Detective Knox stepped forward into the room, spreading his arms, the ringmaster announcing the start of the show. He considered taking a lesson from the movies, and firing his gun into the air to gain their attention, but he knew that doing so would lead to copious amounts of paperwork, and he would not be allowed to farm that task off to Lane. He stifled the impulse, clenching his hand into a fist, throwing it against the wall, hoping not to open a hole. Silence followed, and the family stared at him, shocked expressions on their faces.
“I think we've all heard enough of whatever you have to say, so how about we get on with the reason we're here. Is that good enough for you?”
Afraid to speak, all three nodded their assent, almost in unison.
“As I was saying before, the case has been solved. Do you want to get straight to the arrest, or should I recap everything for you?”
“As long as you aren't arresting me, I'm curious to hear what you found out,” Faith said.
“Me too,” Tory added.
“Whatever. It's not like it matters, but make yourself happy,” Emerson said.
“You already know the basic facts. George Hobbes was found murdered in his office, stabbed through the heart, with the doors and windows all locked from the inside. This would make it impossible for anyone to get in or out of the room, meaning no one could have murdered him.”
“But yet, he is dead,” Faith interjected.
“That he is. Let me explain.”
“Please do,” she said.
“Like you would expect, we looked for any way the killer could have gotten into that room, but came up empty. The only logical conclusion was that George Hobbes had been alone in that room the entire time. No one else went in or out.”
“So how did he die?” Tory asked.
“I'm getting to that. In going through the evidence left behind, we uncovered a flash drive that had a file on it, from which we learned that he had been abducted the day before his murder.”
“We know this already,” Emerson interrupted.
“If you would kindly shut your mouth, I'm getting to the answer. We looked into the abduction, and managed to find the building he was taken to. In there, we discovered blood evidence that placed him at the scene. Our people analyzed the blood, and discovered an anesthetic in his system.”
“What does that mean?” Faith asked.
“What did I just say about interrupting me? Anyway, that particular drug was not the kind to have been used in the course of the abduction, so it tells us he underwent some sort of procedure while he was in their custody.”
“A procedure? What kind of procedure?” Tory asked.
“That was a mystery. We couldn't explain what had happened. Last night, I finally discovered the truth. It was confirmed with the medical examiner, so I feel confident in saying it was the key that has led to this moment.”
“Please don't drag this out,” Faith said.
“During the time that he was abducted, George Hobbes had a procedure done to his heart. Someone, very skillfully, opened him up and cut into a major artery. They then stitched him back up, using dissolving stitches. Once he was home, they started to dissolve before the wound could close itself, and he bled to death as a result of those injuries.”
“What are you saying?” Tory asked.
“I'm saying that we could not find who murdered George Hobbes in a locked room, because he was not murdered in a locked room. He had been murdered the previous day, by time delay.”
“I don't believe it,” Faith said.
“I agree it's not the most immediate solution that comes to mind, but the evidence bears it out. That is what happened to George Hobbes, even if it does sound fantastical.”
“But isn't the important question still who murdered him?” Emerson asked.
“Yes it is. We know that as well, which is why you're all gathered here. We wanted to make sure you all heard this at the same time.”
* * *
A hole in the clouds appeared, letting the sun shine directly into Detective Knox's eyes as he led the procession out of the Hobbes home. He exhaled deeply, watching the vapor rise into the sky, growing darker as it absorbed more of the city's essence as it climbed. He had never been a smoker, nor been tempted to essentially live his life with his head stuck in a fireplace, sucking in the soot that marked dead and used-up material. The appeal never struck him, but the one moment that made him wonder about that vice was seeing a curl of smoke ride a current into the sky. There was a beauty in that, in seeing something so toxic and poisonous dance to the rhythm of time, dissipating and becoming harmless.
It was a charming metaphor, but the city spent enough of its existence mired in the throes of winter that Detective Knox did not need to slowly kill himself for that enjoyment. The weather would provide him enough opportunities to re-enact the game with his own breath, which was toxic in its own way. He moved to the side, stopping while Detective Lane led the Hobbes family to the cars, handcuffs covered over with a gray flannel coat. It was an act meant to protect the privacy and dignity of the arrested, but anyone watching knew what the symbol meant, so it was carried on more as a tradition than a useful mechanism. Detective Knox had never stopped to think how such a practice ever began, why deference had to be paid to people brought in for committing heinous crimes, nor why the presence of police cars and flashing lights was ever thought to be mitigated by a piece of cloth covering the iron bracelets.
Much of the world did not make sense to Detective Knox, and he knew he would never live long enough to uncover the answers to all of life's mysteries. What made sense to him was crime. Rules often stood in the way of human desires, and the moral compass malfunctions in times of great distress, leading people down paths they know cannot lead to a positive outcome. They press forward anyway, because the compulsion to satisfy themselves is too great, the need to put things in order overwhelming everything else.
Detective Knox could understand these feelings, because he had them, like everyone else. The difference, as he saw it, was that he was able to channel them into something positive. When he felt himself slipping into the darkness, he used it to fuel his focus, to stop others from following that same path. He did not consider himself heroic for doing what was right, because refraining from allowing himself to be overtaken by evil was not a heroic act. It was a basic tenet of humanity, one that the city had re-branded as something else.
Detective Lane put the Hobbes family in the cars, slapping the roof to signal the driver to move off. They pulled away from the curb, the engines spitting smoke from the exhaust, spewing more poison into the saturated air. Lane walked back up the sidewalk to his partner, turning to watch the cars disappear into the distance.
“You know this isn't the end, right? Something can still go wrong.”
“Kid, something can always go wrong. We got a win, and I'm going to try to enjoy that. You should too.”
“I guess I just don't feel as good about bringing misery into people's lives as you do.”
“I don't feel good about it. It’s just something that happens to be an inevitable side-effect of what we do. There's no way to deliver news about murder that makes people feel good.”
“I suppose you're right.”
“Of course I am. Now, if you're done feeling sorry for yourself, we have to get back to the precinct. Like you said, this isn't the end.”
Chapter 30
Jealous Knives
A throng of onlookers lined the hallways as the officers entered the precinct, leading the arrested through the mass of people, and into the interrogation room. The air bristled, full of wide-eyed stares. Disbelieving whispers could be heard, asking whether justice really had been done. None would dare give voice to the concerns, but the precinct had been filled with doubt, in Detective Knox, in whether the case could be solved, even in their own sanity for believing such a scenario could be real. Detective Knox had felt the weight on his shoulders, the yoke around his neck as he struggled to pull the boulder uphill. His self-confidence was not tied to the thoughts of anyone but himself, so whether his back was struck by congratulatory slaps, or jealous knives, made no difference.