Superhero Detective Series (Book 5): Accused Hero

by Brasher, Darius

  “You know who I am?” Ethan asked, somewhat sadly. It was more of a statement than a question. He would have to be blind to not have noticed me moving away from him.

  Nodding, I said, “Ethan Lamb. They say that love appears when you’re not looking for it. I guess the same is true of murder suspects. Tell me why I shouldn’t pull my gun on you and hold you here until the police come.” Despite the fact I was not feeling particularly Heroic these days considering my drinking and how I had failed Clara Barton, I still was a licensed Hero. That meant, whether I was drunk or sober, I had an obligation to uphold the law. I just wished I had known I would encounter a Hero wanted for murder before I had started tonight’s drinking. Heroes were highly trained fighters. Facing one stone cold sober would have been no walk in the park. Drunk, it would be a nightmare.

  Ethan gave my threat a slight grim smile. “For one thing, my costume is bulletproof.”

  “Your costume doesn’t cover your head. I’m guessing a head shot would stop you.” Truth be told, I did not need my gun to disable Ethan. The human body was mostly water, which meant I could use my powers on it in several ways. Among other things, I could prevent oxygen from dissolving into the water content of Ethan’s blood, which would knock him out in seconds. At least I could have done it sober. Drunk, with my mind dulled and sluggish, I risked botching the delicate process and killing Ethan. I would try that on him only as a last resort.

  “True enough,” Ethan said. “Unless I encase myself in one of my energy fields, without my costume’s protection, I’m as vulnerable to bullets as the next man.”

  “And yet I see you haven’t raised one of your fields.”

  “I’m trying to get you to trust me,” Ethan said. “I didn’t kill my wife. Like most couples, we had our issues, but I would’ve never hurt her.”

  “I’m the wrong guy to tell that to. Tell it to the cops.”

  Ethan let out a long sigh. He looked at his wit’s end. There were dark bags under his eyes. They belonged on his handsome face the way graffiti belonged on Michelangelo’s David. “I will tell the cops. I’m going to turn myself in. This morning, now that I’ve found you. I wanted to talk to you first.

  “I’ve spent the past week trying to figure out who the real killer is. I’ve barely slept or eaten as I’ve tried to get a lead on him.” Frustrated, Ethan punched a brick outcropping on the roof. The bricks cracked like the shell on a hard-boiled egg. Ethan’s face screwed up into a scowl. “I’m no closer to finding Sabrina’s killer than I was when I started. I feel like I’m just chasing my tail. I’m good at a lot of things, including punching bad guys into oblivion. I can’t punch Sabrina’s killer when I don’t have the slightest clue how to find him.

  “I realized I need an expert, someone who does this sort of thing for a living. I asked around, and several people recommended you. They said you’re sometimes unorthodox, but that you’re tough and you get results. I want to hire you to find my wife’s killer and to clear my name. Since I’m going to turn myself in, I won’t be able to keep looking myself. I’m just spinning my wheels anyway.”

  While Ethan spoke, I had used my hydrokinesis to monitor his pulse, blood pressure, and perspiration rate. It was the same kind of stuff a lie detector monitored. That application of my powers was something I had been experimenting with a lot lately. My powers indicated that Ethan was telling the truth when he said he did not kill his wife. Then again, lie detectors were not foolproof. It was why they were not admissible as evidence in United States’ courts. My lie detecting abilities were about as reliable.

  In addition to my powers, my gut, well-calibrated after being a professional detective for years and being lied to more times than I could count, told me Ethan was telling the truth. Then again, if I had a nickel for every time someone looked me in the eye and told me he was as innocent as a newborn when in reality he was as guilty as Jack the Ripper, I could have gone swimming in a pool of nickels Scrooge McDuck-style. Some people were simply sociopaths, capable of taking a dump down your neck, telling you with a perfectly straight face that it was raining fertilizer, and have you believe them.

  Maybe Ethan was one of those accomplished liars despite what my powers and instincts told me.

  Either way, it did not matter.

