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?”