“There's someone else we need to talk to.”

Detective Knox's focus broke, his eyes snapping back to attention, the color flooding back as he began to see again. His head turned slowly in Lane's direction, a dramatic movement that was an affectation of intimidation.

“What are you talking about?”

“We asked the family if they knew anything about the kidnapping, but we forgot someone.”

“Who?”

“The neighbor, Anna Summers. She sees everything that happens in that neighborhood, so there's a chance she might have seen something, don't you think.”

“Actually, you might be on to something. That's not a bad idea.”

“Is this where you trot out that line about blind squirrels finding nuts?”

“Nah. At least the squirrels know what they're looking for.”

* * *

George Hobbes' house was quiet, dark, and stood against the sky like a Gothic still-life. The black outline against the gray sky reminded Detective Knox of a Victorian funeral portrait. It could have been the house itself that was the victim of the most horrific crime. Despite standing for generations, and housing life from beginning to end, the black stain of murder poured over every inch, turning it into a sideshow attraction. No longer would a family look at the facade and see the hope of a rich life, nor would those walls serve as a comforting sense of security. Instead, the house seemed to stand as a monolith of murder, a reminder of the ugliness that lives inside us all.

Knox watched the house from the other side of the street, where he assumed most everyone would stand from then on, only a morbid few daring to venture closer for a better look. It had become a curiosity, a thing to be pointed out while driving by, destined to forever remain the setting for ghost stories. At least, Knox thought, in that way it would continue to live. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.

Detective Lane threw his fist against the door, his bony knuckles striking with a sharp, shrill sound. Knox was once again startled out of his thoughts. This was a habit he needed to cure Lane of, if their partnership were to flourish. He watched the door move, slowly creeping away from the jamb, exposing only an inch of the silent interior.

“What can I do for you, detectives?”

“If you can open the door,” Lane offered, “we just need to ask you a few questions.

Anna pulled back on the handle, sliding the door open enough for her slim frame to slither through the opening, clutching the knob behind her as she stood in the weak daylight.

“What do you think I can help you with?”

“Did you see George Hobbes the day before his murder?”

“Yes, I saw him almost every day.”

“But you didn't talk to him.”

“No.”

“Did you notice anything unusual about him? Anything that, with hindsight, seemed suspicious?”

“When something like that happens, everything seems suspicious.”

“I suppose so, but is there anything in particular you think would help us?”

“No, he didn't seem any different than normal. He was doing the same things he always did.”

“Did he look sick, or injured?”

“I couldn't tell from over here. Sorry I can't be of more help.”

Detectives Knox and Lane turned away and before they had taken a step, they heard the sound of the door shutting behind them. Knox could not blame her for wanting to stay tucked away from the greater world. He would have done the same thing, if he hadn't been hardened to feel a violent end was inevitable. People who have hope should be scared, he thought, because hope is terrifying.

“Well, Lane, how did it feel to lead an interview?”

“It either felt like an accomplishment that you relinquished a bit of control, or it felt like you just wanted to be lazy.”

“Now that you said that, you know which one I'm opting for.”

“Speaking of control, I suppose this is when you're going to tell me that we need to get back over to the kidnapping scene to see if we can find any additional clues.”

“There's no hurry. Nothing is going to change if we wait until after lunch to get over there.”

“I'm glad to hear you say that.”

“Oh you are, are you?”

“Yes. I have something I need to go take care of, so I will meet you there in an hour. How's that sound?”

“That sounds fine, but now I want to know what you're up to.”

“Use your skills of detection. I'm sure you'll find out.”

“Don't fly too close to the sun, kid.”

* * *

Detective Lane ducked into a corner booth, away from the windows, hidden from view. He felt guilty sneaking around like this, not telling his partner what was going on, but getting off the leash was sometimes necessary. Lane put his hand up, signaling for the waitress to put the ubiquitous cup of coffee on the table in front of him. He began sipping reflexively; drinking was a nervous habit more than anything else. The addiction began as a means of filling the stereotype, until the caffeine established a foothold. Now, he struggled to make it through a day without feeding his need, lest he fall prey to withdrawal.

Lane knew nothing of real withdrawal, the pain that comes with cleansing your body of the poisons that give it life. His was but a mere inconvenience compared to those with real problems, but even so, he could sympathize with those who lived their lives in the shadows of their inner demons. Perhaps that made him unfocused, unable to shut off everything else in pursuit of the truth, but he felt it made him a better detective. Being human allowed him to see things Detective Knox could not, even if the proof of that hypothesis had yet to be unearthed.

A man took the seat opposite Detective Lane, slumping down on the ragged vinyl with the weariness that accompanies a life spent uncovering monsters. The look on his face was not one Lane had come across often, one that said more than any words. Still, he pressed on.

“I want to talk to you about your former partner, Dylan Knox.”

“You mentioned that. You work with him already, so what else do you need to know?”

“I'm trying to figure out if he has something against me in particular, or if he just holds all of humanity in contempt.”

“I see, you're at that point where you think he should be acknowledging that you contribute to the team, but he spends most of his time off in his own little world.”

“That's exactly it.”

“Don't sweat it. That's just the way he is. He was like that the day he got his desk, and it never changed. It didn't matter to him that he was low man on the totem pole, he knew he was good at his job, and he didn't think being collegial mattered as long as he was right. Turns out, he wasn't wrong.”

“I get that, but I want to know how you managed to get past that. How did you get his respect?”

“Who said I did?”

“You worked together so long, you had to have a better rapport with him than I do.”

“We got along, but that's because I figured out the key to handling him.”

“Which is?”

“Staying out of his way. If you let him do his thing, and chime in with a good idea now and then, things will go just fine. But if you insist on trying to show him what you're capable of, and muscling in on his turf, you're going to get shut out.”

“All I want to do is learn how to do the job well. I can't do that when he doesn't work with me.”

“That's all part of the education, kid. If you watch long enough, you start to see how the whole thing works. It's not that he's trying to shut you out intentionally, even if he does hate you. He's trying to show you, in his own misguided way, that procedure isn't everything. You have to find your own way of working, your own way of thinking. It’s not about drawing a murder board with straight lines. If that's what you're expecting, you're probably in the wrong line of work.”

“Because life's too complicated for that.”