Текст книги "Dark City"

Автор книги: Christopher M. Colavito

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Chapter 21

Film Noir

Silence rode along with Detectives Knox and Lane as they returned to the precinct. Knox preferred silence to any form of conversation; he enjoyed listening to the pistons firing in perfect sequence, waiting for the moment when the mechanism failed, and like everything else the heart of the mechanical beast died. Though he was no mechanic, Detective Knox could hear the sound of death in any form, so much so that he often thought death followed him around like a morbid shadow.

Detective Lane was of a different mind. He craved the camaraderie, the bond that was formed by the sharing of experiences. He was also a prudent man, and understood that pushing Detective Knox beyond the boundaries of their relationship was an exercise that would only serve to alienate him from his partner, would only stop whatever progress he had made towards becoming the detective he ultimately wanted to be. Thus, Lane sat in silence, listening to the engine's chorus rise and fall with each stoplight, feeling not altogether different than the gears themselves, forced to do their jobs with no hope of escape.

Freedom was not something Detective Lane craved. Following orders was a trait embedded in him from his earliest days at the academy, when he realized the risks he would face every day he was on the job. He did not sign up completely naïve, but the reality of life and death strikes more severely when you hold a gun in your hand, and you realize anyone standing opposite you might be doing the same. Freelancing was a signature on a death certificate, a fate Detective Lane preferred to leave up to nature.

They made slow progress through the city, every light red, the fresh bulbs burning brighter than usual, leaving echoes in Lane's eyes as they made their slow procession. The delays gave Lane more time to think, although he did not want to consider the conversation he had with his partner, the betrayal of going behind his back and revealing his distrust of Knox's methods as a teacher, but there was nothing in the moment to distract him. He was consumed by guilt, knowing he had proven all Knox's doubts about him right.

After what seemed like an eternity, the precinct came into view, the cold gray exterior as steely and stoical as the force itself. Lane wondered if the buildings were that way because the architecture had infected them, or if they had metamorphosed to reflect the people inside. Whichever the case, it was an appropriate setting, and encapsulated what policing the city entailed.

Detective Knox swung the car through the last corner; to him red was merely a darker shade of yellow, and he was unaware the car had functional brakes. His hands chopped over the top of the wheel, spinning it wildly from one direction to the other, sending the car onto the edges of the tires, testing their strength as they struggled to keep the air from forcing its way out. Knox stomped on the brake, bringing the heap of rust and steel to a stop, the cabin bouncing on the flabby springs as Lane put a hand to his chest to make sure his heart had not stopped.

Lane exited the car slowly, careful as he placed his feet on the ground, making sure it was solid. He turned his head to see Detective Knox standing at the car's nose, making mental notes about its placement.

“Getting old sucks, except for parking spots. There's something to be said for getting the best spots, because you've got seniority. I love it.”

“If you don't have to fight for a parking spot, why do you insist on driving like it's the last one on earth?”

“It's a game, kid. I see how fast I can go and still put the car squarely between the lines. Plus, I know it scares the hell out of you.”

“Why do you enjoy torturing me?”

“Because you put up such a stink about it. Hearing you complain is fun.”

Detective Lane threw up his hands, admitting defeat. Another lesson had just been taught about the value of silence, how he brought torment upon himself by voicing his complaints. Lane had figured that such juvenile thinking, that needling whoever spoke up loudest, had long since been outgrown. He was wrong, he realized. Those attitudes do not dissipate with time, they merely get reassigned to the few vestiges of the schoolyard that remain in adult life.

Inside, he felt more comfortable, as the droning routine of the job took over. By now familiar with the drill, he hugged the wall, heading to retrieve two cups of coffee, while Detective Knox went to their desks. When Lane made his way to his seat, Knox was hanging up the phone in his usual way, throwing the receiver and hoping it would end the call. If it missed, he at least was content that no one would be able to call and disturb him.

“Bad news?”

“Not at all. The tech guys said the footage should be on our computers now, so we don't have to make a trip down there. Pull it up, will you? Let's see what we have.”

