Powers

by Brian Michael Bendis

  “Am I? Deny you know what I’m talking about. I dare you.” She pounded the table, and Quince jumped.

  “Jeez! Yeah, damn. I know what the Liberty killings are. I never denied that, pigbitch.”

  Deena bit her lip and tamped down the hate. She felt hot; noise from the precinct filtered through the door, mingling with the static in her head. Just keep talking. Press her about Atlanta. Don’t think about Waldo or Kirk, or you’ll gut this slut where she sits.

  “Then how am I ‘reaching,’ Willie?”

  “Because that was, like, twenty years ago. Ancient history.”

  “Eleven, actually. During the Atlanta gang wars.”

  Quince sat back and folded her arms. “Whatever, man. I’m not a calendar.”

  Deena hauled out her phone and maximized some criminal records, crime scene photos, and headlines archived from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution and APHD. She placed the device on the table and turned it so that Quince could see. “No, but you are a vindictive, radical, anti-Powers militant. And a whistleblower. Or at least you were, according to records, arrest reports, and court documents. You were Crane’s snuggle bunny, weren’t you?”

  Quince sniffed again, sneering and turning away from Deena’s phone. “I ain’t seen Mal in years. I don’t run with the Front anymore. I’m legit. I sing.”

  Deena turned the phone back. “And run a little H, maybe deal molly. Part-time hooking when tips run out. That’s from this station’s records, mind you. And not the ones in Atlanta, dear.”

  Willie massaged her leg, and Deena inched a heel closer beneath the table. Quince looked at the door. “I want a lawyer.”

  “For what? I haven’t charged you.”

  “I know my rights.”

  “Seems like a guilty move, calling a lawyer. Sure you have nothing to hide? I mean, I’m not the one who airholed a cop tonight, sweetie.”

  Quince exploded, shouting across the table, “Look, I don’t fucking know nothing about no goddamn Liberty murders, okay?”

  “Well, now. All right. Does Crane?”

  “Who—what, fuck. I told you I ain’t seen him.”

  “You said you knew nothing about Liberty,” Deena argued, paging through the files. “But according to these court reports, you testified against several Atlanta detectives who were accused of mishandling the Liberty killings. You said, I quote—”

  Quince cut her off. “I fucking know what I said.”

  Deena put the phone aside. Dammit, Dad. And fuck you, Crane.

  “So let’s try again. Do you know the man who attacked you this evening? Not the man you shot—the first man, in the mask.”

  Quince shook her head.

  Deena continued, “Do you want to venture a guess why he was trying to kill you?”

  “I have that kind of face.”

  “Willie.” Deena placed her chair at the left end of the table, sitting with her back to the door and alongside Wails. “Look, the man who attacked you was Liberty. Not the moron cops who capitalized on his first killings, pretending to be him in order to clean up the streets.”

  “I still say you’re reaching, bro.”

  Deena placed a hand on Quince’s forearm; the singer flinched. “I know this because he attacked me, too … after I chased him down. I woke up in the hospital, after he beat me, and I was told his words had been written above my head. In my own blood.”

  Wails sneered. “Copycat, like those cops. Liberty disappeared ten years ago … and he only ever killed in Atlanta. Besides, why would he want to kill a cop? He went after criminals.”

  “Because I chased him down. And maybe because though I’m a homicide detective here, I used to live in Atlanta, a lifetime ago. Detective Deena Pilgrim.”

  Quince’s expression went slack after hearing Deena’s confession, a spark of understanding flashing behind the eyes. She didn’t say a word, but Deena already figured she knew the truth, so she pressed onward. “Okay, so you know my name and what I know about your past. What you don’t know is that yours wasn’t Liberty’s only show today. Earlier, we discovered three bodies on a subway car, decapitated several hours ago. The last of the Rampage Brothers.”

  Quince’s mouth formed a letter O. “All … all three?”

  “The hat trick. Somebody’s killing Powers-haters.” Deena tapped the faded tattoo on Willie Wails’s forearm. “Haters with marks like these. I need to catch them as soon as I can. Where were you two nights ago?”

  “At … at the bar. I had a late set. Billy will back that up.”

  “Billy’s the bartender?”

