“And what do you think about it?”
“I can't say I've ever heard of that as a way of killing anyone before. I've seen plenty of murders, but nothing like what you suggest.”
“Killers are always looking for new ways to kill. The question at hand is whether or not you think it's possible. Could someone commit a murder that way?”
There was a pause, as Dr. Morse gave it one last thought. Detective Knox knew he had an answer, or else he would not have called. The pause was either a dramatic flourish, or a bad omen.
“I was going to say that if you're asking if your suggestion is the method in which George Hobbes was killed, I'm going to need more time with the body to figure that out. But if you're asking an abstract hypothetical, I can give you an answer to that.”
“That's all I need.”
“In that case, I can tell you that yes, it is possible to commit a murder in such a way.”
“Thanks, Doc. You take a closer look at the body, and I'll go arrest the killer.”
“We could trade if you want.”
“No thanks, Doc. I don't think you could handle the living.”
“Of course not. Why do you think I'm down here?”
Detective Knox hung up the phone, a sly grin contorting his face. Solving a case, especially one that had seemed impossible, one that had taunted him from the very start, was the closest thing to ecstasy he could imagine. He could not remember ever feeling better about himself than he did at that moment, when he had overcome every obstacle to uncover a truth he wasn't sure existed.
Lane looked at his partner, wondering what thoughts went through his mind when he was supposed to be happy. The concept seemed foreign to Detective Knox, and Lane believed it could only be synthesized as a facsimile in his head. Knox was a mystery to him, and Lane was not yet awake enough to dare poke about for that information.
“Kid, we've got our work cut out for us today. I need you to . . .”
“Wait a second. Are you going to tell me your epiphany?”
“All in due time. It might be fun to see your reaction when everyone else finds out.”
“And you would do that to me, your partner?”
“Of course I would. Don't you know me by now?”
“I like to think you've gained a bit of respect for me.”
“I have, kid. That's why I'm not telling you.”
“That makes no sense.”
“I'm giving you a little more time to try figuring it out for yourself. You know everything I do, and now you know the Doc can find the evidence on the body, so what more do you need?”
“A new partner, for one.”
“Someday, you're going to think this is a great story to tell.”
“You're right. It'll make a great example of how not to treat someone.”
“I'll tell you what, if you come up with the right answer before I reveal it, I'll retire.”
“You have that little faith in my abilities?”
“It's called incentivizing you. I'm giving you a chance.”
“I'll take it.”
“Good. But first, I need you to make some calls. We need to gather together everyone involved in the case. I've always wanted to do one of those big reveals in front of all the suspects.”
“Something strange has gotten into you.”
“Maybe, maybe not. All I know is after the hell this case put us through, we deserve to have a little fun with it.”
“Fun? With a murder case?”
“A little black humor never hurt anyone.”
Chapter 28
The River Of Relief
Excitement filled the empty room, pulsing through the air, strong enough to be tactile to someone in tune with its frequency. Previous forays into the home of George Hobbes had been expeditions into a giant tomb, the feeling of death overwhelming. This time, Detective Knox felt something very different, an energy that tingled in the tips of his fingers. The pages of the book being written were turning over faster, the end racing towards him. The river of relief was flowing, the ice breaking up as rays of hope began to melt the barricades.
Detective Knox stood inside the doorway, leaning against the wall, imagining himself to be the cool outsider in a teenage movie. He was no rebel, but he could feel that sense of supreme confidence, and his posture could not contain his contentment. He knew he should be more careful, that his success was only made possible because of the darkest day of some people's lives, and that his own self-satisfaction was an affront to them, but he was unable to exert enough control over himself to refrain from being the callous person he so often projected himself as.
One by one, the surviving members of the Hobbes family entered, walking past Detective Knox without giving him more than a sideways glance. He could not tell if they saw his interior feelings, and were subtly disapproving of him, or if they were merely being antisocial creatures who wanted no part of reopening their wounds in front of him. Catching killers was more important than massaging feelings, so if some were to be bruised as a means of meting our justice, it was a trade-off Knox felt was more than worthwhile.
He was helped by his contempt for the three Hobbes relatives. All of them had revealed themselves to be people who did not deserve to be treated with the velvet gloves detectives were supposed to wear when handling the grieving. That they did not grieve at all did not strike Knox as strange, for he would do the same in all but the rarest of cases, but that they could not go through the motions of putting on an act when confronted with the possibility of their own responsibility in the murder was beyond his comprehension. Basic self-preservation should have kicked in, should have made them take any steps imaginable to pass the blame — to project it upon someone else. They did not do that, and all of them seemed perfectly willing to take on the mantle of killer.
Detective Knox saw this in them, and considered any damaged psyches that would come as a result of his actions to be collateral damage, possibly a beneficial shattering that would necessitate them being put back together by a professional.
Detective Knox would not intentionally cause them harm, even if he knew doing so would require them to get the help he saw they needed. He did not consider himself always a good man, but he was not an evil one, and deliberately bringing pain upon others was just that. Pain was unavoidable, but so long as it was accidental, he could not be blamed for being its cause. While he considered letting each of the family members tie their own noose, knowing none would grieve their loss, he would not have been able to live with himself if he had. His conscience, no matter how often he thought it was a vestigial organ that prevented him from being his best self, remained stubbornly tethered to his mind.
With the family gathered, Detective Knox kicked his heel back against the wall, scuffing the paint as though signing a masterpiece, pushing himself forward into the room. He entered slowly, surveying the frozen faces of the occupants, relishing the moment of drama as he pulled the hat from his head.
“I'm glad you could all join us here.”
Faith Hobbes was visibly impatient, her fingers tapping against her thigh. Detective Knox, in a different state of mind, would have stared and counted the beats, to see if she was unconsciously sending a coded message.
“Would you please tell us why you brought us all here?”
“You are gathered here because we know how George Hobbes was murdered.”
This revelation did not elicit the reaction Detective Knox hoped for. Those gathered did not appear shocked, or relieved. They gave no indication of any feelings at all, which fed into Knox's assessment of them. He judged people based on how he felt he would react in situations, despite knowing he was not what people would describe as normal. There were times when that fact was useful, such as when people displayed even less of a response than he would have. That level of abnormality was terrifying, and a sign of something more going on underneath the surface.