Lane found the notification on the screen, and opened the file as Knox came around to have a closer look. These instances were among the few in which Lane felt valuable, when he knew he was important, because Knox had neither the skills nor the patience to deal with the technological side of being a detective. Knox liked to think of the world as film noir, a place where crimes could be solved with a carton of extinguished cigarettes and an empty bottle of whiskey. He had not evolved with the times, and the necessity of having a partner who could operate the modern world for him could have explained much of Knox's seeming misanthropy.

The footage was dark, grainy, a relic of a time when moving images were seen as a trick of the devil. Through the driving rain and thick, foggy air, the outline of a van appeared. Black as the night, the shadowy outline moved into camera view, then out to the edges. It sat still as Lane moved the footage further along, then after waiting for some time, it left again. Lane played it back, then again, each time scouring a different part of the screen, looking for some detail that might have escaped them.

Detective Knox turned away after the first viewing, preferring to ruminate on the various undertones of dirt that made every cup of coffee that Lane made taste different. It was necessary for him to distract his mind so that a sudden jolt of wisdom could strike like a bolt of divine lightning, instead of leaving him wondering why he was pumping sludge through his body.

“What do you see on this tape?”

“I didn't see anything, because there's nothing to see. It's a van pulling up in front of a building.”

“I know. I was hoping we would get some sort of glimpse of the people who took George Hobbes.”

“That was wishful thinking. The people who kidnapped Hobbes were professionals. They weren't going to be dumb enough to get caught on a camera while moving him in and out of their hideout.”

“Hideout, really?”

“What else are you going to call it?”

“Good point.”

“Exactly.”

Lane's screen flashed, alerting him to a new message. He opened it as Knox held up his cup, examining the pattern the grounds left glued at the bottom. It was a habit he could not break, despite the connotations that came with looking into the filth of the liquid he had just consumed. Lane blocked those thoughts from his mind, reading what was in front of him.

“Hey, I just got a message from the tech guys. They were able to enhance the image and get a number on the plate. We can run it, and if we're lucky we'll get a hit.”

“I wouldn't count on it.”

“Just let me try it before you tie me to a lead balloon, will you?”

“By all means, go ahead.”

Detective Lane punched in the numbers, his fingers trembling. at the tips, though he could not say if it was excitement or fear. He hit the last key with a flourish, making sure Knox was paying attention. Seconds later, his screen displayed the answer.

“We found our van.”

“You got a hit?”

“Yes I did. The van was . . .”

“Was what?”

“It was reported stolen the day before the abduction.”

“So it's another dead end.”

“Unless you think we'll be lucky enough for there to have been a camera watching the van when it got taken.”

“I don't.”

“Me neither. It was a good shot, though.”

“The only good shot is a kill shot.”

Detective Knox had learned to tune out the drones that worked in the station, buzzing around. Their movements were blurs to his eyes, smudges of color that only told him when and where was safe to walk. Pushing aside so much of humanity was not an easy skill, but it was one Knox felt was paramount, because he believed every person contained a finite quantity of caring, and spreading it to thin would dilute it to the point of being worthless.

Those thoughts flashed in Knox's mind as an envelope fell onto his desk, sliding off the haphazard stacks of files, and landing on his lap. It seemed to materialize out of thin air, and only when his concentration was broken did Knox look around for the source. By then, he was too late, and the drones had blended back into a faceless wash. He picked the envelope up, reading his name in bold on the front. He ripped it open with the edge of his finger, mangling the package as he pulled out the contents.

He pored over the page, taking in each word carefully. By the time he had finished, his mind was racing, attempting to synthesize everything he had just read. Detective Knox wanted an immediate answer to come to mind, something to point him in the right direction, but he was caught off guard, and his reeling intellect was struggling to regain its footing.

“You don't look so good. What was in that letter?”

“You're not going to believe this.”

“Try me.”

“You know how excited you were about this being a locked room murder? I just got a letter from the killer, taunting me, telling me we're never going to catch them.”

“Seriously?”

“Yup. It says there is no solution to the perfect murder, only imperfect guesses by imperfect men.”

“That's a bit self-aggrandizing, don't you think?”