  “I’m not taking new cases right now,” I said. “I’m too busy celebrating how the last one turned out. Which is why, as you pointed out, I’m drunk.” I was actually mourning and not celebrating, but Ethan did not need to know all that. Not only was I mourning Clara’s death, but I was still torn up about the fact I had failed to protect her as I had promised to. I was not used to failing. Failing Clara had rattled my confidence. An old cliché said that fools rushed in where angels feared to tread, but that was what Heroes did, time and time again—we rushed toward danger when anyone with any sense ran away from it. We did that because, as trained and licensed Heroes, we were confident we could handle whatever life or a Rogue threw at us. With my confidence shaken, I did not feel ready to work for anyone again yet. What if I failed again? It would be more than I could stand.

  And that assumed Ethan was innocent. If he was actually guilty of stabbing his pregnant wife to death, then he deserved everything that was coming to him. The death penalty had been outlawed in Maryland a few years ago but, as far as I was concerned, it ought to be brought back to deal with the sort of scum who’d stab pregnant women to death.

  “I can’t take no for an answer,” Ethan said. His tired eyes were anguished and pleading. “The cops are convinced I killed Sabrina. They found the knife used to stab her in the trunk of my car, covered with her blood. My fingerprints were all over the knife. The prints I can explain since the news says the knife came out of our kitchen. I’ve handled those kitchen knives more times than I can remember, so of course my prints are on them. How that knife got in the trunk of my car, though?” Ethan shook his head in perplexed frustration. “That I can’t explain. Someone must have planted it there to make it look like I had killed Sabrina. I didn’t, but even I have to admit the knife being found in my car covered in Sabrina’s blood is pretty damning. Which means that after I turn myself in, the cops will stop looking into the case because they’ll think they have their man. That in turn means Sabrina’s killer will be out there, roaming free. I can’t stand the thought of it. Sabrina deserves better than that. Our unborn child deserves better than that.”

  Ethan shook his head ruefully. His voice choked up. “That kid was our little miracle baby. Sabrina and I were married for almost a decade. We tried for years to get pregnant and never could. Despite tests indicating there was nothing medically wrong with either of us, we’d come to believe that having a child just wasn’t in the cards for us. We had given up on the idea of ever becoming parents. And then, bam, out of the blue, seven months ago, Sabrina discovered she was pregnant. We had never been so happy.”

  Ethan’s face took on a tinge of disgust. “I don’t even know if we were going to have a girl or a boy. Sabrina and I decided we wouldn’t find out the sex so that we’d be surprised when she gave birth. The news says the authorities performed an autopsy on Sabrina. That means they know the sex of my child and I don’t. Some damned coroner knows more about my kid than I do.” Ethan’s frustration and sadness seemed genuine. If he had killed his wife, he was a superb actor.

  “If the state convicts me, I’ll go to prison, probably for the rest of my life. And the Heroes’ Guild will take my Hero’s license away. The Guild of course can’t have a convicted murderer as a Hero,” Ethan said. “I’ve done a lot of good as a Hero over the years. Defeated a lot of Rogues. Saved a lot of lives. Even saved the world a couple of times. People thinking I killed my wife and unborn child will erase all that. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished as a Hero, and I don’t want that tarnished by something I didn’t do. I can’t stand the thought of losing my wife, my child, and my legacy all in one fell swoop. I’m begging you. I’ll pay you whatever you want. I’m a full-time Hero, and I’ve bee
n fortunate enough to monetize it. Licensing merchandise with my likeness, making paid personal appearances, movie and book deals, that sort of thing. I’m well-off. Money is no object.”

  “It’s not about money,” I said. “If you really are innocent, I feel for you. But I’ve got my own problems.” Despite my words, I felt myself wavering. I could not even begin to imagine what it must have felt like to have your wife and unborn child murdered, much less what it must have felt like to be accused of committing the murders. If Ethan really was innocent, the idea of him going to prison and the destruction of his Heroic reputation offended my sense of justice.

  On top of that, I had always been a curious person. It was one of the reasons I became a detective. Being a detective gave me a professional excuse to stick my nose where it normally did not belong and scratch the itch of my curiosity. Had Ethan—a respected Hero who had saved countless lives over the years—really stabbed his wife to death? Me looking into it was one way to find out.

