He selected one of many identical pieces of plastic, fondling it quickly before stretching his hand out as one would throw meat to a hungry animal. Fear may have been the culprit, or he could have been awkward because of the atrophied sense of coordination caused by a life sitting in front of a computer. Knox took the drive from his hand, being careful not to touch him. Not knowing how deep the neuroses ran, Knox didn't want to set off more alarms than he needed to.
“That flash drive has the decrypted files on it. You can view them as they were, or you can look at them according to the sorting we did. Everything on the original drive is on that one, so if there isn't anything helpful in the files, please don't blame me.”
“Don't worry, kid. I don't want to come back here anymore than you want me to.”
“Oh good.”
“You said it.”
* * *
The detectives returned to their desks, and the clamor of the precinct was music to Knox's ears. He missed the noise whenever it disappeared. Being left alone with your thoughts is only helpful when you have things in your mind that are worth exploring. Otherwise, hearing nothing but your own inner voice is a form of torture.
Detective Lane inserted the drive, watching the list grow as the files loaded. On first inspection, the names seemed innocuous enough; financial files that Mr. Hobbes would not have wanted the prying eyes of his family to see, medical records that dated back for decades, records of correspondence that may very well have cataloged his entire life. Knox thought it depressing that a man's whole existence, the sum total of who he was, could be shrunk down and fit upon a small piece of plastic that could easily be drowned in a cup of coffee. This was the future, as far as he was concerned, and it was not the utopia he had been promised.
The detectives split the files, reading through the mundane details as quickly as they could. If they dared take their time, Detective Knox was afraid some of the details would become embedded in his mind, and he did not wish to create lasting memories of a person he never even had the misfortune of knowing. Over the course of his career, Knox had developed the skill of reading without learning, skimming through the reams of information and identifying what was important enough to keep, while throwing aside the junk data. It was a skill that carried over into his personal life, a fact that those few people Knox let in would make him aware of. Being a good detective, he thought, was not compatible with being a good person.
The clock dizzied, the hands turning round as the hours passed. Frustration grew on their faces as their search deepened, both because they had found nothing, and because they had not farmed the work out to less experienced officers who had little else better to spend their time on. Knox never let anyone else do the work, because only he knew what they were looking for, or so he thought. The reasons for this behavior was a topic he tried not to broach with himself.
“Knox, look at this.”
Lane summoned him over to his desk, waving his hand in the air in the feigned belief that such an admonishment would make a difference. Knox's bones creaked as he moved, the hinges needing oil if he was not to rust away.
“What did you find?”
“It's a letter, written by Hobbes, but not addressed to anyone.”
“What's so interesting about that.”
“Nothing. It's what the letter says.”
“Paraphrase it.”
“Hobbes is writing to tell someone about getting kidnapped. He says he got picked up off the street, driven in circles in the back of a van, and then was knocked out with drugs. Then he says he woke up back at home, in bed, when his alarm clock went off. That's weird, right?”
“Yes it is. That sounds like a clue to me, the first one we've had.”
“Yeah, but how are we going to put it to use?”
“We're going to dissect every word of that letter, and we'll figure something out. He wouldn't have written such a thing if he wasn't trying to get some important information to someone. The answer is in there, it has to be.”
“You want me to go old school and print you out a copy?”
“You're starting to learn, kid. Oh, and good work, by the way.”
“Did you just say . . .”
“Leave it be, kid.”
Chapter 15
Artificial Suns
Detective Knox's eyes lost focus as the words on the page slowly metamorphosed into a Rorschach test, the lines and curves losing their form and function, devolving into a scattered mess of sharp-edged ink. Hours had passed by in a blur, the light becoming flimsy and blue as day turned to night, and artificial suns powered his quest. This was not a way to achieve success, he knew, but giving up, even for a moment, seemed to be the coward's way out. Detective Lane had rested enough for the both of them, Knox felt.
His eyes ran over the words repeatedly, stretching their meaning to find something that would tell him what he needed to know. The message was clear, but it wasn't pointed enough to show him the way forward. In that way, the letter taunted him, tantalized him with the prospect of finding the answers he so desperately sought. All that needed to be done was crack the code, find the truth hidden in the enigma. That task seemed more daunting with each passing minute, as the hands on the clock tried to outrun one another.
Detective Lane returned with fresh eyes, enough energy replenished to convince an onlooker he was still alive. Leaning back in his chair, he held the paper above his head, watching the light from above filter through the cheap parchment. It was as though heaven itself was shining through, or so he would say, as a thought occurred to him.
“What if we have this all wrong?”
“I'm sure we do. What's your point?”
“I mean, what if instead of this letter telling us exactly what happened, it's telling us where to look for the real answers?”
“How is that going to help us? There isn't a location in there.”
“I know, but hear me out. If a guy gets kidnapped, what would make him hide whatever he knew about it? He didn't report it to us, and he didn't tell his kids about it.”
“We didn't ask them. They might know.”
“Let's assume they don't, since I'd like to think at least one of them would have mentioned such a thing.”
“That's a dangerous assumption to make. People aren't as good as you think, but go on.”
“So if he didn't tell anyone about it, why write the letter at all, and leave it on an encrypted flash drive that no one could get into? It doesn't make any sense.”
“Murder doesn't always make sense. Sometimes, you find that it's all just random.”
“You're a pessimist.”
“Yes I am, and for good reason. There's no reason to be positive.”
“Whatever. All I'm saying is that, in light of knowing about the kidnapping, we might want to take another look at the whole case. The best place to hide something is in plain sight. How much do you want to bet we've already seen exactly what we're looking for without knowing it?”
“I'm not a betting man, remember.”
“Do you have to be so literal about everything?”
“No, but watching you get worked up amuses me.”
Detective Lane sprang from his seat, embracing the fumes of youth that had not yet been burned off. Long fingers wrapped around thick stacks of folders, clutching the papers with a tight grip. A low grunt escaped his lips as he picked up the files, feeling the weight of the case as he positioned the pile high above his desk, then releasing them with dramatic flair. They tipped off axis, sliding off one another as they landed, but without the thunderous noise he had hoped for.