Detective Knox sized him up, dreading the conversation he was about to have. Men like Emerson Hobbes were infuriating to deal with, as there was nothing redeeming about them. At least, Knox thought, talking to a psychopath would reveal bits of human psychology you rarely get a chance to experience up close. There was interesting material to be mined from people who are irrevocably broken or malformed in some manner. Men like Emerson Hobbes were merely crashing bores.

“Do we really have to have this conversation?”

Knox was already swallowing bile. He preferred to speak first, controlling the conversation, not out of a need for power, but as a way to limit his exposure to toxic personalities. By taking charge, he could ask yes or no questions, and not have to fight the urge to speak his mind.

“Yes, we really have to have this conversation. It's standard procedure when, you know, there's a murder to investigate.”

“You don't really need to solve it. We're all better off, so what's the harm in letting it slide?”

Normally, Detective Knox would have taken those words as proof of innocence, because no suspect would be so stupid as to ask to be let off the hook. Emerson Hobbes, however, was one of those people so caught up in his own importance that he may very well have believed murder was not a crime if he himself committed it.

“The harm is that if we don't catch the killer, you might be the next dead body I'm standing over. You wouldn't want that, would you?”

“Do you think I'm in danger?”

“It's too early to say. If you want to take the gamble, you can walk out right now. I'm not going to stop you.”

For the first time, a small crack appeared in Emerson Hobbes' persona. Despite his ability to slough off the usual slings and arrows, the idea that he might be the next victim of violence cut through his armor. The smile he had slathered on narrowed, his eyes no longer shining with mischievous wonder.

“When you put it that way, I see the merit of helping.”

“Good. Let's start by you telling me about your relationship with your father.”

“There's not much to say. I didn't see very much of him after the last time we fought. He couldn't come around to seeing things my way, and he threw me out until I learned to live by his rules.”

“That sounds frustrating.”

“It cramped my style a bit, I'll admit, but I always land on my feet. A guy like me can always find a warm bed to sleep in, if you get my drift.”

“You couldn't have enjoyed being a kept man.”

“I was no such thing.”

Knox had struck a nerve. The insinuation was the first sign of hesitation he had seen, and was at least a small drop of enjoyment he was glad to have wrung from an insufferable interview. At the very least, he thought, he was able to land a jab, if not draw blood.

“Have it your way, but that’s what it sounded like.”

“I was just doing what I needed to until my father gave me the money I deserved.”

“Or until he was dead.”

“So not only do I have to put up with your smears, now you're accusing me of killing my own father for his money.”

“It is a motive, isn't it?”

“Probably, but the joke's on you. I've got the best alibi you could ever hear.”

“I'm listening.”

“I was sitting downstairs in a cell. I got picked up for drunk driving, and I spent the whole night sobering up on a metal bench because no one would come bail me out.”

“And now you know why.”

Chapter 8

The Sacrament Of Caffeine

Detective Knox let out a sigh of relief, having dispatched his responsibilities. His interviews tested what little patience he had, which was not buoyed by the glints of useful information hiding in a small vein along the wall separating him from the truth. These efforts were always difficult, but became infuriating when the cat and mouse game was missing a player. Batting around a deceased foe was not Knox's idea of fun, though it was what he felt he was doing, spinning his wheels in search of anything to give him traction on the case.

Knox ignored his partner as he left the interrogation room, walking straight into the waiting arms of his warm addiction. Coffee, he hoped, would be able to calm the whirling dervish he kept bottled up inside. Reason was a powerful tool, but one not always equipped for the job. When problems made no sense, not being able to sidestep conventional thinking and find a new approach was a dangerous position to be in. Neglect had atrophied the creative side of Detective Knox's mind, and he realized it had been a mistake not to feed that beast every so often, if only to keep the muscles ready in case they were ever needed.

Detective Lane was impatient. He wanted to blurt out every thought running through his mind, but he knew better than to interrupt the sacrament of caffeine, though he couldn't help but manifest his displeasure by twitching his fingers. Knox took note, and slowed down accordingly. It was petty, but he couldn’t resist seizing the opportunity.

“If you're not going to say anything, I will.”

Lane broke the ice, his voice almost cracking as it finally escaped. Silence would get them nowhere, and for all he knew, his partner was testing his mettle. As he heard how his words sounded, he began to hope that was the case.

“Fine. What are you thinking?”

Relieved, Detective Lane found his confidence, and regained his standing. The details of the case tangled in his mind, knotted information so entwined he struggled to see how anyone could unravel it. Perhaps, he thought, the only way of straightening the pieces was to sever them, and reassemble the lines as he saw fit.

“I'm thinking that we've just interviewed the three most likely suspects, and we're not an inch closer to understanding what happened than when we started.”

“No, we're not.”

“Doesn't that bother you?”

“Of course it does, but you can't expect the answer to fall into your lap. There is an explanation for all of this, and we're going to find it, but you can't rush it.”

Detective Knox didn't believe a word of this. He needed to calm the panic that was evident in Lane, and the rest of the department, in the face of an insurmountable challenge. Knox had seen enough to know that not every riddle had a solution, that there was a very real chance that the killer would get away with murder, and they would remain forever haunted by the one that got away.

It was too early for Knox to make that call, but in the back of his mind he knew it was possible. Bracing for failure wasn't the same thing as expecting it, though they each fractured and fragmented the dim light of hope.

“I'm not talking about rushing, I just want to know that we have a lead, any lead, to start with. I don't see one.”

“I agree with you. We're staring at a whole lot of nothing right now.”

“We have three suspects, all of whom I can see wanting the victim dead, but they all have air-tight alibis. No one who didn't know that house could have done it, but no one with the knowledge could have been there.”

“You're the one who got so excited when you saw the scene. This is exactly what you wanted.”

Detective Lane didn't need to be reminded of the grin he had worn, the Cheshire scar of a man who didn't know what abyss he was jumping into. Had he an inkling that they would have nothing to work with, his reaction would have been far less ebullient at the time. Remembering the child-like glee he felt, now that it had time to erode, it burned him from the inside out.

“Since you know better than I do, why don't you tell me what we're going to do about this mess?”

“First of all, we're not going to panic. You can't think when you panic, and if you can't think, you can't do your job. Secondly, we're going to talk to the coroner to see if there's anything about the body that can help us. If there is, we follow the evidence. If there isn't, we have to knock out one of the walls so we can think outside the box.”