Detective Lane put his hand on Knox's shoulder, pulling him out into the hallway.

“This is getting ugly.”

“No, kid, this is getting real.”

“How long do we let them go on?”

“Just long enough to see if any of them realize just how screwed up they are, and how much they hate each other.”

“What's the point of letting them do that?”

“There isn't a point, really. I just think it might do them a little bit of good to get some of this out of their system before this is over, and they have no reason to speak to one another again.”

“That almost sounds like you care about them.”

“Don't speak of such heresy. My motives are still as selfish as ever.”

“Sure they are.”

“I swear. I'm getting a show right now, and then they hopefully won't kill each other when this is done, so I won't have to deal with them ever again.”

“That's what you tell yourself, but I know better. You want to help them, because that's what you do. You don't normally have the first clue how to do it, other than solving murders, but these are your kind of people. They're screwed up, just like you.”

“I can screw you up, you know.”

“Yeah, but you wouldn't do that to me. Not now. You'd never survive having to break in a new partner.”

“You're right. I'm too old for that.”

“So do you think they've had enough yet?”

“Yeah. It's time for the grand reveal.”

Chapter 29

The Veneer Of Civility

Words flew by one another, overlapping as the bickering and insults flowed freely. Detective Knox had opened the floodgates to a torrent that had been building up, dammed behind the veneer of civility that had been erected to convince the outside world that they were not fundamentally rotten people. The intent was to make them realize they were more alike than they cared to admit, but the plan was a failure, only serving to provide ample evidence than any or all of them were more than capable of murder, and that the wrong member of the family lay in the morgue.

Detective Knox did not often have feelings of empathy, but as he watched the Hobbes family tear themselves apart with their words, he could not help but feel sorry for the deceased. Whatever faults George Hobbes may have had in his life, they were now justified after spending a lifetime in the intolerable position of living with the three of them. No one could endure so much open hostility from their own family, nor spend that much time surrounded by people who were barely human, and not come out scarred by the ordeal.

The conversation had now degenerated to the point of digging up every slight that had amassed over the years, tallying them up to see who was statistically the worst offender. Detective Knox was bothered by the idea that these people had spent their entire lives cataloging every instance where they felt aggrieved, and clung to those petty memories as though they were precious. Enough bad things happened on a daily basis, he knew, that there was no need to preserve residual sins. Doing so was not quite evil, but leaned towards the psychopathic. The only people who would do such a thing, he thought, were those who wanted to feel abused, because the only satisfaction they could achieve was retribution, bringing people down because they were incapable of feeling happy for themselves.

Not being a happy person himself, in general, Detective Knox knew the impulse. He had faced long stretches of black skies, but at no point did he believe raining on a parade would make him feel better about himself. Adding more misery to the world would not lessen his own, it would only suffocate what little hope existed, making it all the more likely he would go the rest of his life without finding any. He was convinced these people didn't know the first thing about life.

Detective Knox stepped forward into the room, spreading his arms, the ringmaster announcing the start of the show. He considered taking a lesson from the movies, and firing his gun into the air to gain their attention, but he knew that doing so would lead to copious amounts of paperwork, and he would not be allowed to farm that task off to Lane. He stifled the impulse, clenching his hand into a fist, throwing it against the wall, hoping not to open a hole. Silence followed, and the family stared at him, shocked expressions on their faces.

“I think we've all heard enough of whatever you have to say, so how about we get on with the reason we're here. Is that good enough for you?”

Afraid to speak, all three nodded their assent, almost in unison.

“As I was saying before, the case has been solved. Do you want to get straight to the arrest, or should I recap everything for you?”

“As long as you aren't arresting me, I'm curious to hear what you found out,” Faith said.

“Me too,” Tory added.

“Whatever. It's not like it matters, but make yourself happy,” Emerson said.

“You already know the basic facts. George Hobbes was found murdered in his office, stabbed through the heart, with the doors and windows all locked from the inside. This would make it impossible for anyone to get in or out of the room, meaning no one could have murdered him.”

“But yet, he is dead,” Faith interjected.

“That he is. Let me explain.”

“Please do,” she said.

“Like you would expect, we looked for any way the killer could have gotten into that room, but came up empty. The only logical conclusion was that George Hobbes had been alone in that room the entire time. No one else went in or out.”

“So how did he die?” Tory asked.

“I'm getting to that. In going through the evidence left behind, we uncovered a flash drive that had a file on it, from which we learned that he had been abducted the day before his murder.”

“We know this already,” Emerson interrupted.

“If you would kindly shut your mouth, I'm getting to the answer. We looked into the abduction, and managed to find the building he was taken to. In there, we discovered blood evidence that placed him at the scene. Our people analyzed the blood, and discovered an anesthetic in his system.”

“What does that mean?” Faith asked.

“What did I just say about interrupting me? Anyway, that particular drug was not the kind to have been used in the course of the abduction, so it tells us he underwent some sort of procedure while he was in their custody.”

“A procedure? What kind of procedure?” Tory asked.

“That was a mystery. We couldn't explain what had happened. Last night, I finally discovered the truth. It was confirmed with the medical examiner, so I feel confident in saying it was the key that has led to this moment.”

“Please don't drag this out,” Faith said.

“During the time that he was abducted, George Hobbes had a procedure done to his heart. Someone, very skillfully, opened him up and cut into a major artery. They then stitched him back up, using dissolving stitches. Once he was home, they started to dissolve before the wound could close itself, and he bled to death as a result of those injuries.”

“What are you saying?” Tory asked.

“I'm saying that we could not find who murdered George Hobbes in a locked room, because he was not murdered in a locked room. He had been murdered the previous day, by time delay.”

“I don't believe it,” Faith said.

“I agree it's not the most immediate solution that comes to mind, but the evidence bears it out. That is what happened to George Hobbes, even if it does sound fantastical.”

“But isn't the important question still who murdered him?” Emerson asked.

“Yes it is. We know that as well, which is why you're all gathered here. We wanted to make sure you all heard this at the same time.”

* * *

A hole in the clouds appeared, letting the sun shine directly into Detective Knox's eyes as he led the procession out of the Hobbes home. He exhaled deeply, watching the vapor rise into the sky, growing darker as it absorbed more of the city's essence as it climbed. He had never been a smoker, nor been tempted to essentially live his life with his head stuck in a fireplace, sucking in the soot that marked dead and used-up material. The appeal never struck him, but the one moment that made him wonder about that vice was seeing a curl of smoke ride a current into the sky. There was a beauty in that, in seeing something so toxic and poisonous dance to the rhythm of time, dissipating and becoming harmless.