“I'm very sorry to hear that. Detective, all I can tell you is that this will all work out as it was supposed to.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that either you will catch your killer and be a hero, or a murder that leaves no grieving family will go unsolved. I know the kind of man you are, that you would find it entirely unsatisfying, but it is not the worst of all outcomes.”

“I don't think you know as much about me as you believe.”

“Maybe I don't, but I do know that you will work yourself to the bone before you give up. Take care of yourself, Detective. There are plenty of people who need you.”

“We'll agree to disagree on that.”

Chapter 25

Literary Murder

Detective Lane had watched from afar, not wanting to interrupt what appeared, from his vantage point, to be a moment of honest humanity from his partner. Missing the details of the conversation, relying on his rudimentary lip-reading skills, was not his preferred method of staying involved in the investigation, but he considered the trade-off worth the reward of seeing a new side of Detective Knox. Detective Lane watched Anna leave, and with her departure, Knox's transformation back into himself. Never before had he seen so clearly the ability of people to wear masks and play roles, to alter every quality of themselves for the sake of someone else. He was impressed with Knox's dedication to the craft, but equally dismayed that he was not able or willing to produce the farce more often.

As his partner, Lane was privy to Detective Knox’s raw interior. Their relationship was not one of courtesy, or one that required them to embrace their human feelings for one another, not that Lane was sure his partner had any. Regardless, Lane knew it was better to see the man for who he really was, rather than build up a false image, only to have it unravel and leave him reeling.

Detective Lane looked down, seeing the cups of coffee in each hand. Without realizing it, he had strained himself holding them to his chest the entire time, and his hands had sapped the heat from their very core. They were cold containers of brown sludge, a tepid brew that was viscous and vicious. He turned his back before Detective Knox could look in his direction, quickly preparing two new cups. With steam warming his face, he filled his lungs in a single sharp breath, and made his way towards his desk.

For once, Detective Knox was not lost in thought, and he noticed Lane before he sat down. This caught Lane off-guard; feeling invisible seemed to him rather appropriate. His existence was that of a ghost, only called to appear when the séance was ordered, but strangely he felt it was a proper arrangement. Having Knox's eyes on him was more uncomfortable than he anticipated. Perhaps, he thought, people avoided Detective Knox not because he ignored them, but because they were afraid he wouldn't.

“What took you so long?”

“You know how terrible those machines are.”

“Well, you missed the whole conversation, and I'm not going to recap the entire thing for you.”

“Did she have new information on the case?”

“It wasn't that kind of conversation.”

“So why would I need to know about it?”

“That's a good point. You don't.”

“So how about we talk about what I do need to know, namely what our next step is.”

“I can't tell you things I don't know.”

“So we're stuck again?”

“Pretty much. We don't know the who, the how, or the why. All we know is when and where it happened, and those are the parts that don't tell us anything. All our suspects have alibis.”

“But you still figure it has to be one of the family members, don't you?”

“I don't see anyone else who would want the guy dead. The problem is, unless we figure out how the murder was committed, I'm not sure we can figure out which one of them it was. They don't seem like the kind of people who can't live without the truth coming out.”

“I've noticed that too. Do you happen to have any suggestions for how we're going to figure it out?”

“I have one.”

“I'm all ears.”

“We drink. A lot.”

“That's your answer for everything. When things get hard, you drink. When things go well, you drink. You're like one of those musicians who says he needs to be doing drugs in order to perform.”

“The difference between them and me is that I can perform even when I'm sober. I just prefer not to be.”

“Fine. Go home and drink. I'll bet you it doesn't put you on the right path, but have at it.”

“That's a bet I'm willing to take.”

“Let me guess, because you get to drink even if you're wrong.”

“See, you're starting to figure things out.”

* * *

Detective Knox closed the door behind him, inhaling the familiar scent of home as he tore the flimsy brown paper away from the bottle. His hand strangled its neck, clutching the glass with the ferocity of true love. In his mind, Detective Knox knew this temptation was unhealthy, and that he indulged himself too often in the name of mental health, but he also believed himself to be a weaker man than people gave him credit for. Strength was not physical, it came from being able to do the right thing, when every fiber of your being wanted something else. That fortitude was lacking in him, his need for gratification often swallowing his common sense whole.

As he stared at the bottle, tracing the lines of filigree on the label with his eyes, noticing the first beads of condensation growing on the surface, he stopped to consider what he was doing. Lane's words echoed in his head, and the thought occurred to him that if Lane had noticed his problem, it must have gotten worse than the last time Knox had evaluated himself. These thoughts were quickly dispatched, as his mouth cried out for the liquor, the memories of that taste washing back on him, begging to be revisited.

Detective Knox broke the seal, taking in the aroma of the golden potion before putting the bottle to his lips. The first sip took him out of the moment, to a place where he imagined all users went after denying themselves their drug of choice for too long a time. Detective Knox did not consider himself an addict, merely someone driven by circumstances to seek relief more often than was healthy. If it was not his choice, if he had been driven to pour the whiskey down his throat, he could hardly be blamed.

Satisfied for the moment, he shuffled across the carpet, kicking up bolts of static lightning with each step. Detective Knox took a glass, pouring the drink from an extended arm, to heighten the drama of the amber waterfall. Swirling the glass, he examined his poison, taking it in with all his senses. He was enraptured, distracted to the point of nearly losing his grip and spilling the drink when he heard a voice calling out from behind him.

“You like that stuff more than you do me, don't you?”

Detective Knox paused, taking the time to consider his words. If he was not careful, he would walk into a trap because, while he loved his wife, there were moments when what he craved at his core was the sweet embrace of the bottle. If faced with the choice, his decision may have rested on how long it had been since his last drink.

“No, you're the one I choose to be with.”

“That's hardly a denial.”

“Why is it such a big deal if I want to have a drink or two in order to stop my brain from running in circles?”

“I'm just giving you a hard time. Why, what's wrong?”

Detective Knox tilted the glass, drinking down the contents. He swallowed in one gulp, feeling better as the warmth moved down his body. Soon, he knew, he would be numb enough to feel what he assumed normal must be like.

“It's this damn case. Every time I think I'm moving forward, I run straight into a new wall.”