Anna Summers was sitting at his desk, in a rickety metal chair meant to discourage potential visitors by making them so uncomfortable anyone with a degree of common sense would leave before spending any length of time waiting. Anna was different, and not easily put off. She sat quietly, her body not shifting or moving to find a spot of less discomfort. She was stoical, calm, and Knox could tell she was not the type of person to give up if he walked away and left her there alone.
Resigned to this, Detective Knox motioned for Lane to get coffee, and proceeded towards his desk. He took his seat, and only when he was settled did Anna acknowledge his presence. Her movements were odd, as though she was an actress playing the part of a person, and Knox could only imagine that other people saw him in the same light.
“Hello Detective.”
“Is there something you came here to tell me?”
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. I was walking past, and I couldn't help but come in to ask how your investigation was going. I read the paper this morning, and it made me start to worry all over again.”
“That filthy rag. Don't worry about that. It was a lousy piece written by someone who was just trying to sell papers.”
“So it's not true?”
“Well, it's not true, but it's not untrue either.”
“I don't understand.”
“It should have never been written. That's the bottom line.”
“So I do need to be worried.”
“No, you most definitely do not. Contrary to what some newspaper might say, you are perfectly safe, as long as you aren't getting yourself mixed up in organized crime.”
“But it is hard to believe that, if you're telling me you haven't made any progress in solving that murder.”
“It's an ongoing investigation, so I can't talk about it.”
“That's not a very convincing answer.”
“No, but it's the only one I can give.” Believe me, I'd like to be able to tell you there's no reason for you to be down here and worried, but circumstances don't allow for that.”
“I sense you're frustrated with your lack of progress. Am I right?”
“Please don't tell me you think you're psychic.”
“Of course not. I'm just an observer of people. I watch them, and I learn from them. I can sense that you are nervous about not being able to solve this case. The skin under your eyes has grown darker with fatigue, and you have more coffee stains on your tie than the other times we met. Those are obvious signs that you're running yourself ragged trying to push things along.”
“You sound like you'd make a pretty good detective.”
“You flatter me, but I can assure you I wouldn't. I understand people, not the ugly things they do.”
“And you don't think they're one and the same?”
“People are capable of just about anything, if they’re given the right motivation. That doesn't mean they are those things, just that they felt they had no other choice. I wouldn't want to be defined by my worst moments, just as I'm sure you wouldn't.”
“Too late. I already am.”
“I'm very sorry to hear that. Detective, all I can tell you is that this will all work out as it was supposed to.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that either you will catch your killer and be a hero, or a murder that leaves no grieving family will go unsolved. I know the kind of man you are, that you would find it entirely unsatisfying, but it is not the worst of all outcomes.”
“I don't think you know as much about me as you believe.”
“Maybe I don't, but I do know that you will work yourself to the bone before you give up. Take care of yourself, Detective. There are plenty of people who need you.”
“We'll agree to disagree on that.”
Chapter 25
Literary Murder
Detective Lane had watched from afar, not wanting to interrupt what appeared, from his vantage point, to be a moment of honest humanity from his partner. Missing the details of the conversation, relying on his rudimentary lip-reading skills, was not his preferred method of staying involved in the investigation, but he considered the trade-off worth the reward of seeing a new side of Detective Knox. Detective Lane watched Anna leave, and with her departure, Knox's transformation back into himself. Never before had he seen so clearly the ability of people to wear masks and play roles, to alter every quality of themselves for the sake of someone else. He was impressed with Knox's dedication to the craft, but equally dismayed that he was not able or willing to produce the farce more often.
As his partner, Lane was privy to Detective Knox’s raw interior. Their relationship was not one of courtesy, or one that required them to embrace their human feelings for one another, not that Lane was sure his partner had any. Regardless, Lane knew it was better to see the man for who he really was, rather than build up a false image, only to have it unravel and leave him reeling.
Detective Lane looked down, seeing the cups of coffee in each hand. Without realizing it, he had strained himself holding them to his chest the entire time, and his hands had sapped the heat from their very core. They were cold containers of brown sludge, a tepid brew that was viscous and vicious. He turned his back before Detective Knox could look in his direction, quickly preparing two new cups. With steam warming his face, he filled his lungs in a single sharp breath, and made his way towards his desk.
For once, Detective Knox was not lost in thought, and he noticed Lane before he sat down. This caught Lane off-guard; feeling invisible seemed to him rather appropriate. His existence was that of a ghost, only called to appear when the séance was ordered, but strangely he felt it was a proper arrangement. Having Knox's eyes on him was more uncomfortable than he anticipated. Perhaps, he thought, people avoided Detective Knox not because he ignored them, but because they were afraid he wouldn't.
“What took you so long?”
“You know how terrible those machines are.”
“Well, you missed the whole conversation, and I'm not going to recap the entire thing for you.”
“Did she have new information on the case?”
“It wasn't that kind of conversation.”
“So why would I need to know about it?”
“That's a good point. You don't.”
“So how about we talk about what I do need to know, namely what our next step is.”
“I can't tell you things I don't know.”
“So we're stuck again?”
“Pretty much. We don't know the who, the how, or the why. All we know is when and where it happened, and those are the parts that don't tell us anything. All our suspects have alibis.”
“But you still figure it has to be one of the family members, don't you?”
“I don't see anyone else who would want the guy dead. The problem is, unless we figure out how the murder was committed, I'm not sure we can figure out which one of them it was. They don't seem like the kind of people who can't live without the truth coming out.”
“I've noticed that too. Do you happen to have any suggestions for how we're going to figure it out?”
“I have one.”
“I'm all ears.”
“We drink. A lot.”
“That's your answer for everything. When things get hard, you drink. When things go well, you drink. You're like one of those musicians who says he needs to be doing drugs in order to perform.”
“The difference between them and me is that I can perform even when I'm sober. I just prefer not to be.”