of this?”

As quickly as the air that seeped through the cracks, Lane reinflated, back to life. He had been waiting for the opportunity to prove himself to Knox. This was the first time his input had been solicited, and he considered it a major turning point in their relationship.

“People don't just get killed in locked rooms, so it seems to me that there's only two logical explanations. Either we've missed a key piece of evidence in our initial sweep, or that room wasn't locked at the time of the murder.”

“That could be, but how would someone go about locking it from the outside? It was a deadbolt keyed from the inside.”

“I didn't say I know how it was done. There has to be a way, and we're going to have to figure it out.”

“What's that thing they always say about the simplest explanation?”

“That it's always right.”

“Yeah, forget about that. It's not true at all. Murder is a complicated affair.”

“Maybe so, but engineering isn't. A lock is a lock, whether someone is murdered behind it or not. There has to be a way to get in and out without making it look like it. Magic isn't real.”

Knox appreciated the doggedness Lane was showing towards logic. He reminded Knox of himself as a younger man, unable and unwilling to admit the world didn't behave according to the rules. It was possible Lane was right, that there was a simple explanation for the problem that confronted them, but he was not counting on it. Knox knew problems grew more twisted, tangled, and complicated the deeper you searched, not the other way around.

“You're not being much of a detective. Don't write off any possibility until you absolutely have to.”

“So you're saying magic is our best bet?”

“I'm saying that by the time we’re done here, it might be the only explanation we have.”

Detective Lane could sense from the tone in Knox's voice that he needed to give his partner space to let the case percolate through his mind. Knox appreciated not having to forcefully shove Lane aside.

Detective Knox wondered what kind of parasite had gotten inside his partner, eating away everything but his optimism. Optimism was for characters in books, not something that should be believed in by flesh and blood people. Everything is easier when the ending has already been written, and is merely waiting for someone to connect the dots and fill in the blanks. Real life is a different beast, however. The answer may appear one day, it might fall right out of the sky, but counting on it is a fool's errand. Detective Knox thought optimism would have been bred out through evolution long before, but there did not appear to be much intelligence guiding the process.

Puzzling Murder Scene Ripped From The Pages Of Pulp

By: William McNeal

Police last night responded to yet another murder, only to find that this time something was different. This city is infamous for the violence that occurs within its borders, most of which is related to the rampant criminal underground which has overrun much of normal life. Rather than being another in a long line of criminal killings, the murder of George Hobbes presents the police with a different challenge; solving the unsolvable.

Sources in the department have revealed key details of the scene, which paint a picture straight out of a mystery novel. Mr. Hobbes' body was discovered, stabbed to death, in the middle of a locked room. The initial investigation has revealed no evidence of tampering with the locks, nor any other means for a killer to have gotten in and out of the room. It is, by all accounts, a real-life mystery.

It is too early to rush to judgement, but this case could very well become a referendum on the entirety of the city's law enforcement. Their ability to solve this case would go a long way towards restoring faith in law and order in the face of overwhelming violence and bloodshed. Citizens have spent far too long living in fear, as criminal enterprises take control of all aspects of life in this city. The police have been powerless to stop their advance, but have maintained normal order outside their ranks.

This case will present an opportunity for the police to flex their muscles and prove they have not given up chasing the evils that plague our streets. The statistics may make catching every killer difficult, but they can show they are not picking only the low-hanging fruit. Solving a high-profile murder, with the spotlights shining on them, will give pause even to the criminal underbelly that has for so long relied on police negligence and incompetence.

Watching this case play out will be a watershed moment for this city. Our very futures may depend on it.

Chapter 6

Reminders Of Death

Dawn is supposed to bring new hope, the promise of another day. Each sunrise carries in it the warm embrace of possibility, the chance to set ourselves on a new path and make all right again with the world. Morning light stirred no hope in Detective Knox's soul. Sunlight didn't shine on miracles; it made clear the scars and debris left on the battlefield after the fight for survival took yet more casualties the night before. He looked around the city and saw nothing but reminders of death, a concrete cemetery that entombed him.

Sleep had eluded him, not that he gave any effort to the cause. His mind was too filled with questions to shut down for even a moment. Some days he thought of himself as a machine in perpetual motion, and if he ever stopped the endless torrent of his thoughts, he would surely die. It may have been a justification for his obsession, but convincing an addict of the damage his drug of choice has done is nearly impossible, and Knox made sure no one tried staging such an intervention on his behalf.

He was an addict, and enjoyed the fix too much; he reveled in weaving the threads together to form the tapestry of truth. Without truth, there was nothing in life worth surviving for. This outlook was bleak, he knew, but it made his life possible. If indeed he was merely waiting for the reaper to call his name, there was no sense denying himself a little bit of fulfillment along the way.

The precinct was normally empty so early in the morning, but Knox did not walk into a box devoid of life. Phones already buzzed, keyboards clattered uninterrupted strings of letters, and the clamor of voices mingled together in one unholy howl. This, Knox thought, proved how important it was for him to keep chasing evil, to continue trying to convince the people that crime was a consequence of, and not the cause of, life. Against this backdrop, he had no choice but to smile, fill his lungs, and brace himself for when reality would come down from above and crush him as it always did.

Detective Lane waited at his desk, the look of an eager puppy on his face. Knox knew already it was going to be a long, tortuous day. Lane didn't move until Knox sat, and after handing a cup of what was politely called coffee to his partner, he began.

“George Hobbes doesn't have much family, but they're all in the city, so they're our prime suspects. We've rounded them up, and they should all be here shortly. I convinced the captain to let us handle all three of the interviews.”

