“There was nothing in particular that set you off?”

“No, I had just reached the end of my rope.”

“Tell me, why did you go through the trouble of setting up this elaborate plan? Why not just kill him and argue self-defense? If you were smart enough to stage a locked room murder, surely you could have done that.”

“He didn't deserve that.”

“How so?”

“He deserved to die without anyone knowing how or why. He would just disappear, and become a faded memory somewhere down the line. No one would care about who killed him, or why. He would become a footnote on the obituaries page.”

“So tell me how you came up with your plan.”

“Dad's plan for me was to be a doctor, before I refused to play his little game. I had a couple of pre-med classes, and you'd be amazed what an evil mind can do with that kind of knowledge.”

“I've seen almost everything.”

“You hadn't seen this before.”

“You're right, I hadn't. You did show me something new.”

“Thank you. So I snuck up on him while he was distracted and knocked him out. I took him to that building, and I enjoyed what I did to him. It was all I could do not to cut his heart out then and there so I could feel it take its final beats.”

“But you didn't.”

“No, I stuck with my plan. I stitched him back up, and brought him home. I went out and got drunk, then got myself arrested to make sure I had an alibi. All I had to do then was wait for the call telling me he was dead.”

“And you don't feel bad about what you did?”

“Of course not. The only thing I feel bad about is getting caught. Having this make the front page, with the books and movies that are sure to tell the whole story ad nauseam, ruins everything I was trying to do. He's not going to die an anonymous lump of flesh. People are going to care now.”

“Where is the murder weapon?”

“There isn't one.”

“That's being semantic. Where are the medical supplies you used?”

“I drove halfway across the city and threw them out. They're probably in the dump by now.”

“Do you have anything I should tell your mother and your sister?”

“Tell them I did this for them. We all wanted him dead; I was just the one willing to go through with it.”

“Thank you for your confession.”

“You make it sound like I'm not proud of what I did.”

“I was being semantic.”

* * *

Exiting the interview room, Detective Knox was met by a familiar face. Anna Summers stood in front of him, her head tilted to one side. He could see confusion in her eyes, their bright colors dimmed. He put a hand on her shoulder, doing the best impression of a father he could manage, and pulled her aside.

“Detective, I saw all the police cars outside, and then you leading them all out of the house. I came down here to see what was going on, and I heard what he said in there. I can't believe it. I can't believe he killed his own father like that.”

“I know it's hard to believe, but you never can tell who's capable of doing those kinds of things. People get pushed too far, and before you know it, they find themselves covered in blood, wondering what just happened.”

“I'd prefer not to think about that.”

“We all would, but it's the price we pay for being alive.”

“You must be very proud of yourself for catching him. I'm sure you'll be in line for a commendation for this.”

“Those things don't matter to me. I don't do this job for the medals, or the money. Heck, I don't even do it to say I take bad people off the streets.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“Honestly, I do it because I like knowing I outsmarted someone who thought they could get away with murder. The fact of the matter is that it's easier to do than you would think.”

“I'm sure you're exaggerating.”

“I'm not. People get away with murder all the time. There aren't enough cops in the world to care enough to solve every single case that comes our way. When there isn't public outcry or a family that's demanding we do everything humanly possible, these cases get thrown under the rug.”

“That's depressing.”

“It certainly can be, depending on how you look at it. At least in this case it's not something you have to worry about. George Hobbes' killer is going to be brought to justice.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

“Me too.”

Anna looked up into Detective Knox's eyes, trying to measure how much he believed the words he spoke. He was a difficult man to read, and required her undivided attention to decipher. Distracted, she did not notice Detective Knox reach for her hand, locking a handcuff around it. She was too shocked to resist as he grabbed her other hand, completing the matched set. She looked down at her wrists, and her head shot upward, her eyes once again locking with Detective Knox's.

“I don't understand.”

“Like I said, George Hobbes' killer is going to be brought to justice.”

Chapter 31

A Coiled Snake

Anna Summers was a different creature in captivity, no longer a timid soul afraid of confrontation, instead a coiled snake ready to lash out and strike. She studied her surroundings, her mind trying to devise an exit strategy. No escape was obvious, the room secure enough, the walls stained with ample quantities of blood. She knew she was trapped; her only option was to convince Detective Knox he had made a terrible mistake. She was well-trained in lying, her mind could spin whole webs of fiction, delicate and ornate. No man had ever been able to stand straight as she bent their will to hers, all of them succumbing to the carnal appetite of her charms. There was little satisfaction in the art of conning those who were glad to be taken in, but Anna was not in the game for the intellectual victories. Men were tools she used to get what she wanted.

Detective Knox entered the room, calmly sitting down opposite Anna. He made sure to dull his response, to not let on how satisfying this arrest had been. He knew Anna was an egoist at heart, and that she would be distraught as much over being caught as knowing it was business as usual. Detective Knox could see in her eyes that what Anna desired most of all was to be praised for her ingenuity, for almost getting away with the perfect murder.

Anna could not understand what had gone wrong, how her plan had been uncovered. She had been careful at every step, meticulously planning her moves, leaving no trace behind that was not intentional. The puzzle was supposed to be unsolvable, the key piece missing from the set once it had been fully assembled. Detective Knox was supposed to throw his hands in the air in frustration, admitting defeat and closing the case without a conviction. Something had gone terribly wrong, Anna knew, feeling the same sense of helplessness she had intended to cause in him.

Detective Knox sat for a moment without speaking, letting the moment hang. They were now locked in a battle of wills, neither wanting to give the other the satisfaction of being the first to give away what little was left cloaked in mystery.

“Detective, I don't understand. Why did you arrest me?”

“Because you killed George Hobbes.”

“I did no such thing. You just got a confession from his son, so why are you harassing me?

“I'm glad you enjoyed that show.”

“Show? What are you talking about?”

“That was what you might call a ruse.”

“I don't understand.”

“It wasn't real. It was fake, because I knew you would be here watching.”

“And just how did you suppose to know that?”

“You had made it clear that the killer I was looking for was proud of herself, that she relished the attention that came along with outsmarting us. She would not have been able to resist the urge to stand here and watch as we made someone else confess to the crime.”