“That's not the point. It might be right.”

Sound The Alarm: The City Is Burning

By: William McNeal

As the frustration builds in the streets over the investigation into the death of George Hobbes, the city's police have not felt the need to make an official statement in order to comfort the citizens, and stave off panic. That mistake can be added to a long tally of missteps by the department, which has led to the widespread belief that they are either unwilling or incapable of doing their jobs. That sentiment has been expressed before in these pages, and is not without merit.

The public outcry must have finally reached fever pitch, either that or a sense of guilt has overcome someone in the public relations division, because a formal statement about the status of the investigation has finally been made public. As expected, it is not the transparent account the people deserve from their public servants, nor is it an encouraging sign regarding the future.

The crux of the statement lies in the fact that the detectives working the case have made progress in finding a lead, but that nothing concrete has yet been found. This sounds like rampant spin, the kind that is covering up for the fact that there are no leads to follow, and the case is frozen in place.

That is the official line, but my sources tell me a different story. The information I have been given is that there has indeed been a breakthrough in the case, and the detectives are working on a promising new lead. The problem is that the lead does not come in the form of a clue, but in the form of yet another crime.

I have it on good authority that the deceased, George Hobbes, was the victim of an abduction the day before his murder. Rather than an encouraging sign that the investigation has forward momentum, it is a frightening sign that yet another crime had occurred without the police being aware. The fact that a prominent citizen of this city could be abducted without anyone noticing is profoundly disturbing.

The police will try to explain this development away, they will claim there was no way for them to know about such a crime without someone calling it in. That's precisely the problem. If the police have to rely on the people to do their jobs for them, we are all marked for death.

The police cannot keep us safe. That much is proven. What will we do about it?

Chapter 22

A Lucid Nightmare

Each morning was the coming of a new curse, like a magician performing a mean-spirited trick on an unsuspecting audience. As he lay awake in the moments before forcing himself to rise and face the day, Knox often thought that it would have been preferable if fate had decided to take him in his sleep. Waking to this world, day after day, was a lucid nightmare. It was a form of divine punishment for a sin he could not remember well enough to atone for, to be sentenced, every single day, to the horrible moment of remembering where he was.

To his mind, a perfect day would be one where he did not wake at all, where he would be allowed to forget about the death and disease that ravaged the place he called home. He thought about these things as he waited for the alarm to sound, for the digital bleating to cry out in such tortured tones that he would have no choice but to sit up and let the sleep slough off from his body. It was a pointless fit of indolence, he knew, to spend those minutes consumed with thoughts of what he desired not to do, rather than utilizing them for anything productive. Life was like that, an endless series of opportunities to waste your existence in between mandated stops along the way.

With that assumption in place, Detective Knox wondered what was the point of life, why we made the effort to live and breathe each day, when we got so little in return, and the end could come so quickly. The logician in his head could not be silenced, and Knox became consumed by the ugly thought that perhaps nothing mattered. He tried to shake the thought free, to break the bond tying him to it, but a new shoot grew every time he sawed off the limb.

Detective Knox's internal clock never failed, and as he turned his head to the side, he watched the colors change shape with the passing hour, as the wretched noise rose from the tiny box. He let out a deep rush of air, and threw his hand off the edge of the bed, where it landed heavily atop the clock. Each day he hoped the plastic would grow brittle enough to crack under the pressure, for the circuitry to burst forth like the innards of a fatal wound, but the cheap device persisted. It was, like the roaches, one of the last things in the world that would die.

Kat enjoyed the mornings, the crispness of the air, the singing of the birds. They were her favorite times, not least because her husband was fast asleep, and unable to ruin her enjoyment by pointing out all the flaws. She regretted feeling as she did, but she preferred her husband when he was unconscious, because these were the most intimate times they shared. She could open herself up, tell him all the things she knew he didn't want to listen to, in the hope that some of them would sink into his subconscious.

Every morning, as Detective Knox stumbled into the kitchen, she would stare at him and wonder how two human beings could be wired so differently, could see the same world as such radically different places. It never occurred to her that such a huge difference should have ruled them incompatible. It was a fact, no different to any other, rather than a grand pronouncement on the subject of his humanity.

