It was a charming metaphor, but the city spent enough of its existence mired in the throes of winter that Detective Knox did not need to slowly kill himself for that enjoyment. The weather would provide him enough opportunities to re-enact the game with his own breath, which was toxic in its own way. He moved to the side, stopping while Detective Lane led the Hobbes family to the cars, handcuffs covered over with a gray flannel coat. It was an act meant to protect the privacy and dignity of the arrested, but anyone watching knew what the symbol meant, so it was carried on more as a tradition than a useful mechanism. Detective Knox had never stopped to think how such a practice ever began, why deference had to be paid to people brought in for committing heinous crimes, nor why the presence of police cars and flashing lights was ever thought to be mitigated by a piece of cloth covering the iron bracelets.

Much of the world did not make sense to Detective Knox, and he knew he would never live long enough to uncover the answers to all of life's mysteries. What made sense to him was crime. Rules often stood in the way of human desires, and the moral compass malfunctions in times of great distress, leading people down paths they know cannot lead to a positive outcome. They press forward anyway, because the compulsion to satisfy themselves is too great, the need to put things in order overwhelming everything else.

Detective Knox could understand these feelings, because he had them, like everyone else. The difference, as he saw it, was that he was able to channel them into something positive. When he felt himself slipping into the darkness, he used it to fuel his focus, to stop others from following that same path. He did not consider himself heroic for doing what was right, because refraining from allowing himself to be overtaken by evil was not a heroic act. It was a basic tenet of humanity, one that the city had re-branded as something else.

Detective Lane put the Hobbes family in the cars, slapping the roof to signal the driver to move off. They pulled away from the curb, the engines spitting smoke from the exhaust, spewing more poison into the saturated air. Lane walked back up the sidewalk to his partner, turning to watch the cars disappear into the distance.

“You know this isn't the end, right? Something can still go wrong.”

“Kid, something can always go wrong. We got a win, and I'm going to try to enjoy that. You should too.”

“I guess I just don't feel as good about bringing misery into people's lives as you do.”

“I don't feel good about it. It’s just something that happens to be an inevitable side-effect of what we do. There's no way to deliver news about murder that makes people feel good.”

“I suppose you're right.”

“Of course I am. Now, if you're done feeling sorry for yourself, we have to get back to the precinct. Like you said, this isn't the end.”

Chapter 30

Jealous Knives

A throng of onlookers lined the hallways as the officers entered the precinct, leading the arrested through the mass of people, and into the interrogation room. The air bristled, full of wide-eyed stares. Disbelieving whispers could be heard, asking whether justice really had been done. None would dare give voice to the concerns, but the precinct had been filled with doubt, in Detective Knox, in whether the case could be solved, even in their own sanity for believing such a scenario could be real. Detective Knox had felt the weight on his shoulders, the yoke around his neck as he struggled to pull the boulder uphill. His self-confidence was not tied to the thoughts of anyone but himself, so whether his back was struck by congratulatory slaps, or jealous knives, made no difference.

Any satisfaction Detective Knox might feel, as he walked into the station, was entirely internal. To persevere through the hardship of suffocating doubt, to overcome the demons he had fought within himself; that was the victory that mattered most. The city would be safer with a killer off the streets, and the survivors would grudgingly admit they were relieved, but these were not the people Detective Knox worked himself to exhaustion for. He knew it was selfish, but he undertook these cases for himself alone, to test his skills and revel in being able to say he was the only person smart enough to catch killers.

He would say nothing of this to Kat, Detective Lane, or anyone else. Having them think he was so self-centered would have pushed Knox perilously close to the breaking point. They may have already had such thoughts in their minds, but like Detective Knox, they kept their judgments to themselves. It was an unwritten agreement, and each side would go on playing their role through the facade of naïveté. The act made everyone feel better, and though Detective Knox lived a life committed to uncovering the truth, he was more than comfortable failing to live up to those standards in his personal life.

Detective Knox often thought about how to best present himself in an interrogation; as the good cop who knows bad things can spiral out of control before anyone knows what happened, as the bad cop who steps over the line and uses a suspect’s nightmares against them, or as the sympathetic sounding board who knows the sensation of tasting death. Mostly, he chose to be a blank canvas, allowing the suspect to paint onto him their own worst fears. What they did not know was that Detective Knox was not pretending to be anything during their interrogations; he was naturally devoid of any feeling towards them. His entire focus was on ‘the case.’ The people who took part in it were ancillary nuisances.

Detective Knox motioned to Lane, instructing him to wait with the family and assorted onlookers, to watch through the one-way glass while he conducted the interview himself. Lane understood, realizing that a killer was more likely to let his guard down with one person, especially one who could play on his sympathies. The chances of a killer trusting multiple people with their murderous proclivities was far lower.

The door clicked shut with a satisfying, deep sound, the workmanlike grating of heavy-duty steel. The tiled walls echoed the sound, informing anyone inside that escape was impossible. The beast had been caged, and the only ways out were death or confession. Detective Knox took his seat at the table, placing the case file in front of him, leaving it closed. The pretense of rifling through the pages, placing the photographs in front of the killer, would be useless. When a killer is without remorse, without compassion, there is no reason to let them admire their handiwork.

Emerson Hobbes was calm. He displayed none of the signs of anxiety or fear that the majority of suspects could not hide. Detective Knox admired this quality in his adversaries, the ability to believe in the righteousness of their actions. There was no skill or satisfaction in catching someone who could not live with themselves, who desperately wanted to be punished for what they had done. Emerson Hobbes was not that variety of low-hanging fruit, and he could not truly believe that he was guilty of committing a cardinal sin. His sense of morality may have been twisted, but he was sincere, an important sign of character. Actions define a man, it is true, but so too does character. People who do vile things can still be men of honor, a distinction that few people could wrap their heads around. Detective Knox was one of them, in both senses of the phrase.

“Emerson Hobbes, you have been arrested for the murder of your father, George Hobbes. Do you understand the charges?”

“I do.”

“So let's start at the beginning. What made you want to kill your father?”

“The question you should be asking is why he should have been allowed to live. He was a bad man, and a worse father. He had failed on so many levels that it seemed unfair for him to be allowed to continue ruining our lives.”