Powers

by Brian Michael Bendis

  “No, fuck that.” Walker pointed an accusatory finger. “You were ready to burn me before you knew about Joe’s death. You have a case? Let’s go. Because otherwise, all you got is whatever my partner figured out. And right now? That isn’t a hell of a lot.”

  “Well,” a hesitant voice disagreed. “That isn’t exactly true.”

  They swiveled about to behold Corbin Kirk, baby detective, awkwardly shuffling on the periphery of the confrontation. He held something in a clutching fist, and Deena beckoned with grasping fingers like a mother to a troublesome child. “New fish,” she said. “I forgot you were even here. Whatcha got?”

  “I found something,” he admitted, warily entering their hostile circle. “While hunkered down to, ah…”

  “To puke.”

  “Uh, right.” He opened his palm to reveal a handful of metal strips—long and wiry, coated with blood. “These seem important. Definitely more substantial than ‘not a hell of a lot.’”

  A dull flush rose to Walker’s cheeks. He patted the rookie’s shoulder. “Good find. Though you should have left them alone. If these are part of the murder weapon, your prints may have covered over the actual killer’s.”

  Now it was Kirk’s turn to blush, but the homicide detectives barely noticed as they huddled around the evidence. “Quick, before we hand these off,” Deena whispered to the others, “initial conjecture? They look like guitar strings.”

  Aaron agreed. “That’s because they are.”

  “How do you know?” Walker asked. “Could be piano wire.”

  Deena bit her lip. “Aaron would know. He’s played for years.”

  “That’s right,” Boucher confirmed. “I had a set like these. Steel, heavy-gauge for added tension. About a .027. Bought them accidentally for a vintage acoustic, was worried they’d bow the neck. Traded them for a set of nylons. Less stress on the frame.”

  “Okay, so the Liberty killer decapitated three Human Front associates with a set of guitar strings? Doesn’t compute.”

  “Well, he may have killed them some other way first. Then sliced their heads and moved them here. We could wait for the ME’s findings before jumping on this.”

  Deena shook her head. “No time.”

  Walker grunted. “Fine. Here’s what we do, then—”

  Boucher stepped between them. “Ah, ah. You, sir, are doing nothing. You’re off this case, remember?”

  “The Monroe case.”

  “While under investigation, Walker, you’re off all cases. Especially those with ties to a delicate set of circumstances that could fall into the hands of federal investigators anytime over the course of the next several hours.”

  Walker fumed. But he knew the pompous asshole was right. He had to sit this out for the sake of his career—and for the sake of both the integrity of the precinct and discovering the truth pertaining to his dead friend.

  “Fine,” he relented, arms crossing the barrel of his chest. “What’s your plan?”

  They turned to Deena, who had been mostly silent throughout their argument—which, Walker had to admit, set off warning lights. Deena Pilgrim was rarely silent; Boucher’s presence had thrown her off. Walking away from this case, especially during the critical discovery period, was a mistake. But his hands were tied. Walker’s place was back at his desk, sweating out Boucher’s investigation. Out of the media glare, away from any place he might say too much and embarrass himself, his history, and any late, lamented friendships.

  Deena cleared her throat and retrieved Kirk’s tablet. She studied the mug shots again and then the photos from the Monroe crime scene.

  “Here’s how we play this, and we have to work fast. Walker, you and Aaron go back and finish your little drama.”

  The two men traded hostile looks; Deena ignored them. Forensics was removing all bodies from the train, and she wanted to talk to the ME before he slithered off to a morgue or bottle, whichever came first. “Kirk and I will work our list.” She tossed the tablet back to the baby. This time, he caught it, right as it buzzed. A new e-mail, perhaps. Service was spotty below, and they’d been out of contact for far too long … especially with the Monroe case hanging over their heads.

  “The guitar strings,” Aaron suggested. “Track sales to recent buyers. The .027 is rare—only a handful of instruments will take it, due to the bend it induces because of higher tension. Gotta narrow it down within the metropolitan area.”

  Deena agreed. “Great. Walker, help us by looking into that.”

  “Sure. After I’m done with the Gestapo here.”

  “Seriously, dude?” Boucher’s hands curled into fists.

