Lane found the notification on the screen, and opened the file as Knox came around to have a closer look. These instances were among the few in which Lane felt valuable, when he knew he was important, because Knox had neither the skills nor the patience to deal with the technological side of being a detective. Knox liked to think of the world as film noir, a place where crimes could be solved with a carton of extinguished cigarettes and an empty bottle of whiskey. He had not evolved with the times, and the necessity of having a partner who could operate the modern world for him could have explained much of Knox's seeming misanthropy.

The footage was dark, grainy, a relic of a time when moving images were seen as a trick of the devil. Through the driving rain and thick, foggy air, the outline of a van appeared. Black as the night, the shadowy outline moved into camera view, then out to the edges. It sat still as Lane moved the footage further along, then after waiting for some time, it left again. Lane played it back, then again, each time scouring a different part of the screen, looking for some detail that might have escaped them.

Detective Knox turned away after the first viewing, preferring to ruminate on the various undertones of dirt that made every cup of coffee that Lane made taste different. It was necessary for him to distract his mind so that a sudden jolt of wisdom could strike like a bolt of divine lightning, instead of leaving him wondering why he was pumping sludge through his body.

“What do you see on this tape?”

“I didn't see anything, because there's nothing to see. It's a van pulling up in front of a building.”

“I know. I was hoping we would get some sort of glimpse of the people who took George Hobbes.”

“That was wishful thinking. The people who kidnapped Hobbes were professionals. They weren't going to be dumb enough to get caught on a camera while moving him in and out of their hideout.”

“Hideout, really?”

“What else are you going to call it?”

“Good point.”

“Exactly.”

Lane's screen flashed, alerting him to a new message. He opened it as Knox held up his cup, examining the pattern the grounds left glued at the bottom. It was a habit he could not break, despite the connotations that came with looking into the filth of the liquid he had just consumed. Lane blocked those thoughts from his mind, reading what was in front of him.

“Hey, I just got a message from the tech guys. They were able to enhance the image and get a number on the plate. We can run it, and if we're lucky we'll get a hit.”

“I wouldn't count on it.”

“Just let me try it before you tie me to a lead balloon, will you?”

“By all means, go ahead.”

Detective Lane punched in the numbers, his fingers trembling. at the tips, though he could not say if it was excitement or fear. He hit the last key with a flourish, making sure Knox was paying attention. Seconds later, his screen displayed the answer.

“We found our van.”

“You got a hit?”

“Yes I did. The van was . . .”

“Was what?”

“It was reported stolen the day before the abduction.”

“So it's another dead end.”

“Unless you think we'll be lucky enough for there to have been a camera watching the van when it got taken.”

“I don't.”

“Me neither. It was a good shot, though.”

“The only good shot is a kill shot.”

Detective Knox had learned to tune out the drones that worked in the station, buzzing around. Their movements were blurs to his eyes, smudges of color that only told him when and where was safe to walk. Pushing aside so much of humanity was not an easy skill, but it was one Knox felt was paramount, because he believed every person contained a finite quantity of caring, and spreading it to thin would dilute it to the point of being worthless.

Those thoughts flashed in Knox's mind as an envelope fell onto his desk, sliding off the haphazard stacks of files, and landing on his lap. It seemed to materialize out of thin air, and only when his concentration was broken did Knox look around for the source. By then, he was too late, and the drones had blended back into a faceless wash. He picked the envelope up, reading his name in bold on the front. He ripped it open with the edge of his finger, mangling the package as he pulled out the contents.

He pored over the page, taking in each word carefully. By the time he had finished, his mind was racing, attempting to synthesize everything he had just read. Detective Knox wanted an immediate answer to come to mind, something to point him in the right direction, but he was caught off guard, and his reeling intellect was struggling to regain its footing.

“You don't look so good. What was in that letter?”

“You're not going to believe this.”

“Try me.”

“You know how excited you were about this being a locked room murder? I just got a letter from the killer, taunting me, telling me we're never going to catch them.”

“Seriously?”

“Yup. It says there is no solution to the perfect murder, only imperfect guesses by imperfect men.”

“That's a bit self-aggrandizing, don't you think?”

“That's not the point. It might be right.”

Sound The Alarm: The City Is Burning

By: William McNeal

As the frustration builds in the streets over the investigation into the death of George Hobbes, the city's police have not felt the need to make an official statement in order to comfort the citizens, and stave off panic. That mistake can be added to a long tally of missteps by the department, which has led to the widespread belief that they are either unwilling or incapable of doing their jobs. That sentiment has been expressed before in these pages, and is not without merit.

The public outcry must have finally reached fever pitch, either that or a sense of guilt has overcome someone in the public relations division, because a formal statement about the status of the investigation has finally been made public. As expected, it is not the transparent account the people deserve from their public servants, nor is it an encouraging sign regarding the future.

The crux of the statement lies in the fact that the detectives working the case have made progress in finding a lead, but that nothing concrete has yet been found. This sounds like rampant spin, the kind that is covering up for the fact that there are no leads to follow, and the case is frozen in place.

That is the official line, but my sources tell me a different story. The information I have been given is that there has indeed been a breakthrough in the case, and the detectives are working on a promising new lead. The problem is that the lead does not come in the form of a clue, but in the form of yet another crime.

I have it on good authority that the deceased, George Hobbes, was the victim of an abduction the day before his murder. Rather than an encouraging sign that the investigation has forward momentum, it is a frightening sign that yet another crime had occurred without the police being aware. The fact that a prominent citizen of this city could be abducted without anyone noticing is profoundly disturbing.

The police will try to explain this development away, they will claim there was no way for them to know about such a crime without someone calling it in. That's precisely the problem. If the police have to rely on the people to do their jobs for them, we are all marked for death.

The police cannot keep us safe. That much is proven. What will we do about it?

Chapter 22

A Lucid Nightmare

Each morning was the coming of a new curse, like a magician performing a mean-spirited trick on an unsuspecting audience. As he lay awake in the moments before forcing himself to rise and face the day, Knox often thought that it would have been preferable if fate had decided to take him in his sleep. Waking to this world, day after day, was a lucid nightmare. It was a form of divine punishment for a sin he could not remember well enough to atone for, to be sentenced, every single day, to the horrible moment of remembering where he was.