Knox was not impressed by his partner's display of initiative. Talking to suspects was a chore, one Knox preferred to leave to others, so he could focus his attention on more important tasks, which to him meant anything but human conversation. Hearing the words as they were spoken wouldn't reveal anything more than a transcript would, and served only to slow down his access to the information he needed. Body language was one Detective Knox did not speak, his eyes giving him no more information than words would convey. If anything, Knox thought, he learned less by being in the room, because he was distracted by the uncomfortable choice of where his gaze should be focused.

“Why on earth would you have done that?”

Lane didn't understand the question. He assumed any detective worth his salt would want to conduct the interviews himself, to control the proceedings and make sure no detail escaped attention. Knox didn't operate according to the conventions, which made it hard for Lane to know how to proceed. It put him continually in the wrong, making the desired progress of getting into Knox’s good graces impossible.

“I figured you would want to be the one to question them, since only you know what you have in your mind.”

“You have a point, or I suppose you would, if I had a theory to work with. I'm drawing a blank right now.”

“Trust me, something one of them says is going to lead you off on a trail that you'll be interested in following.”

“There's that trust word again. You know I don't like it.”

“I do, but I also know that feeding your pessimism isn't healthy. If we both think we're going to fail, it kind of becomes self-fulfilling.”

* * *

Faith Hobbes carried herself with an unusual air of confidence, considering the circumstances. Though no longer the doting wife, she came into the precinct inexorably tied to her ex-husband, a fact that should have led her to show sympathy, either real or imagined. That she didn't try to hide the lack of emotion she felt was telling, at least to Detective Knox. It might not have been an indicator of guilt, but it revealed the sort of woman she was, and what she could be capable of.

Sitting across the table from him, she gave off the same air of burden he did, as though neither one of them wanted to be in the room together. His reticence stemmed from his displeasure at having to talk with people who would offer little in the way of insight, while hers was forged from an attitude of nonchalance. It appeared, looking at her, that she didn't care that her former spouse was dead, or that she was one of the likely suspects.

“Mrs. Hobbes, you understand we have to ask you some questions about your husband, don't you?”

“Ex-husband. Please get that right.”

Knox had left the qualifier off intentionally, digging for whatever feeling there was beneath her polished surface. She was skilled at not showing her hand, at keeping up appearances at all costs. Prying information from her would either be futile, or she would give it without a second thought. Sociopaths were hard to predict, even for a trained detective.

“My apologies. Let's begin with your relationship with your ex-husband. How would you characterize it?”

“Necessary.”

Knox almost laughed at her answer, which caught him off-guard. Few people were able to be so blunt with him, and to do it with no pretense of apology was startling. This woman, he thought, was something entirely different from the person he expected.

“That's not a very descriptive answer.”

“How are you supposed to put complex things into simple words?”

“With one word after another.”

She did not appreciate Knox's levity, nor the assumption it contained that she was holding back from him. Her reply was brusque, but honest. A lie, constructed to give him what she thought he wanted to hear, would have been far more complicated.

“We had a relationship typical of people who are no longer together. Some days we didn’t get along, and other days we talked.”

“And what happened on those days?”

“We would fight, as is customary in such cases. Love and hate are not opposites, nor are they mutually exclusive.”

“So it's fair to say you might have wanted him dead.”

“Of course.”

Again, she caught Detective Knox by surprise. Only grand-standers and attention seekers tended to openly admit to such feelings, so her confession struck well outside the bounds of normalcy. Knox wasn't sure what to make of her; whether she was putting on a defiant act, or whether she was incapable of understanding how her words would be construed.

“Really?”

“There were many times I wished for him to be dead, but we know wishes don't come true.”

“But this time they did.”

“Perhaps yes, perhaps no. We don't always know what we wish for until it’s been granted.”

“Did you want your ex-husband dead yesterday?”

She hesitated as she gathered her thoughts. Knox sensed genuine contemplation, having spent enough time lost in his own mind to recognize the signs. It was an open question for her, one whose answer was a matter of fact, not one with an obvious choice if ever asked.

“I can't say for sure. It's possible my subconscious was thinking it.”

“And what exactly was the conscious part of your brain doing instead?”

“Oh, you mean you want to know what my alibi is, don't you?”

“If you would be so kind.”

“But of course. I'm afraid to inform you that, regardless of my intentions towards my dear ex-husband, I couldn't have killed him, if you're thinking such a thing. I was out all evening.”

“Doing what?”

“My new fiancé took me shopping for a wedding ring. We were at the jewelers trying to find the perfect one.”

“And they can corroborate your story?”

“You'll have to ask them.”

“Can you think of anyone else who might want to kill your ex-husband?”

“Absolutely.”

Knox was beginning to ask himself if he hadn't indeed fallen asleep into a lucid dream. He had never questioned anyone who cared so little about the conventions of pretense. Faith Hobbes was a woman unlike any he had ever met, and he was utterly captivated by her. Amongst the pieces of the puzzle he was trying to solve, he had found a second riddle tucked inside, one he might have to decode before the bigger picture would fall into place.

“Who would that be?”

“Our children, Emerson and Tory. They had their own issues with their father.”

This couldn't be real, Knox thought, as he struggled to find his next words. An improbable case deserved a suitably difficult set of characters, and Knox had never come across one quite like her. Detective Lane's words came back to him, that he should maintain faith. He realized Lane had been right, as she had uncovered Knox's optimism. No matter where the investigation led him, Knox had met the most fascinating human enigma he could have imagined.

“We'll be speaking to them next.”