  Kirk’s device buzzed again, and the rookie stared at it in his hand, unsure whether or not to look, whether or not to step in between the simmering detectives.

  Deena interceded. “Girls, you’re both prom queens. Go back. Find the strings. New fish and I will work the Human Front angle, this time expanding to known enemies. Old rivals of Monroe who might be seeking revenge.”

  “Someone with musical ties?” Aaron gestured at the strings in her hand. “A Power or hater with an acoustic—or in the market for one.”

  A lightbulb clicked on in Deena’s head, just as Kirk’s tablet buzzed for the third time. “Goddammit, fish,” she spat. “Check your e-mail.”

  Kirk dove into the screen, happy to detach from the tension. As the rookie checked his messages, she ventured a guess as to the identity of the next suspect.

  “You know, there was a Front member with musical ties. The strength isn’t there—I doubt she killed Joe—but I can definitely see her being involved.”

  Aaron arched his eyebrows. “A woman? You think a woman twanged these tractors on legs?”

  “Hey, a woman decimated the entire city of Chicago, remember?”

  “Fair point. Got a name?”

  “Uh … guys?” Kirk held up a hand, trying to get their attention.

  Deena ignored him. “Actually, you may already know. Wailing Willie Quince. Short for Wilhelmina. Malachi Crane’s girlfriend, back in the day.”

  “Seriously,” Kirk raised his voice in intensity. “Guys, you should definitely—”

  “She had a way of connecting instruments to a kind of vibratory harness—pounded the decibels. Killer headache; brains-through-your-ears killer. Plus, she was in Atlanta, too. She and my family … well, there’s history.”

  Aaron nodded. “Right. She was on the stand that time.”

  Walker frowned. “Oh, I know who you’re talking about. Last I heard, she’d left the cause after the whole Kaotic Chic thing. Retired, far as I know. Singing a different tune now under the name ‘Willie Wails.’”

  “As far as you know.” Deena smirked. “You fucked her, didn’t you?”

  “Hey, come on.”

  “You slipped her the mickey. You let her ride the Bologna Express. You—”

  “Deena!”

  Kirk shoved the tablet in Deena’s face. “Detective! You need to see this!”

  She slapped Kirk’s hand. “Personal space!” Walker removed the device from the rookie’s grasp and turned it around to see. He found an open e-mail, linking to an embedded video.

  “What’s this?” He jabbed the Play button, and all sorts of hell unfolded, streaming as fast as the signal would allow.

  A memory stirred again. Detroit, long before Atlanta. “Too hot for you?” Joe had asked. “Then you’re in the wrong goddamn business.”

  Deena stepped closer, curiously watching her partner’s face. “What is it?”

  “Aw, hell,” Christian Walker moaned in dismay. “Some moron leaked the Soldier’s death to Powers That Be.”

  8

  December. Monday afternoon. 3:17 P.M.

  “Commissioner Tate spared little time for reporters, nor did he elaborate on plans for any sort of press conference. But despite outward appearances and claims otherwise, “Powers That Be has confirmed the lurid details surrounding this morning’s grisly discovery. Credible sources—”
>
  “’Credible’?” Deena snorted. “And I saw Hoffa ordering a latte last week.”

  “Did you?” Boucher asked, lowering the volume on the video as Deena manhandled the steering wheel. “Because we’ve been looking for him.”

  Deena scoffed. “Press Play.”

  “Music instead? Turn the radio to P-Rock, because Alison Nightbird just released a new sing—”

  “I said Play!”

  He grinned and raised the volume. Powers That Be, the incredibly popular opinion newscast, continued streaming on the tablet, Collette McDaniels reporting.

  “Joseph Monroe, a name our audience may be unfamiliar with. But for over seventy years, Monroe lived a heroic double life: this patriot battled evil with nothing more than fists and shield. Yes, PTB Nation. Joseph Monroe—decorated military man, pillar of his community—was the Citizen Soldier. And now he is gone. And with him our hopes and prayers.”

  “Seriously? What’s this ‘pillar of his community’ crap?” Deena slammed the horn, squawking at traffic as she vented to her passengers. “The guy lived in a roach motel, just him and leftover pizza. The community didn’t even know he was there.”