  She nodded, horrified. Deena sat back. “So you didn’t kill the Rammlers, let’s say. When was the last time you saw Crane?”

  “Y-years ago. Before I got involved with Kaotic Chic. It … it didn’t end well. But I doubt he would have—”

  “And the Rammlers?”

  “Same time. When I cut ties, I cut ties.”

  Deena rapped her knuckles on the table. “Okay, let me ask you this. Did you ever meet Joseph Monroe?”

  Wails squinted. “Who?”

  Deena tried another tack. “Back when you ran with the Front, did you have any interaction with the hero known as the Citizen Soldier? Maybe in battle?”

  “Damn,” Quince mumbled, “the Soldier? What does he … you’re all over the place. No, I mean, yeah. I guess. I saw the guy once. But we never fought. I wasn’t one of the strong ones. Mal, the Rammlers, Blitzkrieg. Those were the guys that handled the A-listers. I had a fucking guitar. I scared the crowd. Like I said, I haven’t been involved…… I dallied with Kaotic Chic, and I believe in the cause, but stepped away to focus on music.”

  “And drugs.”

  “Bitch gotta eat,” she replied with a grunt.

  “So, you never met him. Crane said nothing about him?”

  “Nothing civil.”

  “But you admit to being involved with the gang war—and I know you testified against those cops. I know you worked for them. Think this might be a revenge thing?”

  Wails shrugged. “If so, why wait ten years? I’m nobody now. I sing to drunk assholes in a shitty bar. Why take revenge?”

  “Maybe it’s a Power out to kill known Powers-haters?”

  “Yeah, but why single me out? Plenty of active Front members in the bar last night. Besides, Liberty never discriminated between Power and normal. Killed plenty of Front soldiers, plenty of Powers.”

  “Could be a Power trying to rub the Front’s nose in the mud.”

  “Could be a lot of things. Could be Olympia back from the dead, wanting my hide because I once gave him crabs.”

  Deena lifted her phone and scrolled through to the photos of the guitar strings that Kirk had found. She turned it around so Quince could see.

  “Recognize these?”

  Willie Wails leaned in and squinted. “That a .027?”

  “How did you know?”

  She sat back, cracking a grin. “Might as well ask how I know one tit’s heavier than the other. Strung an old axe with them when I first got to the city. Been out of stock for years. They’re tense, see, and—”

  “They cause the guitar’s neck to bow.”

  Quince nodded, seemingly impressed. “Yeah, fam.”

  “We think someone used a set to slice off the Rampage Brothers’ heads.”

  Quince held out her hands. “Fuck, dude. I told you, it wasn’t me.”

  Deena stowed her phone in a hip pocket. “And you don’t know who else it might be? I can track sales of those strings, Willie. I can find out if you’re lying—”

  The former radical pounded a fist on the table. “Hey! I told you, I’m out. I got no beef with anyone no more. I sing my shitty songs and maybe sell an ounce for a hot and a cot, but I don’t fucking know who Liberty is!”

  Deena narrowed her eyes. “Could someone close to you have a set of those strings? Did you ever gift a set to Crane?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know. We did a lot of crank back then.”

  �
��Tell me about your testimony in Atlanta.”

  Quince groaned and sank into her chair, looking up at the ceiling in consternation. “Jeez. It’s all public fucking record.”

  “I hate to read. Why don’t you paraphrase?”

  Quince bent her neck and glared at Deena. “Look. Back on Peachtree … you know? It was fuckin’ chaos.”

  Deena edged closer to the singer. “Skip the preamble and tell me.”

  “Ease off. Okay.” She took a breath and sat up. “Look, none of us knew anything about who or what might be killing our crew, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “But thing is, cops weren’t eager to figure it out, either. And some of us? It helped us get a little side action with several of Atlanta’s finest.”

  Color rose to Deena’s cheeks. She’d heard this all before, of course. Despite her overtures to ignorance, this was, indeed, ancient history. Still, she needed the confession. And perhaps it would lead her closer to wrapping this shit up so that she could maybe go home.

  “Coupla us got sprung after Diamond and the Soldier tossed us in the can. Not many—four, maybe six. The Rammlers, Blitz, Hammerhands, me. They ran it past Mal, but he never bit. He wanted nothing doing with APHD.”