Kat poured the coffee as her husband took his seat, his mind clearly somewhere else. The dark aroma would coax him back into the world of the living, and perhaps leak through and warm his heart. As he took his first sip, he looked up at Kat, and for the first time in ages did not see the expected smile.

“What's wrong? You don't seem like yourself.”

“Relax, I'm fine. You didn't miss any clues, so there's nothing to worry about.”

“So what is it?”

“It's you, not me.”

“You've been waiting to use that line for a long time, haven't you?”

“I have indeed.”

Kat winked as she said this, an affectation Detective Knox was not fond of. He preferred the plain-spoken, being blunt and honest, without the vagueness that comes from subtext. Despite all appearances, his world was black and white at its foundation.

“So what did I do this time?”

“You didn't do anything.”

“This is getting old very fast. Will you please just tell me what's going on?”

“Read the paper. It's right in there.”

Knox grabbed the flimsy rag, peering to make out the fuzzy type. The Herald was no prestigious bastion of journalism, a fact it took full advantage of. Whether through corporate greed, general incompetence, or a sense of morality making sure people did not realize the extent of the city's problems, the news arrived each morning weak and torn, the type blurred and smeared, perhaps by the tears of the unfortunate delivery people who mistakenly read the headlines as they moved up and down the streets.

The headline was clear, resonating in his head as Knox continued reading. The words were daggers, chipping away at his icy exterior, the anger seeping through the cracks. In all his years as a detective, never before had his abilities, nor his very dedication to the job, been questioned, let alone publicly. The editorial was not just an attack on the police, but on him personally, a broadside that caught him with full force.

“This is absolute garbage.”

“I know it is, but what can you do about it? People are going to think what they're going to think.”

“Thinking it is one thing, but printing it is something else.”

“Did you ever hear of a thing called freedom of the press?”

“That doesn't mean they're free to write lies that are going to cause people to panic. It's irresponsible, it's despicable, and everyone who had a hand in that piece should be praying to their deity for forgiveness.”

“That's a bit much, don't you think?”

“Maybe. I don't know. I'm not up to date on what religion thinks about stoking the fires of civil unrest.”

“You could try going to church and finding out.”

“I told you before, it's not just that I don't want to go. They made it clear they don't want me there.”

“You've even been deemed unsaveable by the father of forgiveness. Congratulations.”

“It puts me in strong company.”

* * *

Detective Lane rounded the corner, confused as to where he was meeting his partner. Detective Knox had only given him the bare minimum of information about the place, along with a promise that he would tell all when Lane arrived. Being left in the dark was not a new experience for him, but it was usually explained by Knox exploring new trains of thought, and not having the time to bother informing everyone else of the possibilities. This time, however, Lane could think of no reason why they would be meeting in this particular place, nor what connection it could have to their latest clue.

Detective Knox was standing, impatiently shuffling his weight from one foot to the other, his hand already on the door handle, waiting to pull it open. As Lane came into view, Knox flung the door wide, throwing himself inside. Lane rushed to catch up, if only to find out the cause of such a frenzy. He had never seen Knox move so quickly, or show such a display of emotion. For as long as Lane had known him, Knox was as stoical and philosophical a person as he had ever met. For him to be so unlike himself was a cause for worry.

Knox was waiting for him at the elevator, his large hand holding back the door as the motor struggled to shut it. Lane jogged over as carefully as he could in slick-soled shoes, taking care not to fall on his face and further delay their progress. Though he did not know the circumstances they found themselves in, Lane knew better than to do anything to increase Knox's ire. A quiet man explodes the loudest was the proverb, or parody of one, that Lane thought to himself as he boarded.

“What's going on?”

“Did you read the paper this morning?”

“No, I can't say I did. I don't care to learn about even more bad news than we encounter on a daily basis.”

“That's not a bad idea. I wish I hadn't today, but then these people would get away with it.”

“With what?”

“That putz who's been writing those editorials about how we can't solve the Hobbes murder was at it again, only this time he's telling everyone to fear for their lives, because we can't protect them.”

