The detectives split the files, reading through the mundane details as quickly as they could. If they dared take their time, Detective Knox was afraid some of the details would become embedded in his mind, and he did not wish to create lasting memories of a person he never even had the misfortune of knowing. Over the course of his career, Knox had developed the skill of reading without learning, skimming through the reams of information and identifying what was important enough to keep, while throwing aside the junk data. It was a skill that carried over into his personal life, a fact that those few people Knox let in would make him aware of. Being a good detective, he thought, was not compatible with being a good person.

The clock dizzied, the hands turning round as the hours passed. Frustration grew on their faces as their search deepened, both because they had found nothing, and because they had not farmed the work out to less experienced officers who had little else better to spend their time on. Knox never let anyone else do the work, because only he knew what they were looking for, or so he thought. The reasons for this behavior was a topic he tried not to broach with himself.

“Knox, look at this.”

Lane summoned him over to his desk, waving his hand in the air in the feigned belief that such an admonishment would make a difference. Knox's bones creaked as he moved, the hinges needing oil if he was not to rust away.

“What did you find?”

“It's a letter, written by Hobbes, but not addressed to anyone.”

“What's so interesting about that.”

“Nothing. It's what the letter says.”

“Paraphrase it.”

“Hobbes is writing to tell someone about getting kidnapped. He says he got picked up off the street, driven in circles in the back of a van, and then was knocked out with drugs. Then he says he woke up back at home, in bed, when his alarm clock went off. That's weird, right?”

“Yes it is. That sounds like a clue to me, the first one we've had.”

“Yeah, but how are we going to put it to use?”

“We're going to dissect every word of that letter, and we'll figure something out. He wouldn't have written such a thing if he wasn't trying to get some important information to someone. The answer is in there, it has to be.”

“You want me to go old school and print you out a copy?”

“You're starting to learn, kid. Oh, and good work, by the way.”

“Did you just say . . .”

“Leave it be, kid.”

Chapter 15

Artificial Suns

Detective Knox's eyes lost focus as the words on the page slowly metamorphosed into a Rorschach test, the lines and curves losing their form and function, devolving into a scattered mess of sharp-edged ink. Hours had passed by in a blur, the light becoming flimsy and blue as day turned to night, and artificial suns powered his quest. This was not a way to achieve success, he knew, but giving up, even for a moment, seemed to be the coward's way out. Detective Lane had rested enough for the both of them, Knox felt.

His eyes ran over the words repeatedly, stretching their meaning to find something that would tell him what he needed to know. The message was clear, but it wasn't pointed enough to show him the way forward. In that way, the letter taunted him, tantalized him with the prospect of finding the answers he so desperately sought. All that needed to be done was crack the code, find the truth hidden in the enigma. That task seemed more daunting with each passing minute, as the hands on the clock tried to outrun one another.

Detective Lane returned with fresh eyes, enough energy replenished to convince an onlooker he was still alive. Leaning back in his chair, he held the paper above his head, watching the light from above filter through the cheap parchment. It was as though heaven itself was shining through, or so he would say, as a thought occurred to him.

“What if we have this all wrong?”

“I'm sure we do. What's your point?”

“I mean, what if instead of this letter telling us exactly what happened, it's telling us where to look for the real answers?”

“How is that going to help us? There isn't a location in there.”

“I know, but hear me out. If a guy gets kidnapped, what would make him hide whatever he knew about it? He didn't report it to us, and he didn't tell his kids about it.”

“We didn't ask them. They might know.”

“Let's assume they don't, since I'd like to think at least one of them would have mentioned such a thing.”

“That's a dangerous assumption to make. People aren't as good as you think, but go on.”

“So if he didn't tell anyone about it, why write the letter at all, and leave it on an encrypted flash drive that no one could get into? It doesn't make any sense.”

“Murder doesn't always make sense. Sometimes, you find that it's all just random.”

“You're a pessimist.”

“Yes I am, and for good reason. There's no reason to be positive.”

“Whatever. All I'm saying is that, in light of knowing about the kidnapping, we might want to take another look at the whole case. The best place to hide something is in plain sight. How much do you want to bet we've already seen exactly what we're looking for without knowing it?”

“I'm not a betting man, remember.”

“Do you have to be so literal about everything?”

“No, but watching you get worked up amuses me.”

Detective Lane sprang from his seat, embracing the fumes of youth that had not yet been burned off. Long fingers wrapped around thick stacks of folders, clutching the papers with a tight grip. A low grunt escaped his lips as he picked up the files, feeling the weight of the case as he positioned the pile high above his desk, then releasing them with dramatic flair. They tipped off axis, sliding off one another as they landed, but without the thunderous noise he had hoped for.

Knox looked at Lane, tired consternation on his face, as though he had seen the sad ending coming all along. He reached out, thumbed open the first file, hesitating to touch it, like a predator approaching its kill. Lane gathered himself, found his voice, and continued.

“Somewhere in these files, among all this evidence, is the answer we're looking for.”

“And you expect me to sit here and read these hundreds or thousands of pages all over again, just because you have a hunch?”

“Do you have a better idea? What I know is that this kidnapping is the best lead we've got, but we don't have any clues to work with. So yes, if this has even a slight chance of pointing us in the right direction, I think we have to do it.”

“Fine, but first you have to go get us some coffee. Real coffee, not that slop that gets served around here. If I'm going to focus, I can't have half my brain wondering if that aftertaste is copper or arsenic.”

Detective Lane gathered his coat under his arm, throwing a quick glance at his partner, who was oblivious to his existence in that moment. He wondered if such focus, such indifference to the presence of another living soul, was the cost of being a great detective. This might be the purpose of his life, but he was not sure he was willing to pay the price for the honor. What he had learned from Detective Knox, above all else, was that life outside the confines of the precinct only served to dilute the work. Lane was not pure in that way, nor did he think he ever could be. His future depended on Knox being wrong.

Detective Knox was lost in the words on the page, reading them in the new light Lane had provided. Meaning and intent often differ, because language is not perfect, and even when trying to bare the depths of the human soul, there are no words that can perfectly encapsulate a complex thought. We do the best we can to form our ideas into digestible pieces, but every mind works differently, and there is no way of knowing if our experiences of joy and pain, or color and sound, are the same as another’s. Language requires assumptions, and those get us in trouble, because they are a weakness of the mind.