  “Deena…” Walker placed a calming hand on his partner’s shoulder, attempting to soothe her nerves from the backseat. Boucher and Kirk appreciated the gesture; they hoped it would ensure they made it back to the precinct in one piece.

  Deena threw up her hands in disgust. “Damn! Fine. Whatever.”

  “Our sources—”

  “You mean ‘Twitter’!” She seethed and drove. “Keep going.”

  “—have learned that the Soldier’s body, smuggled from an unknown location, has yet to be identified by family members or recognized by government officials. Tate may still be investigating the circumstances behind Monroe’s death, but this reporter can’t help but grimace at the rotten taste in her mouth—”

  “Ha! No … too easy.”

  “—placed there due to unnecessary delay in laying the great man’s remains in state. What are police and both federal channels and the Powers community attempting to hide? Have unsavory facts been baked into Monroe’s untimely demise? The man, a veteran of countless conflicts, engendered several enemies in his lifetime. Powers That Be hoped, however, that Commissioner Tate, Captain Emile Cross, and Homicide Detective Christian Walker would not be counted among their number—”

  Deena pounded both hands against the wheel. “Shut it off. Shut it. Oh, that bitch.”

  Walker leaned back and stared out the window, scanning the snow-covered landscape as it quickly sped by. “Nothing we haven’t heard before.”

  “Don’t worry, Deena,” Boucher coolly replied, handing the tablet back to Kirk. “I’ll apply leverage to McDaniels. Hush things up.”

  “It isn’t that. I just can’t … oh, come on. What fresh hell is this now?” Deena peered over the dashboard as she pulled the SUV into the precinct parking lot. A thick, angry crowd had gathered in front of the building, comprised of chanting, picketing civilians and costumed children. The adults, hidden beneath coats and scarves, stomped about in the snow, hoisting placards on which they’d scrawled an equal number of messages both supporting and condemning the Citizen Soldier. The kids gawked and cried, dragged along by the hand and held up to news cameras lining the sidewalk. The usual religious nuts were in attendance, as were local and national news along with a stalwart group of policemen, barricading the steps and doing their best to maintain crowd control. Reporters belted questions at passersby while a handful of men and women, dressed in hats emblazoned with the Soldier’s eagle sigil, wept and carried on with abandon. Deena quickly steered the SUV into the garage and was waved through by a warmly dressed, mildly annoyed beat cop who was being peppered with insults by the gathered mob.

  They sidestepped Central Booking and entered the hot, crowded precinct. Someone had removed the Christmas tree, possibly into a back room—the bullpen was too crowded, and they needed the space. Walker and Pilgrim beelined for the captain’s office while Aaron excused himself to hunt down media relations. Kirk stumbled after the partners, fumbling with the tablet and wiping sweat from his eyes. As he departed, Aaron deftly lifted the mobile device from Kirk’s hands, ensuring that the rookie wouldn’t get bumped, drop the tablet, and have it shatter into millions of pieces. That easily could have happened; the bullpen was packed—strangled by not only cops and perps but also attorneys and politicians descended from on high to deal with the details surrounding the public relations nightmare. Deena ignored them; they were a distraction, and there was a case to solve.

  Walker’s lucky, she thought. I should recuse myself, too. Claim emotional distress due to the reappearance of the Liberty killer. Make up a bit of bullshit and hole up somewhere quiet and dark, lined with dusty bottles and inappropriate choices. I should get out now. My heart’s not in it. With Aaron here, to be honest, I wouldn’t trust my heart even if it were. I should tell the captain I’m walking. I should tell him today.

  Kirk sneezed behind Deena, wide-eyed and gawking at the district attorney, who was quietly arguing with Aaron in a corner, vehemently gesticulating to the crowd outside. The rookie caught Deena staring and, red-faced, scampered to his desk.

  Dammit, she realized. If I walk, they’ll just give it to the baby. I can’t subject him to that. Deena Pilgrim was in—again—like it or not. But she planned to have a frank discussion with Cross once they wrapped it up. A well-earned vacation. Right after she had a franker discussion with the ex-boyfriend who’d shown up from out of the blue. Whatever the case, between the details of the murders, Aaron’s reappearance, and the blanket of conversation permeating the cop house, Deena Pilgrim was distracted.