“I see where this is going.”

“Yeah, the paper's offices are upstairs, and I'm going to give them a piece of my mind. They can't print that kind of trash without expecting a bit of blow-back.”

“I'm not telling you to stop, but did you think about what the brass is going to say when they get wind of what you're doing?”

“I had plenty of time to think about that, since you were late, and they're going to give me a gold-plated coffee mug for this. Someone has to stand up for us.”

“I just hope you know what you're doing.”

“Don't worry, kid. If anything happens, everyone will know to blame me.”

The Herald's offices were meager, a large smoke-stained room containing a handful of people and the sound of furious typing. Ringed around them, like nobles in the Coliseum watching gladiators die, were management’s dimly lit offices. Detective Knox looked at the writers toiling away, beating their fingers into dust at the keys, all for naught. Nothing they wrote for a paper like The Herald would ever give them a career in journalism. They were pawns being run into the ground until they were of no more use, to be replaced by the next eager candidate who was not smart enough to see the job for what it was.

Detective Knox despised those who made use of others, because they violated the fabric of what he considered decency. Parasitic relationships were only permissible if both sides were aware before signing on the dotted line. The writers Knox watched had been lied to, sold a dream that could never become real. Honesty is the cornerstone of humanity, Knox thought, and people who traded in deceit deserved no mourning when they met their end.

Detective Lane followed as they made their way past the desks, past the smell of rotting plywood and water damage, to an office at the back. The door was ajar, leaking the air of arrogance, so the pressure did not build up to dangerous levels. Without breaking stride, Knox put his foot into the door, burying the knob in the wall.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“You'd better be William McNeal, or I just made an embarrassing mistake.”

“I am. What do you want?”

“I want to talk to you about the filth you printed in what you generously call a newspaper this morning.”

“I stand by every word.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“For now.”

“Let me tell you something. You can sit here feeling high and mighty, and judging us for the job we're doing, but you don't have a damn clue what it actually takes to do a real job. All you do is sit in this little office, think your big thoughts, and make yourself feel smart. Guess what? It doesn't work like that in the real world. You want to know why we haven't solved the Hobbes murder? Because this isn't television, and it takes real work, which is something you wouldn't know about. Normally, I wouldn't care if you don't think we're good at our jobs, but there are some lines you just don't cross. Telling people to be afraid, to feel like they aren't safe, that's one of them. Only a bottom-feeder would think that was in anyone's interest. It might get you a bit more attention, but it's not worth it if you no longer own your soul.”

“You don't need to get so angry about a piece in a newspaper. I play a part, it's a character.”

“That doesn't make it any better. I almost wish you were that stupid.”

“So what, you're going to threaten me?”

“Lane, go wait outside.”

Detective Lane looked at his partner, who nodded his head. He looked back at William McNeal, who was not a good enough actor to hide his fear. He admitted to playing a character, so Lane assumed it was Detective Knox's turn to do the same. He turned to the door, feeling a growing unease as he walked away.

“We have recorders all over this place. You'll regret it if you threaten me.”

“I'm not here to threaten you, I'm here to enlighten you.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I know you're not a stupid man, so you'll understand what I'm about to say. You see, eventually, the fear you're stoking in people is going to come to a head. When it does, something bad is going to happen, and you're going to look down and see blood on your hands. When you write the next story about something evil that happened, it's going to be your fault that it did. You're going to have to live with that.”

“And if I can?”

“Kudos to you, in that case. I didn't know people could live without spines, but you're a medical marvel. In any event, you might want to take your own advice and be afraid. I heard that this address isn't being protected by the police anymore. Something about the people thinking they were just as safe without us.”

“Now that sounded like a threat.”

“Nope. Just friendly advice.”

“No offense, but you're not a friend I want to have.”

“That's what everyone says. Oh, and one more piece of advice.”

“Oh good, there's more.”

“Next time you have a source trying to feed you information about my case, you might want to ignore their calls. Do I look like the sort of guy who shares information with the kind of people who would talk to you.”

“No.”

“So we have an understanding?”

“Yes, I think we do.”