The Superhero's Murder

by James Damm

  A flicker in her face, but Elspeth did a magnificent job of concealing her thoughts. Juliet’s power was less complex than others painted or presumed, sometimes in a way that played to her advantage. Juliet could not read the innermost details of anyone she wanted. Someone could sit her next to a murderer on a train for hours, but unless the person thought about their crimes, Juliet would remain oblivious to them. Continuing the example, the person could ponder one of their murders but Juliet would have no name, location or the visual image of what the person was thinking. The thoughts were like trying to witness the full complexity of a face-to-face conversation with a wall in the way. Without body language, they would lose tone and context, and the same idea worked for mind-reading.

  “Ask away,” Elspeth said with a tight smile. Instead of replying, Juliet waited and let the awkwardness build between them. The expression she painted on her face was quizzical, as if there was something that Juliet could infer from Elspeth’s manner. The barmaid looked barely twenty, and carried herself with that same youthful nervousness – this was probably her first job out of school. A steady job with regular hours in a world where that was getting rarer. The residents liked consistency in the faces they interacted with. The tips were probably huge too. For Elspeth this represented a golden opportunity, one where she didn’t want to breach the privacy of a resident, even if they were dead, for fear of recriminations. All those details Juliet could infer just from looking at Elspeth. Another key sentence repeated in her mind: I can’t take it.

  “What couldn’t he take?”

  The colour drained from Elspeth’s face as Juliet asked the question. Acknowledging the recent thought was a simple power play to throw her off. It worked. As Elspeth stumbled and looked for an appropriate response, words and snippets leaked out from the memory. John had sat at the bar, ordering more and more drinks until he was drunk. Other residents and staff noticed his condition, but none felt able to tell John he’d had enough. I can’t take it, he kept murmuring to himself as he clutched a glass. I can’t take it.

  “I don’t know what you mean?” Elspeth replied with a play-acted frown to illustrate her confusion. A poor attempt at concealment, but Juliet had what she needed. The member of staff could also hold firm that she’d revealed none of the secrets or misdemeanours of a resident. Discretion and privacy was everything in an institution like this.

  “I’ll pretend like you had nothing to say,” Juliet promised. “Just tell me how long ago that moment at the bar was. Did you see or hear anything like that before?”

  Elspeth relaxed, her eyes flicking to Tom. “Around three weeks ago. I’ve worked at Invictus for over a year and it’s the first time I ever saw John eat or drink in here. I knew he was a resident, he just kept himself to himself.”

  “Thank you for your help,” Juliet replied as she slid off the stool.

  “There was something else,” Elspeth blurted out. As Juliet raised a brow, Elspeth flustered further. “A name, he would occasionally mutter it under his breath. The same one every time.”

  “Whose name?” Juliet challenged.

  “Alice,” Elspeth answered. “He kept saying the name Alice under his breath.”

  Chapter Three

  The crowds had thickened when Juliet and Tom exited the Invictus lobby. Half-past eight in the morning and school kids milled around in packs, and pairs of people huddled and pointed up to the penthouse. Their minds all said the same thing. That’s where John Fitzgerald lived. Lived. Already John had slipped into the past tense.

  In half an hour, the Prime Minister George Eden would make a statement revealing the truth to the world. Would a day of mourning follow? As Juliet glanced at the crowd’s faces, there was an excitement and buzz in the air. The reality hadn’t sunk in yet.

  As Juliet walked to the car, a figure darted out from the crowd. Before she could even react, Tom put a firm hand on the man’s shoulder, towering over his weedy frame.

  “Is that Juliet Reynolds?” the man squeaked, startled.

  “She might be,” Tom cautioned, his arm remaining on the man. “What would it be to you?”

  “I have information related to John Fitzgerald,” he insisted. “I presume she’s working the case?”

  Tom and Juliet exchanged a glance. He was a small, scruffy-looking man who looked like he’d just got up and been dragged through a hedge backwards. Yet those who toed the line between conspiracy theorist and crucial informant often existed on the fringes of normal behaviour. The man appeared harmless enough, and his thoughts aligned to his words. Eager to spill the beans, his mind jumped from place to place with no sign of slowing. Juliet signalled to Tom that it was okay, who promptly let the man go.

  “My name is Leo Turner, I’m a moderator on a website called Fitzgerald Watch,” he gushed the moment Tom’s hand left his shoulder. This man wanted an audience, any audience, and if Tom was there too, so be it. “We’re a community dedicated to mapping out John’s route around the globe, tracking the casualties saved and impacts in statistics John had. I’ve been a member for close to a decade, back from when we were a simple internet forum. I’ve been tracking him as a hobby ever since.”

  “Do you know where he was between last night and this morning?” Tom suggested, trying his luck.

  “Well, that’s the thing,” Leo enthused. “If someone posts a selfie with John, we’ll find it. If someone publishes a news story, regardless of language, it’ll get translated and added to the site. When I say we have members all over the world, I mean it. Yet for the last two weeks he hasn’t been seen in public. Not a sighting in the sky or a news story anywhere.”

  “And this place?”

  “Part of the website is that we track his comings and goings on a map,” Leo enthused. “Years ago we placed a tracking camera pointed at his balcony and one at the main entrance with a live feed through to our group page. Whatever that place is, it isn’t John Fitzgerald’s home. Two years ago he was here often, dropping in and out. John last popped in three weeks ago, his first visit in four months.”

  “That’s expected though, isn’t it?” Juliet questioned, her face doubtful. “The time John spent in war zones and helping with natural disasters, he’d have other boltholes to sleep in.”

  “So where are they?” Leo quizzed in retort, an enthusiastic smile returning to his face.

  “I don’t follow,” Juliet began, but a mobile phone appeared in her hand before she could speak another word.

