Maybe then we can scrap the department and start from scratch, which might be the only solution.
Chapter 17
Ghosted Echo
Sunlight heralded the arrival of the new day, casting a hue of gold over the city. For a few brief moments, those precious seconds between opening your eyes and remembering where you are, the world was beautiful. Windows glistened with the rain of the night, shining like diamonds studded in their settings of concrete. The city was not a jewel, nor would it ever be confused with one, but for a few moments, on lucky days, there was reason to remember what hope felt like.
Detective Knox opened his eyes to the beam that shone through his window, unmoved by the wonder of nature. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, muttering a curse under his breath, wondering if the sun was a torture device planted by God to slowly torment him into madness. While the rest of the city was reveling in a few moments of warmth and optimism, he was rubbing his eyes to remove the ghosted echo of the sun, already sure the day was on a path to ruin. Optimism was a disease, Knox thought, one that he had been fortunate never to contract. In those rare moments when he understood why people could embrace optimism, he wondered how people could live with such a burden.
As a pessimist, Detective Knox was only surprised when the strangers known as success and happiness paid unexpected visits, arriving under a cloak of mystery. Not expecting them made those moments of genuine happiness that much stronger, steeping the feelings in the boiling tumult that was his soul. Little victories that passed unnoticed for most people, were, for him, minor miracles. Optimists might be happier more often, but their feelings were shallow in comparison to his. Only men who embraced the dark side of life, like Detective Knox, could truly appreciate when the skies parted.
Detective Knox was in his usual foul mood by the time he arrived at the precinct, fresh coffee stains dotting circles on his tie, the roof of his mouth smooth where he had burned himself. His tongue ran over it endlessly, feeling the dying skin as it slowly separated, blistering that reminded him of how even the things he loved the most could hurt him. It was a lesson he did not need to recall on a daily basis, much less on a day when he knew he was walking down the staircase into his own personal hell.
Detective Lane was already at his desk when Knox arrived, his head buried in reports. His hand moved furiously, scribbling notes that would defy archaeologists in the future, giving rise to what seemed like a new language. Knox took his seat, waiting to see how long it would take his partner to notice his arrival. Lane continued, covering the paper with ink, only stopping when all the spaces were filled.
“Oh, hey, I didn't notice you get in. You must have snuck up on me.”
“Or you just really like paperwork.”
“One of us has to fill them out, and we both know it's not going to be you.”
“You do know me.”
“So we've got all three of the family members here already.”
“Rich people showed up on time? What's the world coming to?”
“Yeah, go figure. Anyway, they're all here, so we can start anytime. Did you want to talk to them all together, or one at a time?”
“As much as I'd like to get this done as quickly as possible, I don't think I could stand to listen to them if they got into an argument. We'll take them one by one.”
“Will do. Mrs. Hobbes is in interview room one.”
* * *
Faith Hobbes sat behind the plank of wood masquerading as a table with an air of dignity, a grace that belied the situation she found herself in. Although she was not being interrogated, her surroundings should have sparked a degree of disgust in a woman of her status. Her eyes remained fixed ahead, unwilling to drift towards the corners of the room, where lines of mildew grew like wildflowers. The edges of the floor were stained a rich, deep brown, as though coffee had been the only cleaning agent used. The room was a box, a utilitarian setup that served only the purpose of isolation, with little use for anything approaching comfort. It seemed to her perfectly appropriate that a building that housed so many monsters should look as inhuman as they were.
Detective Knox read the lines on her face, or the places where they should have been, looking for signs of her mood. She was a stoic creature, one well-adapted to keeping her emotions in check. Knox appreciated this, as he was uncomfortable having to hold the hands of grieving family members who could only speak to him through a wash of their tears. Faith Hobbes was not one of those women; she was a steely creature who treated other people like chattels, tools to be used to achieve her own ends. Knox made no moral judgments, he merely agreed with her that some people were tools.
“Detective, I don't know why I'm here. I already told you everything I know, so unless you've caught my ex-husband's killer, I really don't see the point.”
“I'm afraid we haven't caught his killer yet, but we do have a new lead we're working on. That's where we were hoping you would be able to help us.”
“I don't see how, but go ahead.”
“It's come to our attention that something happened to your ex-husband the day before his murder. Do you know anything about it?”
For the first time, Faith Hobbes' facade cracked. Her brow lowered in the middle, the painted streaks of black turning into an expression that resembled confusion. Detective Knox had trouble seeing it through the thick layers of makeup, and the forced immobilization of her face, but he swore he could see the muscles twitching, though not firing, in an attempt to move her towards humanity.
“I have no idea what you're talking about.”
“So he didn't tell you about anything strange that may have happened to him?”
“I assure you he did not. He was a boring man, so I think I would remember if he said something that wasn't.”
“You paint a lovely picture of him. So you didn't know that your ex-husband had been kidnapped?”
Even an untrained observer of human nature could see the very idea bounce off her, sliding down to the floor. Kidnapping, Faith Hobbes thought, required a victim someone desperately wanted. She could not fathom how anyone might feel that way about her ex-husband.
“Kidnapped? Heavens, no. Who would want to take him?”
“That's what we were hoping you could tell us.”
“I'm sorry, but I don't know who would think he was valuable enough. He isn't exactly the kind of target you would associate with such a thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Isn't it obvious? He had money, yes, but almost all of that was going to a family member already. Other than money, he was an ordinary person. The whole thing seems like a joke, because he is about the last person to waste your time kidnapping. Whoever did it must have been amateurs.”
“That's interesting, you used the present tense one time.”
“I did? How odd. I suppose people never die as long as you don't remember proper grammar at all times.”
“That's one way of looking at it.”
* * *
Emerson Hobbes was less stoical than his mother, his demeanor more indifferent than insolent. With his feet resting atop the table, he reclined to ease the flow of blood to his extremities, reducing the wear and tear on the heart people were not sure he had. Detective Knox despised him, as he did all those who refused to apologize for the arrogance that privilege bestows upon them. His position, Knox thought, might make it possible for blood to actually reach his brain and engage it, not that it contained any wisdom worth hearing.