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force, cutting off his oxygen just long enough for his mind to clear, resetting the apparatus. Maybe, he thought, it would all make sense if he could shut down and look at what he knew through fresh eyes. It was a futile hope, he knew, but one he patronized himself with regardless. He realized it was better to indulge himself in the unlikely event of a miracle occurring, as there really was no down side.
    “All I know is I'm not sure how many more of these people I can talk to. There's something about all of them that is a little bit disturbing.”
    “I think I know what you mean. You don't feel like you're talking to a human being.”
    “Exactly.”
    “Maybe that's the answer. The murder is so puzzling because it was committed by an alien, or a robot, or a demon.”
    “As crazy as that sounds, I'd listen to anything that made sense.”
    “Yeah. Well, let's get this over with.”
     
    * * *
     
    Emerson Hobbes was the prototypical child of privilege, overly confident, with an unwarranted sense of entitlement. Somewhere in his mind, he was convinced he was better than other people through no doing of his own, but simply by being who he was. To temper these thoughts, he didn't view it as his responsibility to cower to the resentment that came along with his bravado. If other people thought he was an arrogant prick, he took it as a compliment. No amount of criticism could dispel his self-belief.
    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