Detective Knox thought about how crazy it sounded in his head, that he was working a case in which a man murdered in a locked room had been kidnapped the day before, with no one knowing anything about either incident. Such a scenario was implausible, even for the myopic denizens of the city, but yet it appeared to be the truth. He turned the thought over in his mind, letting the dark, rich soil at the bottom come to light, hoping to find a buried molecule of reason amidst the tilling.
Detective Lane watched from across the desk, trying to figure out how the mechanism was turning in Knox's brain. Though he hadn't been a detective long, he was confident he had the aptitude and skill to succeed, but his partner was inexplicable. With each passing day, Lane's confidence in himself waned, bleached by the power of Knox's star. There was much he could learn from Detective Knox, but Lane grew frustrated that he was not being given the chance to prove himself, that he was not given the trust to be let in on the secrets of the process
Left to himself, Detective Knox would have spent the entire day lost in his own thoughts, oblivious to the world around him. It was a process Lane had watched before, one that he could not grasp. The art of detection, he was told, lay in looking past what you already know to make connections that are not always clear. By avoiding discussion, by removing the opportunity to see the evidence from more than one perspective, Lane felt that Knox was limiting himself.
Detective Knox thought that the process Lane preferred was flawed, that seeing new perspectives was not always enlightening, that it often opened doors that led straight into brick walls. Knox had solved enough cases in his career to trust himself, a feat he had not yet encountered with Lane. Knox did not doubt that Lane could be valuable, but he knew the likelihood of seeing the truth was greater if he focused on himself. He owed it to Lane to correct that, in time, but they were always entrenched in one case or another, and he was not going to jeopardize an investigation for the sake of being a good teacher.
Detective Lane was hesitant to speak, but he knew that Knox had blind spots, and needed to be pushed out of the way, before being run over.
“There's someone else we need to talk to.”
Detective Knox's focus broke, his eyes snapping back to attention, the color flooding back as he began to see again. His head turned slowly in Lane's direction, a dramatic movement that was an affectation of intimidation.
“What are you talking about?”
“We asked the family if they knew anything about the kidnapping, but we forgot someone.”
“Who?”
“The neighbor, Anna Summers. She sees everything that happens in that neighborhood, so there's a chance she might have seen something, don't you think.”
“Actually, you might be on to something. That's not a bad idea.”
“Is this where you trot out that line about blind squirrels finding nuts?”
“Nah. At least the squirrels know what they're looking for.”
* * *
George Hobbes' house was quiet, dark, and stood against the sky like a Gothic still-life. The black outline against the gray sky reminded Detective Knox of a Victorian funeral portrait. It could have been the house itself that was the victim of the most horrific crime. Despite standing for generations, and housing life from beginning to end, the black stain of murder poured over every inch, turning it into a sideshow attraction. No longer would a family look at the facade and see the hope of a rich life, nor would those walls serve as a comforting sense of security. Instead, the house seemed to stand as a monolith of murder, a reminder of the ugliness that lives inside us all.
Knox watched the house from the other side of the street, where he assumed most everyone would stand from then on, only a morbid few daring to venture closer for a better look. It had become a curiosity, a thing to be pointed out while driving by, destined to forever remain the setting for ghost stories. At least, Knox thought, in that way it would continue to live. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.
Detective Lane threw his fist against the door, his bony knuckles striking with a sharp, shrill sound. Knox was once again startled out of his thoughts. This was a habit he needed to cure Lane of, if their partnership were to flourish. He watched the door move, slowly creeping away from the jamb, exposing only an inch of the silent interior.
“What can I do for you, detectives?”
“If you can open the door,” Lane offered, “we just need to ask you a few questions.
Anna pulled back on the handle, sliding the door open enough for her slim frame to slither through the opening, clutching the knob behind her as she stood in the weak daylight.
“What do you think I can help you with?”
“Did you see George Hobbes the day before his murder?”
“Yes, I saw him almost every day.”
“But you didn't talk to him.”
“No.”
“Did you notice anything unusual about him? Anything that, with hindsight, seemed suspicious?”
“When something like that happens, everything seems suspicious.”
“I suppose so, but is there anything in particular you think would help us?”
“No, he didn't seem any different than normal. He was doing the same things he always did.”
“Did he look sick, or injured?”
“I couldn't tell from over here. Sorry I can't be of more help.”
Detectives Knox and Lane turned away and before they had taken a step, they heard the sound of the door shutting behind them. Knox could not blame her for wanting to stay tucked away from the greater world. He would have done the same thing, if he hadn't been hardened to feel a violent end was inevitable. People who have hope should be scared, he thought, because hope is terrifying.
“Well, Lane, how did it feel to lead an interview?”
“It either felt like an accomplishment that you relinquished a bit of control, or it felt like you just wanted to be lazy.”
“Now that you said that, you know which one I'm opting for.”
“Speaking of control, I suppose this is when you're going to tell me that we need to get back over to the kidnapping scene to see if we can find any additional clues.”
“There's no hurry. Nothing is going to change if we wait until after lunch to get over there.”
“I'm glad to hear you say that.”
“Oh you are, are you?”
“Yes. I have something I need to go take care of, so I will meet you there in an hour. How's that sound?”
“That sounds fine, but now I want to know what you're up to.”
“Use your skills of detection. I'm sure you'll find out.”
“Don't fly too close to the sun, kid.”
* * *
Detective Lane ducked into a corner booth, away from the windows, hidden from view. He felt guilty sneaking around like this, not telling his partner what was going on, but getting off the leash was sometimes necessary. Lane put his hand up, signaling for the waitress to put the ubiquitous cup of coffee on the table in front of him. He began sipping reflexively; drinking was a nervous habit more than anything else. The addiction began as a means of filling the stereotype, until the caffeine established a foothold. Now, he struggled to make it through a day without feeding his need, lest he fall prey to withdrawal.
Lane knew nothing of real withdrawal, the pain that comes with cleansing your body of the poisons that give it life. His was but a mere inconvenience compared to those with real problems, but even so, he could sympathize with those who lived their lives in the shadows of their inner demons. Perhaps that made him unfocused, unable to shut off everything else in pursuit of the truth, but he felt it made him a better detective. Being human allowed him to see things Detective Knox could not, even if the proof of that hypothesis had yet to be unearthed.