“So you're saying you're a moral crusader.”

“I'm a superhero. Your words, not mine.”

“What happened to the dour, serious, miserable bastard I normally have to work with?”

“He'll be back soon. This high doesn't last very long.”

“Thank heavens. I don't think I could take much more of it.”

* * *

Detective Knox had barely set foot in the precinct when he heard his name called out. All eyes turned towards him, but Knox was unsinkable, and preferred to consider their looks as a reflection of their scornful jealousy. His name conjured up feelings of deep-seated inadequacy in his fellow-officers. Detective Knox did not consider it his fault that he had become the epitome of a detective, that he had become the bar by which all others were judged. All he had done was go about his business, leaving the politics of the job to those who were more cutthroat. He was not interested in rising up the ranks, which was ironic since he was the obstacle who stood in the way of so many others’ progress.

Detective Lane also heard the call, and his thoughts immediately turned to their expedition. He had considered Knox's happiness an illusion, and the curtain was about to be drawn back. As they made their way to the front desk, their footsteps echoing in the unusually quiet precinct, Lane prepared for the worst. Discipline was new to him, having never colored outside the lines of his job before, to which he could only hope Knox would be able to make a good case for his innocence.

The desk sergeant waited for the detectives to approach the chest-high slab of mahogany, their hands atop the surface, waiting for a ruler to snap down and chide them for their misdeeds. She looked down at them, possibly realizing the expectation in their eyes, stifling a laugh which turned into a snort.

“Relax guys, you're not in trouble.”

“We didn't think we were.”

“Uh huh. I see that look in your eye. You were up to something.”

“Something isn't anything until someone complains.”

“You rely on that too much. One of these days you're going to get burned.”

“Who, me? People love me.”

This time, she could not contain even a fraction of her laughter, which echoed through the station. Knox looked back to see the same faces once again turn in his direction, and quickly return to their work upon realizing his nose had not been bloodied.

“You keep telling yourself that.”

“So what did you call us over for?”

“Doctor Morse has something to tell you. He wants you to meet him down in his lab.”

* * *

Detective Lane was filled with trepidation as they stepped out of the elevator, into the deepest recesses of the precinct. These areas were avoided by all but the most morbid, a house of death that had seen the souls of thousands clinging to the earth, until their grip was lost and they were dragged to their final destination.

Detective Knox was not one to be bothered by such thoughts. Death was a natural phenomenon, and the presence of the dead should not have made a place any more disconcerting than any other. Even if the crack-pots he locked up during his early years working the streets were right, and those rooms were actually haunted by the ghosts of decades of the dead, Knox did not care. He had spent his life avenging these lost souls, and tracking down their killers, so he could see no reason any would desire to haunt him.

Knox swung the door open, bumping it with his hip, careful not to touch the handle. Though he was not afraid of death, he felt no need to cover himself in any of the residual effects of it. He would be dead soon enough, he figured, so there was no need to get accustomed to the feeling until it was absolutely necessary. His imagination could fill in the details for the time being. As Knox swung through the door, he was confronted by a scene straight out of a black comedy. Dr. Morse was crouched alongside the examination table, the entire length of his forearm disappeared inside a body. Detective Knox put a hand to his face, pinching the excess skin between his eyes, putting the comedy of the situation into perspective. Just behind Knox, Detective Lane turned back into the hallway, his stomach trying to jump out of his mouth.

“Doc, please tell me you aren't trying to use that body as a hand puppet.”

“What? Oh, no. I'm trying to retrieve an item without making the body unfit for an open-casket funeral.”

“You know that's his backside, right?”

“You haven't seen his face. They might want to display him this way.”

Detective Knox chuckled at the thought, and nodded to himself that the idea was not so absurd. In his time, he had encountered more than his share of people he deemed assholes, so displaying the deceased ones in their true light seemed fitting. He imagined how many of the people in his life would have said the same about him.

“You have a point there, Doc.”

Dr. Morse removed himself from his compromising position, the final extrication letting out a loud burst of air. From outside, Detective Knox could hear Lane once again fighting to keep his organs inside his chest. Dr. Morse peeled off his glove, lightly placing it atop the trash heap, and turned to face his guest.

“Where did your partner go?”

“He's not used to this sort of stuff, so he can catch up on it later. What did you call us down here for?”

“I have some news about your case, and I thought it was better you hear it in person.”

“You're either setting me up for great news, or horrible news. Which is it?”

“Actually, I'm not sure.”

“Let me have it.”

“I ran the blood sample you brought back from where George Hobbes had been taken. It's definitely his, but I noticed something weird about it.”

“Weird how?”

“There were traces of drugs in his system.”

“That's not uncommon. Drugging someone is the best way to take them without causing a scene.”

“Yes, but these weren't those kind of drugs. There were traces of a mild anesthetic in the sample, a kind that needs to be administered in a hospital setting. It's not something you can put on a rag and have someone breathe in.”

“So what does it mean?”

“I can't say. That's your job to figure out.”

“So now I have a victim who was murdered in a locked room after being abducted and loaded up with anesthetic. None of this makes a lick of sense.”

Dr. Morse pulled a new glove out of a box, teasing the length of latex. He pushed his hand inside, feeling a sense of satisfaction he dared not reveal. The glove snapped against his arm as he checked the fit.

“Isn't that always the way?”

Chapter 24

A Badge Of Honor

Detective Lane was crouched against the tiled wall, his head held against the cold mosaic, to provide resistance to the reversal his tract was threatening. Not normally squeamish, Lane was disappointed in himself as he shook and retched, feeling weak in more than one sense of the word. He dealt with death on a daily basis, and no matter how high the tally of bodies had piled, he had never before been bothered by the grim realities. An iron stomach was a point of pride among the force, a badge of honor that showed they had been through hellfire and lived to tell the tale, which made his condition all the more shameful. Lane could have lived with the insult to himself, but he knew word would soon spread throughout the station, and he would become a laughing stock.

Faint traces of sound came through the door, just enough for Detective Lane to grasp the tenor of the conversation he was supposed to be a part of. He heard neither an exclamation of enlightenment, nor a pained howl of frustrated intemperance, which told him the mystery they were exploring had only gotten more mysterious. The optimist in him knew that the bleaker the prospects of cracking the case looked, the more doubt that poured from the sky to try to wash them into the gutter with the killer they could not catch, the end result would be that much more satisfying.