  Which, unfortunately, left her vulnerable.

  Somebody tugged the back of her collar, hard enough that the zipper of her jacket dug deeply into her throat. She lost her footing, but whoever it was dragged her up and held her close. A guy, by the smell and breathing, possibly two weeks without a shower. He was wiry but strong, sporting a musty jacket and a thick brush of beard. His left arm locked around Deena’s neck, crushing it as he raised his right hand before her eyes. She twisted, attempting to free herself, but the filthy man matched her step for step, adjusting his stance to ensure that she couldn’t kick or grab a delicate spot.

  The room reacted. Several cops drew on Deena’s attacker, barking angry warnings as they steadied their aim. The lawyers, stricken with silence, disappeared into offices or plastered themselves against the wall. Hookers and thieves, waiting to be arraigned, hooted and cackled. They cheered for the unnamed man at Deena’s back. Walker held out a hand, no doubt locking eyes with whoever it was behind Deena. She couldn’t make out Walker’s words; the only sound reaching her ears was a rushing wind—adrenaline washing through her body. Then a metered tick—like from a clock—the filthy man’s irregular breathing, and Deena’s own pounding heartbeat.

  Finally, like water through an unstopped drain, the noise rushed back in.

  “Get down!” two of the officers shouted. “Put her down and step away!”

  “It’s all right.” That was Walker, using measured tones to calm her assailant. “We’re here to listen,” he reasoned with the stinky wall of flesh against which Deena was pressed. “Just let her go, okay? It’s been a hard day for everyone. Just set her down, lower your hands, and we can talk.” Captain Cross had emerged from his office; she spied him behind Walker, along with a handful of goggle-eyed detectives and secretaries. Kirk watched from his seat. He’d frozen; they all had. No one moved to help her, and sweat began to roll down her cheeks. Why didn’t Walker move or do something? If she could breathe, if she could get her hand on the guy’s knees or balls this would be over in a minute. But she kept missing her targets, squirming and doing her best to break free. Deena’s hands scrabbled for purchase on his arms, throat, his face, but he was smoke—her fingers passed through dry, sticky heat. Deena’s heart hammered against her chest. She was losing oxygen, and everyone jus
t fucking stood there.

  Then the man waved the hand before her eyes, and she understood why. He clenched his fist, and the air … swirled. So did his skin, lapping like water as fire and electricity coursed into it, flowing through his veins. He pulled an electric charge out of the air, and it rippled from knuckle to knuckle until the entire hand was bathed in cold, blue flame. He turned his hand on Deena and moved it close to her temple, the open palm directed at her face. She could feel the irregular warmth and a tiny jolt of static strafed her right ear. Deena flinched, and the bearded man reasserted his grip, chest heaving as if about to sob.

  “You pigs,” the intruder sputtered, his fetid breath no welcome treat. “You swine are responsible; you let him die. He’s gone, and our enemies … they’re fuckin’ everywhere.” Deena locked eyes with Walker, her partner still maintaining a pose of practiced negotiation. Deena knew that if she could see through Walker’s eyes, she’d be seeing a crazy person … probably dressed in some kind of Citizen Soldier shirt, hat, or jacket. She slackened her frantic attempts to escape and surreptitiously pointed an index finger at her partner. You got this, Deena whispered in her mind. We took down Royale and Wolfe, so this guy’s nothing. You got this, all right?

  Walker took a hesitant step forward, and the Power flinched. His body shuddered, and he forced his hand closer to Deena, threatening to speed-tan half her face. “Stay back,” he warned her wary partner. The man swiveled to the right, quickly holding out his hand to the assembled policemen, and then he shoved it back at Deena. “I’ll broil her, I swear. You just … you have to bring him to me, okay? Bring him back.”

  Walker spread his hands, demonstrating that he presented no threat. “The Soldier? You know we can’t do that. I understand your grief, man; we all knew him. This isn’t the way to get him back.”

  “No!” The Power grew increasingly unhinged. He pointed an unsteady finger at Walker. “No, you didn’t know him! I knew him! The people knew him. Hunter fucking Thompson knew him. You killed him, what with your wars and badge and Facebook satellites bombarding Powers with sterilization rays.”