“I like the box. It’s cozy in here.”

“I like it too. I'm hoping we can stay.”

* * *

Dr. Michael Morse was not what Detective Knox, nor anyone else, would have expected from someone who spent his life surrounded by the dead. He was a soft-spoken, good-natured man, who would have flourished in the job of mall Santa, if he were older and morbidly obese. The juxtaposition of him and the flayed bodies piled on his operating tables was a sight that made little sense, no matter how many times Knox ventured into the catacombs for information.

Detective Knox's first sight, as he opened the door, was an image he thought could only exist in the blackest of comedies. Dr. Morse knelt atop the table, over the body, his entire head stuck inside the hollowed cavity that was once its chest. A circle of yellow danced on the stretched skin, a flashlight searching out some hidden ore.

Knox stood rooted to the spot, watching the proceedings with bewilderment. It would be funny, he thought, if Dr. Morse had any idea how ridiculous he looked. The least Knox figured he could do was lock the door when engaging in such unseemly behavior. If people knew what was really happening down below, Dr. Morse's reputation would not be so sterling.

Seconds passed, nearly a minute, and Detective Knox grew tired of the waiting game. Dr. Morse was engrossed in his study, unaware of his visitor watching from the doorway. Knox hated to pry him away from his work, but watching was beginning to make Knox feel uneasy. At last Knox spoke.

“Doc, do you have any results on the Hobbes murder?”

Dr. Morse pulled his head from its hiding place, with a look on his face of mingled surprise and aggravation. Knox couldn't read which was the dominant reaction, as before his synapses could begin to fire, his friend had wiped away any trace, his face reverting to its usual jovial expression.

“Detective, do come in, you absolutely must see what I've found in here.”

“Thanks, but I think I'll take your word for it. I don't want to spoil the surprise for the detectives working that case.”

“Ah, a fine idea. They will enjoy this a lot.”

Dr. Morse hopped from his perch, his shoes landing silently on the cold, tiled floor. The thought had crossed Knox's mind before that he may indeed be Death himself, and the constant flow of bodies was the reason for his contentment.

“About the Hobbes case . . .”

“Right. I had a preliminary look at the body, and the results are quite fascinating. Quite a good murder, I must say.”

Knox knew his friend didn't hear how the words sounded to anyone else, but struggled to believe he hadn't slipped up and said something crudely offensive in front of someone with a less understanding disposition. Even if he never talks about work when he's off the clock, Knox told himself, no one with such a tenuous grip on his mouth can possibly keep the wrong thing from slipping out every now and again, which must prompt reactions Knox wished he could see.

“How so?”

“Well, you see, there's no evidence whatsoever to go on.”

“What do you mean there's no evidence?”

“There's no foreign substances on the body, no foreign DNA, nor any wounds that would suggest a struggle. The only thing distinguishing the body from that of a living man is the stab wound.”

“Which is quite a difference, I would say.”

“Indeed it is.”

“What can you tell me about it.”

Dr. Morse didn't need to resort to notes to recall the details; they remained filed away in his mind. He possessed an ability to recall any detail about the thousands of bodies he had examined over the years, a trait that made him invaluable as a resource, but not much fun at the precinct holiday parties.

“It was a clean cut, with precision unlike any I have ever seen in a murder. I was quite impressed, I must say, with how it was done.”

“What about the knife?”

“I can't really say. The entry was clearly done with a blade of supreme sharpness. I didn't find any distinctive markings, so I can't say with any confidence exactly what it was.”

“Damn.”

“Yes, it is a bit frustrating not to know more, especially since it's such a beautiful cut. The way the knife sliced through one wall of the aorta, but didn't completely sever it, was truly artistic.”

“No offense, Doc, but that sounds a bit creepy.”

“Does it? I suppose you lose sight of those things when you spend so much time down here.”

“I can certainly believe it.”

* * *

Detective Knox returned from death's waiting room, a privilege afforded to few people. Lucky though he was to be only a visitor, frustration was building inside him, threatening to overflow the walls he constructed to hold back the tide. Nothing would be easy during this case, he knew, but that didn't mean he had to be blind as he reached into the blackness.

He asked himself what he was supposed to do with the case. He could feel his colleagues' eyes watching his every step, and he knew he was carrying the expectations of the city on his shoulders. Not much could be done about the circumstances, only going back to the scene to see if there was anything they had missed, digging deeper into George Hobbes' life. If he was lucky, he thought, maybe he would be struck by lightning.

Chapter 9

Blessing In Disguise

The members of the Hobbes family arrived together at an awkward intersection in the lobby of the precinct. An air of unease hung over them, as suspicion took root in each one’s mind. Glances were nervous, smiles were fake. The three of them shared the same tempestuous disposition, but although they were bound by blood, little else united them. The saying that you can choose your friends but not your family rang true in their case. Each wanted as little as possible to do with the others. In that way, the death of George Hobbes was a blessing in disguise.

A sense of foreboding hung over them, an understanding that their ties had been severed, and that soon they would be relieved of the burden of appearing to care about one another. They would relish the chance to tear off their masks, but could not avoid the trepidation that would follow from walking away from everything they had ever known. Each thought they wanted to move on, but taking the first step proved difficult.

“We need to talk, but not here.”

The thought was on all their minds, though only Faith managed to say it. The others nodded in agreement, and dutifully followed their mother as she led them to a safer place. Anywhere within sight or sound of the police was too dangerous, given the confessions that might slip out. They all had their secrets, and worked diligently to make sure they didn't see the light of day. But around family, the chances of one seeping to the surface increased.

* * *

The family gathered in Faith Hobbes' apartment, hoping the gilt was soundproof. Nothing about Faith Hobbes was subtle, neither her demeanor nor her taste. Gold cascaded from the ceiling, covering as many surfaces as was allowed by the conventions of good sense. Teetering on the verge of overkill, there was yet a delicate touch to the brazen display that let the people she intended to offend still appreciate the beauty that surrounded them.

The three put as much distance as possible between each other, each one closely watching the others. Trust was a dirty word in the Hobbes family, and in the aftermath of tragedy, asking for the benefit of the doubt was a comedy of errors.

“What did you tell them?”

Faith Hobbes took on the tone of an interrogator, hoping to pry loose the locks her children held around their hearts. She didn't expect them to forgive her for her sins, nor could she ask them to believe in her as a changed woman, but for all her faults, she still felt the animalistic need to protect her family.