He had faith that the world contained enough vestiges of justice that the solution would be revealed at the last moment, and their tenacity and persistence would be rewarded. By whom he did not know, but Lane felt it important to remain confident in their own abilities, even if he could sense Detective Knox was struggling to do the same. In his eyes, Detective Knox was that fabled character from the stories that got passed around amongst the beat cops, the infallible oracle who could pull suspects out of thin air. Such myths do not take root without having a degree of truth to them, and Lane was sure that enough magic remained for Detective Knox to pull one more rabbit from his hat.

Detective Lane did not turn his head as the door opened, preferring to pretend he was invisible. Detective Knox looked at him, shaking his head, not at his partner's physical condition, but the fragile mental state he had created for himself. Knox had, like everyone, suffered his share of setbacks and embarrassments. The measure of a man is how those are dealt with, and Lane was failing the test.

“Are you done feeling sorry for yourself?”

“No, I don't think I've quite hit bottom yet.”

Knox took a few steps, until he stood directly in front of Lane. He snapped his fingers, and Lane lifted his head in preparation for the lashing he knew was coming, one he knew he deserved.

“I know you haven't. Trust me, I know what it looks like. But you can't beat yourself up because you couldn't handle seeing something Doc did. Everyone knows the guy's a bit nuts.”

“I should be able to handle it.”

“Maybe, maybe not. I can't say I've ever seen anything like that before either. But I have bad eyes, and I'm practically the living dead, so maybe I'm not the best gauge of how to properly respond to things.”

“It wasn't even that it was disgusting on that level. Gross is one thing, but this was disturbing at a more sub-textual level.”

“Fancy word. What do you mean by it?”

“It was like I was seeing my entire childhood destroyed in front of my eyes. I don't think I can ever look at or remember a puppet again without tasting vomit in my mouth.”

“You should be more upset that you have fond memories of puppets. Those things are creepy.”

“This isn't a discussion about my childhood.”

“I know it's not, but at least you don't look like a ghost anymore.”

Without realizing what had happened, Detective Lane had regained control. He was no longer trembling, his stomach had calmed, and the color had returned to his face. By separating his mind from the moment, Lane had been rebooted, and felt up to the challenge of standing. His legs were soft, but not weak, as he rose. As soon as his knees locked themselves straight, Detective Knox turned and began walking. Lane lurched into motion, following along.

“I think I gathered that we don't have any answers yet.”

“No, we don't. As if we didn't have enough to consider, now we have to figure out why George Hobbes would have been anesthetized. Doc says it couldn’t have been to aid the abduction, so I have no ideas.”

“That is unusual. We'll figure it out, though.”

“You keep saying that.”

“They say if you tell a lie enough times, it becomes the truth.”

“I tried that before, but no one thought I was a nice person.”

“That's because you weren't lying, you were dreaming.”

“Well, look who's feeling better.”

* * *

Detective Knox’s desk was his retreat, a place where he could lose himself in his thoughts without having to put up with the pesky creatures that were always popping up at inopportune times, standing in the way of his happiness. Horror movies often started from the conceit of being the last man on earth, a fact that kept Detective Knox from enjoying such cinematic masterpieces, because he could not understand why the situation was supposed to be unsettling. He knew his thoughts veered close to the line of complete misanthropy, but he did not consider himself such a person. So long as people left him alone, his attitude was one of apathy, not hatred.

People rarely held up their end of the bargain. No matter how clear Detective Knox made it that he would rather not take part in the day to day drudgery of society, he continually found himself dragged into that slog. People were, to him, an annoying game of real life whack-a-mole. As soon as he got rid of one, another would pop up and stop him from enjoying the sound of silence.

This thought came to mind as Detective Knox turned the corner and laid eyes upon his desk. He had given consideration to laying down a circle of salt, using black magic to inoculate his personal space from the mouth-breathing masses, but he worried that the stained, sticky floor was not clean enough for the dark arts. Even evil, he reasoned, was not slovenly enough to abide by such a pitiful level of hygiene.

Anna Summers was sitting at his desk, in a rickety metal chair meant to discourage potential visitors by making them so uncomfortable anyone with a degree of common sense would leave before spending any length of time waiting. Anna was different, and not easily put off. She sat quietly, her body not shifting or moving to find a spot of less discomfort. She was stoical, calm, and Knox could tell she was not the type of person to give up if he walked away and left her there alone.

Resigned to this, Detective Knox motioned for Lane to get coffee, and proceeded towards his desk. He took his seat, and only when he was settled did Anna acknowledge his presence. Her movements were odd, as though she was an actress playing the part of a person, and Knox could only imagine that other people saw him in the same light.

“Hello Detective.”

“Is there something you came here to tell me?”

“Oh, no. Nothing like that. I was walking past, and I couldn't help but come in to ask how your investigation was going. I read the paper this morning, and it made me start to worry all over again.”

“That filthy rag. Don't worry about that. It was a lousy piece written by someone who was just trying to sell papers.”

“So it's not true?”

“Well, it's not true, but it's not untrue either.”

“I don't understand.”

“It should have never been written. That's the bottom line.”

“So I do need to be worried.”

“No, you most definitely do not. Contrary to what some newspaper might say, you are perfectly safe, as long as you aren't getting yourself mixed up in organized crime.”

“But it is hard to believe that, if you're telling me you haven't made any progress in solving that murder.”

“It's an ongoing investigation, so I can't talk about it.”

“That's not a very convincing answer.”

“No, but it's the only one I can give.” Believe me, I'd like to be able to tell you there's no reason for you to be down here and worried, but circumstances don't allow for that.”

“I sense you're frustrated with your lack of progress. Am I right?”

“Please don't tell me you think you're psychic.”

“Of course not. I'm just an observer of people. I watch them, and I learn from them. I can sense that you are nervous about not being able to solve this case. The skin under your eyes has grown darker with fatigue, and you have more coffee stains on your tie than the other times we met. Those are obvious signs that you're running yourself ragged trying to push things along.”

“You sound like you'd make a pretty good detective.”

“You flatter me, but I can assure you I wouldn't. I understand people, not the ugly things they do.”

“And you don't think they're one and the same?”

“People are capable of just about anything, if they’re given the right motivation. That doesn't mean they are those things, just that they felt they had no other choice. I wouldn't want to be defined by my worst moments, just as I'm sure you wouldn't.”

“Too late. I already am.”