“No.”
“So we have an understanding?”
“Yes, I think we do.”
Chapter 23
A Synonym Of Crazy
Detective Lane was waiting for his partner as Knox emerged from the elevator, a Cheshire grin cracking the stony features of his face. Lane had never seen his partner in such a state before, so he was unsure what sordid dealings had gone on in his absence. Detective Knox could not hide his satisfaction. It was an unnatural state, one whose appearance could have been interpreted as an omen of the end of days. Lane chose to be optimistic, assuming that Detective Knox had not been possessed by a demon, in a reversal of the normal trope.
Detective Knox was walking slower than when he entered the building, his steps barely making contact with the ground. Watching from across the lobby, Lane could see how the expression about walking on air came about, because for a moment he swore he could see Knox floating above the tiled floor. It was a striking visual, one he could not explain. Of all the people Detective Lane had ever met, Knox was the last one he could have seen being inhabited by the spirit of the angels.
Detective Knox put his hand on Lane's shoulder as he walked by, prodding his partner to walk with him, and not follow behind like a baby duck chasing its mother. Lane searched his memory, but could not remember another instance of Knox being so intimate with him, which made the moment even more unsettling. Without giving it a thought, Lane swung his eyes from side to side, looking to see if he was being prepared for the reveal of a cruel practical joke.
“You know, kid, sometimes it feels good to get things off your chest.”
“You didn't hurt that guy, did you?”
Lane braced for the assault he knew was coming, having questioned Knox's integrity. Rather than a sharp rejoinder piercing him, he felt Knox's hand slapping him on the back in what he could only assume Knox meant as a show of comity. Clearly, Detective Knox did not know much about the proper expression of positive feelings, but Lane could sense the intent. The absurdity of the moment intensified his worry.
“No, I didn't hurt him. You saw that guy, he was a little pencil-neck. Guys like that break in half if you breathe on them the wrong way.”
“So why do you seem so happy?”
“What? A guy can't be happy?”
“Not you. You don't know the meaning of the word.”
“Of course I do. It's a synonym of crazy, right?”
“Seriously, what happened up there?”
“If you must know, which I guess you do, I may or may not have made a couple of vague threats that he took to heart. We came to an understanding.”
“That's you're big plan? You threaten a journalist into being nicer to us?”
“There's your problem, you can't see the big picture. I don't care what he says about us. I'm sure everyone calls me any number of colorful things, and I can't say I ever give it a second thought. But when he starts saying things that make our job harder, that's where the line is drawn.”
“So you're saying you're a moral crusader.”
“I'm a superhero. Your words, not mine.”
“What happened to the dour, serious, miserable bastard I normally have to work with?”
“He'll be back soon. This high doesn't last very long.”
“Thank heavens. I don't think I could take much more of it.”
* * *
Detective Knox had barely set foot in the precinct when he heard his name called out. All eyes turned towards him, but Knox was unsinkable, and preferred to consider their looks as a reflection of their scornful jealousy. His name conjured up feelings of deep-seated inadequacy in his fellow-officers. Detective Knox did not consider it his fault that he had become the epitome of a detective, that he had become the bar by which all others were judged. All he had done was go about his business, leaving the politics of the job to those who were more cutthroat. He was not interested in rising up the ranks, which was ironic since he was the obstacle who stood in the way of so many others’ progress.
Detective Lane also heard the call, and his thoughts immediately turned to their expedition. He had considered Knox's happiness an illusion, and the curtain was about to be drawn back. As they made their way to the front desk, their footsteps echoing in the unusually quiet precinct, Lane prepared for the worst. Discipline was new to him, having never colored outside the lines of his job before, to which he could only hope Knox would be able to make a good case for his innocence.
The desk sergeant waited for the detectives to approach the chest-high slab of mahogany, their hands atop the surface, waiting for a ruler to snap down and chide them for their misdeeds. She looked down at them, possibly realizing the expectation in their eyes, stifling a laugh which turned into a snort.
“Relax guys, you're not in trouble.”
“We didn't think we were.”
“Uh huh. I see that look in your eye. You were up to something.”
“Something isn't anything until someone complains.”
“You rely on that too much. One of these days you're going to get burned.”
“Who, me? People love me.”
This time, she could not contain even a fraction of her laughter, which echoed through the station. Knox looked back to see the same faces once again turn in his direction, and quickly return to their work upon realizing his nose had not been bloodied.
“You keep telling yourself that.”
“So what did you call us over for?”
“Doctor Morse has something to tell you. He wants you to meet him down in his lab.”
* * *
Detective Lane was filled with trepidation as they stepped out of the elevator, into the deepest recesses of the precinct. These areas were avoided by all but the most morbid, a house of death that had seen the souls of thousands clinging to the earth, until their grip was lost and they were dragged to their final destination.
Detective Knox was not one to be bothered by such thoughts. Death was a natural phenomenon, and the presence of the dead should not have made a place any more disconcerting than any other. Even if the crack-pots he locked up during his early years working the streets were right, and those rooms were actually haunted by the ghosts of decades of the dead, Knox did not care. He had spent his life avenging these lost souls, and tracking down their killers, so he could see no reason any would desire to haunt him.
Knox swung the door open, bumping it with his hip, careful not to touch the handle. Though he was not afraid of death, he felt no need to cover himself in any of the residual effects of it. He would be dead soon enough, he figured, so there was no need to get accustomed to the feeling until it was absolutely necessary. His imagination could fill in the details for the time being. As Knox swung through the door, he was confronted by a scene straight out of a black comedy. Dr. Morse was crouched alongside the examination table, the entire length of his forearm disappeared inside a body. Detective Knox put a hand to his face, pinching the excess skin between his eyes, putting the comedy of the situation into perspective. Just behind Knox, Detective Lane turned back into the hallway, his stomach trying to jump out of his mouth.
“Doc, please tell me you aren't trying to use that body as a hand puppet.”
“What? Oh, no. I'm trying to retrieve an item without making the body unfit for an open-casket funeral.”
“You know that's his backside, right?”
“You haven't seen his face. They might want to display him this way.”
Detective Knox chuckled at the thought, and nodded to himself that the idea was not so absurd. In his time, he had encountered more than his share of people he deemed assholes, so displaying the deceased ones in their true light seemed fitting. He imagined how many of the people in his life would have said the same about him.