  “If you won’t do it for the money, think of it as a professional courtesy,” Ethan said pleadingly. “From one Hero to another. You know how hard it is to get a Hero’s license. The years of studying, training, and having to pass the Trials. Getting my Hero’s license was the biggest moment of my life, at least at the time.” Ethan’s eyes welled up with tears. “Sabrina getting pregnant was the only thing that dwarfed it. My child has already been ripped away from me. Help me hold on to being a Hero. I work alone. I’ve never had a crime-fighting partner or been a part of a Hero team. I literally have no one else to turn to. Sure, there’s my lawyer, and I imagine he’ll do everything he can for me. God knows I’m paying him enough to. But he’s no Hero. I’d feel a lot better if there was a fellow Hero looking out for me.”

  It was that appeal that pushed me over the edge. I, like Ethan, worked alone. If I was falsely accused of something I didn’t do, who would help me? Ginny Southland—the woman I had been dating for a while now—would, I supposed, but she was no Hero. My Metahuman friend Shadow would, assuming she was not too busy pulling off some elaborate heist on the other side of the world or killing someone who needed to be killed. It certainly would be nice if some Hero stepped up and helped me out if I was in need.

  “All right,” I said, “you’ve hired yourself a detective.” I pointed a finger at Ethan. It pained me to see my drinking made it shake a little. “But know this—I go where the evidence takes me. If it leads me to believe you really did kill your wife, I’ll turn everything I have over to the cops and personally recommend to the Heroes’ Guild that you be defrocked.”

  Ethan grabbed my hand and shook it so hard I thought I would have to reinflate it later. “Thank you so much.” Gratitude shone on his face. “I promise you won’t regret this. You’re helping to save the life of an innocent man. Just contact my attorney. He’ll see that you get paid so you can start work.” He gave me a card embossed with the name and address of his lawyer, Justin Foote. Foote’s card did not have smoking six-shooters and a dead costumed Rogue on it like mine did. Further proof lawyers were less adventurous than Heroic PIs.

  After thanking me again and nearly cracking every bone in my hand, Ethan rose into the air, with the energy field around his body shimmering colorfully. He streaked off into the distance until he was lost from view.

  It wasn’t until then, long after Ethan was out of earshot, that I realized he had left me on the roof. Distracted by the fix he was in, he must have forgotten about transporting me back down.

  Cautiously, as I did not trust my balance, I crept to the edge of the roof and peered over. The hard, wet surface far below sparkled like a jewel in the city’s lights.

  How in the world was I going to get down?

  CHAPTER 3

  The next day I woke up on the couch in my eighth-floor condominium, located near downtown Astor City, not too far from my office. I felt like I had died, gone to hell, been rejected, and shipped back to Earth as a defective product.

  Drums pounded inside my skull. My mouth was foul and fuzzy, like I had eaten a rotten skunk without skinning it first. I had no recollection of how I had gotten home.

  I lifted my head a bit to look at myself. I immediately regretted it. The pounding drums were joined by crashing cymbals. All I needed was a gong and a piano and my head could have joined a touring orchestra’s percussion section. Have band and the mother of all hangovers, will travel.

  The room was darkened. All the blinds were closed. The only illumination was the sunlight which shone from around the closed blinds, and even that was too bright for my bleary eyes. I was fully dressed in the clothes I had on yesterday, all the way down to my shoes. Dried vomit crusted the tops of them. Mine, or someone else’s? I didn’t know which was worse.

  I had a vague memory of going from bar to bar until everything had closed, even the illegal after-hours joints. I had no recollection of how I had gotten home, or of much else.

  I felt a quick stab of panic at the realization there was a gap in my memory. With clumsy fingers, I unzipped my jacket and pulled my gun out of its holster. I checked the chamber and the clip. All the bullets were present and accounted for.

  My quickened pulse started to return to normal. I apparently had not taken a potshot at anyone while intoxicated. Thank goodness for small mercies. In the future, I would have to make a point to leave my gun behind when I went out and tied one on. There was a reason cops weren’t encouraged to drink before going on duty.