  “Crane had nothing to do with the indicted detectives?”

  Quince shook her head. “Mal stayed in jail. Did his time. Rest of us took the deal.”

  “Which was?”

  “You know … random acts of violence. Maybe coupla hits against criminal Powers and a few of our own. Look, we wanted all Powers to die, so it made no difference which side we hit. Seemed like we were covering up something else, something the cops didn’t want us knowing about.”

  “Like the Liberty murders?”

  Quince frowned and shook her head. “Nah. None of the guys or the folks we iced had anything to do with that. But yeah, those cops used his work to cover their tracks. Felt like something else. But…”

  “But some of your guys were killed by Liberty. One of the Rammlers. And Blitzkrieg.”

  Wails sniffed. “Well, true. But that was separate from our thing with APHD. What I was gonna say … some of the guys we iced, the cops told us to tag the scene with his words.”

  Deena sat up in her seat, heart hammering in her chest. “So to get this straight. The Soldier’s crew put you away. Then, some of you were released by cops in order to—what?—kill evil Powers as a distraction from something else. But not the Liberty killings, because some of you had been killed by Liberty in turn. And the criminals you did kill, some of them you tagged with Liberty’s words so that no one knew which were the actual Liberty killings?”

  “Bingo.”

  “Could Liberty have simply been that group of cops? Could they have been covering one set of killings up with another? A decoy set of murders, as it were?”

  Wails shook her head. “Doubt it. The real killer felt like a Power. Like someone with gifts and skills. Atlanta cops weren’t the sharpest tools in the shed. They just wanted an excuse to ice bad guys, figured they’d blame it on a serial killer. Hide a coupla murders inside a whole mess of ’em.”

  All the cops but one, Deena thought. “So what I need is to talk to one of the indicted cops and get the truth.”

  “Sure.”

  “Which of them hired you?” Easy, Deena. You’re opening a can of grenades.

  “Uh-uh. No way. I want my lawyer.”

  “After. First give me a name.”

  “Fuck that. How’s it gonna look I squawk, draw attention to the cause, Crane, and the cops? How’s it gonna be if I give up the guy who hired me to kill a member of the Front and blame the boogeyman? No, I want a deal. I get protection; you get a name.”

  I already know his name, Deena surmised, face and chest growing hotter with every passing moment. “You’ll have it. Now give me a cop before I step on your leg.”

  Quince hesitated, and then she recognized the look of impatience and fury on Deena Pilgrim’s face. She slumped down again and mumbled.

  Deena craned her neck to hear. “What was that?”

  Wails stared Deena in the eye. “It was your father, Detective Pilgrim. Waldo Pilgrim sprung me from jail and hired me to impersonate the Liberty killer.”

  13

  December. Eleven years ago.

  Friday night. 7:56 P.M.

  “Are you out of your “goddamn mind?”

  The last time Waldo’s face had been this red, he’d been through a three-day bender. He stood in the living room, fists clenched tightly, jaw about the same. Deena sensed he might start swinging if she didn’t step in, but Judge Boucher, seated on a recliner, held out a hand and waved her away. Her father noticed the gesture and pointed an accusatory finger at his begrudging guest.

  “Hey—leave my daughter out of this. Don’t look at her! You don’t keep her confidence!” Waldo advanced on the judge, spittle flying, and the older man rose to meet him. They squared off in front of the love seat, Waldo raging and the judge doing his best to contain the storm. Deena moved into the kitchen, keeping quiet and waiting for an outcome. The rest of the house was empty. Mom had been gone a week now.

  “Why don’t you drink with me, son?” the judge asked. “Let’s discuss this after some liquid balance.”

  Waldo fumed. “Don’t offer me drinks in my own home, Ken. If I want alcohol, I fucking know where it is!”

  “Is it with your manners? Because I can’t seem to locate those anywhere in sight.”

  The finger went up again, stuck before the old man’s eyes. “I only serve goddamn alcohol to people who haven’t betrayed me this month!”

  “Son,” the judge said. “You betrayed yourself.”

