“Fine. Go home and drink. I'll bet you it doesn't put you on the right path, but have at it.”
“That's a bet I'm willing to take.”
“Let me guess, because you get to drink even if you're wrong.”
“See, you're starting to figure things out.”
* * *
Detective Knox closed the door behind him, inhaling the familiar scent of home as he tore the flimsy brown paper away from the bottle. His hand strangled its neck, clutching the glass with the ferocity of true love. In his mind, Detective Knox knew this temptation was unhealthy, and that he indulged himself too often in the name of mental health, but he also believed himself to be a weaker man than people gave him credit for. Strength was not physical, it came from being able to do the right thing, when every fiber of your being wanted something else. That fortitude was lacking in him, his need for gratification often swallowing his common sense whole.
As he stared at the bottle, tracing the lines of filigree on the label with his eyes, noticing the first beads of condensation growing on the surface, he stopped to consider what he was doing. Lane's words echoed in his head, and the thought occurred to him that if Lane had noticed his problem, it must have gotten worse than the last time Knox had evaluated himself. These thoughts were quickly dispatched, as his mouth cried out for the liquor, the memories of that taste washing back on him, begging to be revisited.
Detective Knox broke the seal, taking in the aroma of the golden potion before putting the bottle to his lips. The first sip took him out of the moment, to a place where he imagined all users went after denying themselves their drug of choice for too long a time. Detective Knox did not consider himself an addict, merely someone driven by circumstances to seek relief more often than was healthy. If it was not his choice, if he had been driven to pour the whiskey down his throat, he could hardly be blamed.
Satisfied for the moment, he shuffled across the carpet, kicking up bolts of static lightning with each step. Detective Knox took a glass, pouring the drink from an extended arm, to heighten the drama of the amber waterfall. Swirling the glass, he examined his poison, taking it in with all his senses. He was enraptured, distracted to the point of nearly losing his grip and spilling the drink when he heard a voice calling out from behind him.
“You like that stuff more than you do me, don't you?”
Detective Knox paused, taking the time to consider his words. If he was not careful, he would walk into a trap because, while he loved his wife, there were moments when what he craved at his core was the sweet embrace of the bottle. If faced with the choice, his decision may have rested on how long it had been since his last drink.
“No, you're the one I choose to be with.”
“That's hardly a denial.”
“Why is it such a big deal if I want to have a drink or two in order to stop my brain from running in circles?”
“I'm just giving you a hard time. Why, what's wrong?”
Detective Knox tilted the glass, drinking down the contents. He swallowed in one gulp, feeling better as the warmth moved down his body. Soon, he knew, he would be numb enough to feel what he assumed normal must be like.
“It's this damn case. Every time I think I'm moving forward, I run straight into a new wall.”
“And you think drowning your frustrations is going to help?”
“No, but it will at least get me to stop thinking about it for a few hours.”
“In that case, let me think about it for you.”
“I want to say something, but I don't want it to be construed as offensive.”
“I already know you don't think I'm capable of being as brilliant as you are. It’s not a well-kept secret, in case you didn't know. I just meant that maybe having someone else look at it, having some fresh eyes, would be helpful. You never know what you're not seeing because you've been staring at it for too long.”
“That's not a bad point.”
“See, I have my good qualities.”
“You make it sound like I thought you didn't.”
“I have to check every now and again.”
Kat moved closer, taking the bottle out of Knox's hand before he could pour himself another overflowing glass. Her skin brushed against his, warmer to the touch, as the bottle slid through Knox's fingers, out of his control. She raised the bottle to her lips, taking a long drink, running her finger around the edge of the mouth when she had finished. For a moment, Detective Knox lost track of everything, remembering the power Kat could wield over him.
The level in the bottle continued to drop as Detective Knox recounted as much of the case to Kat as he could think of. She sat, curled on the couch, listening to his words become less defined as the whiskey sedated his tongue. Her face gave no clues regarding the thoughts she was hiding, a fitting mirror of the confusion he felt about the case. Detective Knox finished, waiting for Kat to tell him how simple the answer was, if he could get out of his own way. Neither spoke for minutes, and the silence unnerved Knox more than his own failures. After what seemed an eternity, Kat spoke.
“That certainly is a tough puzzle.”
“Don't I know it.”
“The one thing I don't get is the whole locked room thing. In theory, shouldn't that make it easier to solve the case? There are only so many ways to kill someone in one of them, so that takes away a lot of options.”
“Say that again.”
“There are only so many ways to kill someone in a locked room.”
“You're brilliant.”
“Why yes I am. How so?”
“You're right. There are only so many ways to kill someone, and all of them have to have been written already.”
“So what does that mean?”
“It means there's a good chance the answer I'm looking for is in one of the books on the shelf.”
“Can you read when you're drunk?”
“I don't get drunk. I just get less miserable.”
“That's debatable.”
Detective Knox did not hear Kat's quip. He had shifted gears, his focus turned to his shelves of mystery novels. They had always struck him as an odd thing for a detective to collect, but people found it amusing to give them as gifts. The number of his friends and family made for a small collection, one he augmented on his own to look less pitiful. Along the way, he discovered an affinity for collecting, filling shelves with novels he read the last few pages of and nothing else. His memory was not what it once was, and looking at the vertical titles on the spines, none cracked at its center, brought no solutions to mind. Kat watched, slowly finishing the bottle for him, as he tore through book after book, devouring the possibilities.
Sometime later she awoke to find her husband still rifling through the amassed pages. The shelves were bare, the manuscripts piled in heaps all around him, covering the floor with literary murder.
“You haven't found anything yet.”
“No. Not a single one of these can help solve my case. It was a good idea, but I think we have to chalk this up as another failure.”
Detective Knox got up, his knees fighting to raise his weight, and he moved closer to Kat. He sat beside her, a move she welcomed, though it was unexpected. He picked up the bottle, examining the film of liquid still coating the bottom. There was not enough for even the most desperate man to drink. Already frayed, his nerves snapped, his anger getting the better of him. He threw the bottle against the nearest wall, shards of glass raining back at him like sharp rain, the shrapnel of dangerous ideas.
Kat covered her eyes, and when she dared to look again, she saw her husband sitting expressionless, bleeding from an open wound on his hand. She reached out and took his hand, examining the flow of blood. The cut was deep, too severe for her to tend to. Detective Knox could not feel anything, nor did he seem to notice the blood as it poured down his fingers, dripping onto the fake spatter printed on the covers of the books.