  I did not insert the clip back into the gun. If the pounding in my head persisted, I did not want to make it too easy on myself to end it all. I tossed the clip in the direction of a chair across the room. The clip clattered across the floor. I had missed the chair by a mile. Good thing I hadn’t been trying to put a bad guy’s eye out. It was further proof I had no business being armed right now.

  Thinking about making the mistake of pulling my gun on someone dredged up a vague recollection of almost pulling it on the Hero Massive Force. I had halfway convinced myself meeting Massive Force had merely been a figment of my intoxicated imagination when I rolled over and saw his lawyer’s card on top of my coffee table. I stretched for it. I felt the thick paper between my fingers. This tangible reminder of the new case I had undertaken was no figment of my imagination.

  Like an anchor back to reality, touching the lawyer’s business card made the conversation I had with Massive Force replay in my mind. I had promised to investigate Sabrina Lamb’s murder. I should first investigate who had almost murdered me. I knew the man in the mirror was the prime suspect. I felt so lousy, I wished he had finished the job.

  Despite the fact I had no interest in doing anything but lie here and feel sorry for myself, a promise was a promise. A murder case would not investigate itself.

  I sat up, doing it very slowly as my stomach had already started doing gymnastics. If I moved too quickly, it threatened to somersault right out of my body. My living room swam hazily in front of me before snapping back into focus. I needed to get a place that sat still instead of one that moved around like a damned funhouse. The wall clock read 2:25 p.m. My grandfather used to say a man should not stay in bed past 5 a.m. unless he was too sick to get up. I wondered what he would think of me if he were still alive. That bright-eyed and bushy-tailed old coot would no doubt look at me with disapproval. He would not be alone. He’d have to get into the disapproval line behind me.

  I went to the bathroom, relieved myself, and peeled off my clothes. Like my shoes, the rest of what I had on was filthy. Maybe I had made a pit stop in the gutter on the way to my couch. I still didn’t remember.

  Still in the dark, I got into the shower and stood under water that was as hot as I could stand for as long as I could stand. After a long while, I started to feel semi-human. I didn’t quite feel like a homo sapiens again, more like I had reached the homo erectus evolutionary level. It was a start. Next stop, Neanderthal. Always dream big.

  I got out of the shower dripping wet. I used my powers to dry myse
lf in seconds, mainly to make sure I could access them. My head still throbbed painfully, and it was good to know I had not broken my brain and could still use my Metahuman abilities.

  After putting on clean clothes, I made my bleary-eyed way to the kitchen. I flicked on the light, squinting against the sudden brightness. The pounding in my head got worse. I put coffee and water into my coffee maker, using some of the expensive grounds I had picked up a while ago from one of the neighborhood’s specialty coffeehouses. Nothing but the best for a hung-over Hero. The expected cash infusion from Massive Force would help keep me supplied with coffee without me resorting to selling my blood. I was not a wealthy man, and this coffee did not come cheap. I had asked the barista if she needed to review my credit report the last time I had bought some.

  While the coffee brewed, I opened my front door. The morning edition of the Astor City Times newspaper lay in the hall. I maintained my subscription because I hated reading the newspaper on an electronic device. Despite the fact the paper must have been lying there for hours, no one had stolen it. In this increasingly digital age, anybody under the age of seventy who had walked by probably didn’t know what it was.

  I returned to the kitchen with the newspaper. I poured myself a cup of coffee, hoping it would finish awakening me. After a couple of sips, I reached into a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of bourbon. I hesitated. I knew I needed to stop drinking sooner rather than later. Waking up on my couch with no memory of how I had gotten there was not good. What if I had encountered someone who needed help? My drinking was clearly getting out of hand.

  I stared at the bourbon for a few moments, on the fence. In addition to dispensing advice about sleep, hadn’t my grandfather also said that the best way to cure what ailed you was to have some of the hair of the dog that had bitten you? PawPaw had been chockful of advice. I had learned a lot from him.