  Deena’s father kicked an ottoman and swiped at a lamp, knocking it to the floor. No one scurried to clean it up; the Cubans had all gone, having been let go by her mother before she’d followed them out the door. Waldo stomped across the glass to the liquor cabinet and liberated a bottle of scotch, taking a long, spiteful swallow. He turned back to the judge, lifting his finger once again. “You screwed me, Ken. You and your damn kid.”

  “We did no such thing. You were found guilty by a jury of your peers … and half the papers in Atlanta, son.”

  “Guilty, my ass. You think I’m the only one?”

  The judge shook his head and sat back down. “No, I do not. That’s why we stripped several of your colleagues of badges, as well. Be thankful that you, at least, I was able to keep out of prison.”

  Waldo scowled. “That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it. But big deal. Probably safer in jail. I’d have more friends than out here.”

  This time, the judge raised his voice and stood back up. “That’s because you released half the prisoners, you damn fool!”

  “Hey, are you kidding me? You don’t yell at—”

  “Damn right, I’ll yell!” It was too late; the judge advanced on Waldo Pilgrim, looming like a grizzly. Deena slunk deeper into the kitchen, wishing Aaron were here, wishing she could hide or turn back the clock. But the damage had been done, and there was nowhere to go but deeper into the abyss. Nothing to do but watch her father figures obliterate the remains of a once-wonderful friendship.

  “Thirteen murders,” Judge Boucher began, circling Waldo, who had by now dropped into a recliner of his own. “A baker’s dozen of corpses unceremoniously dumped throughout the city. Each scene tagged by this Liberty—whoever, whatever that’s supposed to be. And have you done anything to find the real Liberty killer? Have you turned over rock and root to find this mysterious assassin?”

  Now the judge kicked out, striking a soft, leather boot against the Pilgrims’ sofa. “No! Instead, you and your crooked group of Keystone Cops stepped aside, took bribes, and released noted criminals—villains, mind you, who have graced my bench, subjected themselves to my rulings—hoping they’ll do what you’ve failed to accomplish.”

  Judge Boucher sniffed and then stepped over to the abandoned bottle of scotch and took a swallow. He wi
ped his mouth and continued with his diatribe. “And what happened, exactly? Half of those villains were killed, murdered by this so-called Liberty as cops and Powers alike stood around with thumbs up their asses—that is, when they weren’t pretending to be him or raking in kickbacks and partnering with known convicted felons.”

  Deena’s face had bleached of all color by now. She’d heard accusations of the sort from Aaron in the past and picked up whispers from pockets of her mother’s conversations with friends. She’d chalked it all up to naïveté, scorn, or do-gooder zeal. But now, faced with reality in the form of printed headlines, television broadcasts covering the APHD trials, and a rattling barnburner of a scolding from her father’s oldest, closest friend, Deena finally had to face the truth.

  “Ha,” Waldo broke in, the crimson in his face whitening to a pale, terrifying pallor. “You got a lot of fucking nerve coming here and saying this to me. I’m not the one that hooked up with the Soldier. I’m not the one who—”

  The judge slapped Deena’s father before he could finish. His hand left a mark on Waldo’s face. Ken stepped away, chest heaving with fury as her father gingerly touched his raw, red cheek. Waldo sniffed once and held out his hand. “What did you expect me to do, Ken? You took my badge.”

  “I expected you to do your job.”

  Waldo shouted back. “Well, now I can’t! Now it’s gone! Let your arrogant, asshole son do it instead! That’s what you both wanted all along, wasn’t it? That was the ultimate plan!”

  The judge chuckled. There was no mirth in that laughter, and he started for the door. “No, Waldo. It really wasn’t. You essentially killed all those men, even if you didn’t pull a trigger or light a fire. Rammler, Blitzkrieg, all the others who died at Liberty’s actual hand. Victims who should’ve been locked away, safe from his wrath. Now all those felons are on the streets—either killin’ or dyin’.” He turned back to Waldo. “How does that look for you—or for me? What does that say about the weight of my judgments, about the stability of my court?”

  They faced one another from across the room. Waldo rubbed his cheek, and the judge donned his coat and hat. A moment went by, long and awkward, and Deena’s father spat to one side. “You know that half of what you’ve said is bullshit. You know that. But keep up appearances and play the innocent, if you like. Now you got your pound of flesh, Ken. Get the fuck out.”