“Nothing that I can recall, but I might have had a little too much to drink by that point, so I wouldn't really know.”

“So you didn't hear anything about a kidnapping?”

Detective Knox was not an expert in psychology, or biomechanics, but he knew what to expect of people, and he could see from the expression on Emerson Hobbes' face that he was genuinely surprised to hear about a kidnapping. It was possible he was merely caught off-guard that it had been discovered, but Knox didn't believe that. Emerson did not know anything useful, which was exactly what Knox had expected.

“No. Are you telling me he was kidnapped before he was murdered?”

“It looks that way. Can you think of anyone who would want to take your father?”

“Just my mother, but I know she didn't do it.”

“ Very funny.”

“I'm sorry, but I'm having a hard time believing this. It doesn't make any sense.”

“I know it doesn't. Murder rarely does.”

* * *

Tory Hobbes was in a trance when Detective Knox entered the room, her consciousness somewhere other than the precinct. This stirred up feelings of jealousy in Knox, who had always wanted to be able to do just that. He snapped his fingers in front of her face, drawing her back from wherever she had been. Tory looked up at him, making an uncomfortable amount of eye contact, following him as he took his seat.

Detective Knox was not fond of eye contact, or any form of intimacy. It felt foreign to him to invite someone to look into the deepest recesses of his essence. It was akin to asking to be emotionally burgled, a phenomenon he did not wish to experience. Tory was not of this mind, wanting to share as much of her human experience as possible, believing that only through sharing can we truly be alive. She invited everyone in, and felt saddened when people like Detective Knox refused her hospitality.

Faith and Emerson Hobbes were people Knox could understand, flawed characters that were focused on their own self-interest at all costs, because that was the type of man he was. Caring about other people, about all people, in the way Tory did was beyond Knox’s comprehension. Knox did not think that such love was possible, even when confronted by the evidence. The world may be a better place for having people like her in it, he thought, but people like Tory were the lambs whose slaughter would feed the rest.

“So tell me, detective, why am I here?”

“Metaphysically, or actually?”

“You're still denying yourself an appreciation of the greater experience, aren't you?”

“I'll get around to it when I'm done with this narrow one.”

“You can't change a mind that doesn't want to change.”

“Good point. To answer your query, you're here to answer a few questions.”

“Do proceed.”

“Did your father tell you about anything unusual that had happened to him the day before his death?”

“No, we didn't talk about anything substantive.”

“So you didn't know he had been kidnapped?”

The word did not resonate with Tory, as though she could not wrap her mind around the idea of being forcibly removed from her life. To her, there was only the here and now, wherever that may be, so a kidnapping seemed merely to be a change of scenery, and not the grave action it was viewed as by others.

“Of course not, although now that you've mentioned it, something is starting to make sense.”

“What's that?”

“That day, he didn't quite seem to be himself. Well, he was, but he was moving a little bit slower, as though he had worked out too much and was sore. Of course, he never worked out, so it wasn't that. It never occurred to me to ask what was wrong. I figured he must have been coming down with the flu or something.”

“And you're sure you saw what you're saying you did?”

“Absolutely. He was his usual self, just without as much energy. You never would have noticed anything was different if you didn't spend every day with him.”

“Thank you for your help.”

“Of course, detective. And whenever you're ready to open yourself up, let me know. I would love to help you.”

“Don't sit up waiting.”

Chapter 18

Fruit Juice and Murder

Detective Knox emerged from the interviews without a clear picture in his mind. In front of him, he could see a web of stories, the threads spun and hung in ornate patterns. He followed each strand towards the center, but they broke apart and drifted off in the wind before he could arrive at the hub. The answers existed, he was sure, but they were hidden from his sight, taunting him as he sank deeper and deeper in his futile attempts to extricate himself from the fog.

He refused to admit that he might not be able to piece the case together and find the killer. It was a reality in every case he was assigned, but it weighed heavier on him this time. There was a moral imperative to solve every murder, to find killers and bring them to justice, to give comfort to the grieving survivors by providing them with closure. Detective Knox knew it was his duty to give that to every victim, but certain cases unfold in a manner that makes that impossible, where doing the right thing isn't enough. In those cases, he would carry the regret home with him, and allow it to eat away at his soul. It did not matter to him that he hadn't committed the crime, merely that not being able to do what he was tasked with was enough to consider himself a sinner.

This case was different, he knew, because if the killer continued to walk the streets of the city without fear of being caught, if the public knew that no one was safe from random acts of evil, it would be more than a mere sin to be washed away through a religious rite. Not catching this killer would end Detective Knox's career, either as a direct result of being a scapegoat for the failings of the justice system, or as an indirect result of never being able to live with himself if he let down the people depending on him.

Detective Knox took his seat at his desk, dropping heavily the last few inches into the chair, stressing it to see if it would spring back. His body landed stiffly, the wheels creaking as the chair tried to move through the sticky varnish of grime, giving up the fight before it could budge. The chair gave him hope, as much as he allowed himself to feel. If it could endure through time and his abuses of it, there was hope that he could do the same, that he could rise up from the pit of doubt he was in to stand his ground in a war against injustice.

His interior monologue was interrupted by Detective Lane, who placed a fresh cup of coffee under his nose, leading him back into the conscious world with the temptation of caffeine. Knox was not a man of many indulgences, not that he considered coffee to be one, but he felt it an integral part of the process. Only by drinking a brew as dark and bitter as he considered life to be could one become connected with the spirit of evil that imbued the sorts of crimes he investigated. To Knox, fruit juice and murder were not conducive to one another. It had to be coffee.

“I don't know what to make of those people. They're all weird, even for people overcome by grief.”

“Well, kid, I think the problem is that they aren't grieving. They don't seem to be giving much, if any, thought to the fact that a man who was a big part of their lives is dead. You're a normal person, so you see that as bizarre. I've never been accused of being the most human of people, so I understand it a bit better.”

“Really? You do?”

“Not entirely, but to a degree. Just because you're family doesn't mean you have deep emotional ties that bind you together. When you're rich and entitled, you get separated not just from the people you supposedly love, but from people as a whole. Money rots you from the inside, so there's not really much left to feel when something like this happens. People like the Hobbes' aren't really people anymore. They're sort of living dolls that look and act like normal people, but when you crack them open, you only find empty air and corrosion where their heart's power supply died.”