“I had plenty of time to think about that, since you were late, and they're going to give me a gold-plated coffee mug for this. Someone has to stand up for us.”

“I just hope you know what you're doing.”

“Don't worry, kid. If anything happens, everyone will know to blame me.”

The Herald's offices were meager, a large smoke-stained room containing a handful of people and the sound of furious typing. Ringed around them, like nobles in the Coliseum watching gladiators die, were management’s dimly lit offices. Detective Knox looked at the writers toiling away, beating their fingers into dust at the keys, all for naught. Nothing they wrote for a paper like The Herald would ever give them a career in journalism. They were pawns being run into the ground until they were of no more use, to be replaced by the next eager candidate who was not smart enough to see the job for what it was.

Detective Knox despised those who made use of others, because they violated the fabric of what he considered decency. Parasitic relationships were only permissible if both sides were aware before signing on the dotted line. The writers Knox watched had been lied to, sold a dream that could never become real. Honesty is the cornerstone of humanity, Knox thought, and people who traded in deceit deserved no mourning when they met their end.

Detective Lane followed as they made their way past the desks, past the smell of rotting plywood and water damage, to an office at the back. The door was ajar, leaking the air of arrogance, so the pressure did not build up to dangerous levels. Without breaking stride, Knox put his foot into the door, burying the knob in the wall.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“You'd better be William McNeal, or I just made an embarrassing mistake.”

“I am. What do you want?”

“I want to talk to you about the filth you printed in what you generously call a newspaper this morning.”

“I stand by every word.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“For now.”

“Let me tell you something. You can sit here feeling high and mighty, and judging us for the job we're doing, but you don't have a damn clue what it actually takes to do a real job. All you do is sit in this little office, think your big thoughts, and make yourself feel smart. Guess what? It doesn't work like that in the real world. You want to know why we haven't solved the Hobbes murder? Because this isn't television, and it takes real work, which is something you wouldn't know about. Normally, I wouldn't care if you don't think we're good at our jobs, but there are some lines you just don't cross. Telling people to be afraid, to feel like they aren't safe, that's one of them. Only a bottom-feeder would think that was in anyone's interest. It might get you a bit more attention, but it's not worth it if you no longer own your soul.”

“You don't need to get so angry about a piece in a newspaper. I play a part, it's a character.”

“That doesn't make it any better. I almost wish you were that stupid.”

“So what, you're going to threaten me?”

“Lane, go wait outside.”

Detective Lane looked at his partner, who nodded his head. He looked back at William McNeal, who was not a good enough actor to hide his fear. He admitted to playing a character, so Lane assumed it was Detective Knox's turn to do the same. He turned to the door, feeling a growing unease as he walked away.

“We have recorders all over this place. You'll regret it if you threaten me.”

“I'm not here to threaten you, I'm here to enlighten you.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I know you're not a stupid man, so you'll understand what I'm about to say. You see, eventually, the fear you're stoking in people is going to come to a head. When it does, something bad is going to happen, and you're going to look down and see blood on your hands. When you write the next story about something evil that happened, it's going to be your fault that it did. You're going to have to live with that.”

“And if I can?”

“Kudos to you, in that case. I didn't know people could live without spines, but you're a medical marvel. In any event, you might want to take your own advice and be afraid. I heard that this address isn't being protected by the police anymore. Something about the people thinking they were just as safe without us.”

“Now that sounded like a threat.”

“Nope. Just friendly advice.”

“No offense, but you're not a friend I want to have.”

“That's what everyone says. Oh, and one more piece of advice.”

“Oh good, there's more.”

“Next time you have a source trying to feed you information about my case, you might want to ignore their calls. Do I look like the sort of guy who shares information with the kind of people who would talk to you.”

“No.”

“So we have an understanding?”

“Yes, I think we do.”

Chapter 23

A Synonym Of Crazy

Detective Lane was waiting for his partner as Knox emerged from the elevator, a Cheshire grin cracking the stony features of his face. Lane had never seen his partner in such a state before, so he was unsure what sordid dealings had gone on in his absence. Detective Knox could not hide his satisfaction. It was an unnatural state, one whose appearance could have been interpreted as an omen of the end of days. Lane chose to be optimistic, assuming that Detective Knox had not been possessed by a demon, in a reversal of the normal trope.

Detective Knox was walking slower than when he entered the building, his steps barely making contact with the ground. Watching from across the lobby, Lane could see how the expression about walking on air came about, because for a moment he swore he could see Knox floating above the tiled floor. It was a striking visual, one he could not explain. Of all the people Detective Lane had ever met, Knox was the last one he could have seen being inhabited by the spirit of the angels.

Detective Knox put his hand on Lane's shoulder as he walked by, prodding his partner to walk with him, and not follow behind like a baby duck chasing its mother. Lane searched his memory, but could not remember another instance of Knox being so intimate with him, which made the moment even more unsettling. Without giving it a thought, Lane swung his eyes from side to side, looking to see if he was being prepared for the reveal of a cruel practical joke.

“You know, kid, sometimes it feels good to get things off your chest.”

“You didn't hurt that guy, did you?”

Lane braced for the assault he knew was coming, having questioned Knox's integrity. Rather than a sharp rejoinder piercing him, he felt Knox's hand slapping him on the back in what he could only assume Knox meant as a show of comity. Clearly, Detective Knox did not know much about the proper expression of positive feelings, but Lane could sense the intent. The absurdity of the moment intensified his worry.

“No, I didn't hurt him. You saw that guy, he was a little pencil-neck. Guys like that break in half if you breathe on them the wrong way.”

“So why do you seem so happy?”

“What? A guy can't be happy?”

“Not you. You don't know the meaning of the word.”

“Of course I do. It's a synonym of crazy, right?”

“Seriously, what happened up there?”

“If you must know, which I guess you do, I may or may not have made a couple of vague threats that he took to heart. We came to an understanding.”

“That's you're big plan? You threaten a journalist into being nicer to us?”

“There's your problem, you can't see the big picture. I don't care what he says about us. I'm sure everyone calls me any number of colorful things, and I can't say I ever give it a second thought. But when he starts saying things that make our job harder, that's where the line is drawn.”