  On the screen was a map, a filter to one side allowing the user to select their chosen time range. As Juliet selected the last six months, the map became a sea of red dots bouncing all over the globe. When she selected a longer time period, the red spread, each dot representing a sighting.

  “Now select the last two weeks.”

  Juliet did so, and the map before her was absent of any red dots.

  “I’ve been part of this community for over a decade, and for us to not know where he is… well, it’s unprecedented. He’s too famous a face to drop off the map.”

  “So where do you think he’s been the past two weeks?”

  “Held somewhere? A secret mission? That’s your job to find out. But if you want to find out why someone murdered John, your answer will not be in a flat he’s never lived in.”

  Silence fell and Juliet realised that Leo would happily remain with them, spilling the entire back catalogue of information he had on John Fitzgerald if she didn’t move on. From her jacket she pulled out a business card, a simple square with her name and contact number. “Call me if anything that may help comes up, you’ve been so helpful.”

  Juliet watched Leo’s chest swell with pride as he took and pocketed the card. Juliet’s praise wasn’t insincere as she walked away with Tom towards the car. History taught her that the more people out there gathering evidence Juliet could later tap into, the better her chance of uncovering something would be. The part of the investigations Juliet’s scope covered was intelligence rather than any evidence that woul
d appear in court. A man like Leo had more tacit knowledge of John Fitzgerald than most individuals alive.

  “We’re big fans of yours too,” he said after her. “You’re the last one!”

  The sentence shuddered as it repeated in Juliet’s mind. Even without her ability, she knew what would be in many people’s minds. With John dead, that left Juliet as the sole British individual with an ability. Famous – how could you not be with an ability – Juliet usually caught people’s attention in a room. Yet today the focus would become more intense. They reserved the mind-reader for police work and John, well, for everything else.

  “Where to next?” Juliet asked, opening the car door. “Have you been in touch with Ethan?”

  “He can spare us twenty minutes,” Tom answered. “It’s breakfast time and I’m craving a bacon roll and a coffee.”

  Ten minutes down the road and they found a place to accommodate their needs. As Tom queued for a food van serving builders and suited office workers alike, Juliet waited on a bench she’d nabbed. It was the beginning of summer, that sliver of time in the British calendar where the rain paused for a week or two, and the air tasted a note fresher than normal. The forecast was cloudless all day, and she imagined the pavements to be full come lunchtime as people attempted to escape the confinement of their workplaces for half an hour’s sun. Juliet’s prepared breakfast of choice was oats mixed with Greek yogurt and berries. Later on, as a snack, she had a bag of mixed nuts and an energy bar to see her through. Knowing when the next meal was coming proved a rarity in her occupation.

  On her phone she flicked through the website Leo had referenced. The site held a bank of detail regarding recent movements. John could be in Vietnam one day, Slovakia the next, but mobile footage and local news stories would follow him every step of the way. Three weeks ago he’d been in India doing a United Nations poverty talk, then he was in Afghanistan helping pull people out of a landslide. Finally, there’d been a high school shooting in the US. John arrived too late to step in, however, and there was a viral live news video of a grieving mother verbally attacking him.

  Carmen Snead, who had a daughter unaccounted for at the time, cut a ragged and distraught figure in the video. Hair scraped back into a ponytail, eyes raw red from tears, she began by screaming that nobody was giving her answers. While they said would find her daughter alive and well, the media trailed her like vultures, capturing every distraught moment. Wrong place, wrong time, John flew down from the sky only several yards away.

  “Where were you?” Carmen screamed as Juliet scanned over the news footage. John’s skin was covered in soot and his clothes were ripped and torn. There was confusion in his eyes as he tried to take in what was happening. But as Juliet paused the rolling footage, his face displayed more than confusion – he was exhausted. Another fire, another few lives to save, and a world where demand outmatched his supply.

  Suddenly Carmen lunged forward, grabbing for John. Before she could make contact and escalate the situation, the crowd yanked the distraught mother into its clutches. In the brewing hysteria, they led John towards the school. By the time the footage had been taken, the teenager had already turned the gun on himself after murdering four fellow pupils and a teacher. The clip lasted less than thirty seconds, yet millions had replayed it around the world.

  Tom returned balancing two coffees with a bacon roll. He spotted Juliet eating the oats out of her Tupperware.

  “I don’t know how you can eat that stuff every morning.”

  “It’s good for you,” Juliet bit back. “Better than all the fat in that bacon roll.”

  “Bacon’s good for the soul,” he said, handing over the coffee. “I got it how you like it. Two sugars and enough milk to make me sick.”

  “I’m not sure that bacon part is based on science.”

  “What do they know?” Tom concluded. “One week wine stops dementia, the next it causes heart disease. One week chocolate is good for you, one week it’s bad.”

  Ignoring the coffee jibe, Juliet continued, “I’m not sure they’ve ever argued a daily bacon roll from whatever food van you can find is good for you.”

  “Well, maybe that should be their next study.”

  Juliet laughed, and Tom took a seat. Ten to nine. The prime minister was due to make his address in ten minutes. Despite John Fitzgerald’s name trending on social media, scepticism and doubt filled many of the posts. As soon as he made the statement, the world would change.

  “Where were you for the Cherwell School fire?” Juliet quizzed as they ate their food.

  “Still on the beat,” Tom replied with a mouthful. “I won’t lie, I missed most of what was happening. Before smart phones, it was only really when I clocked off and got home that the news shows were playing the footage. You?”

  “Sixth-form,” Juliet replied. “We all gathered round the computers and searched for any scrap of information. The days to follow, when they made the public reveal, was insane.”

  “Your powers would surely have developed by then?”

  “They were emerging,” Juliet acknowledged. “It’d be two more years before they developed fully. Seeing John in that footage, it took my breath away. By that point I could hear whispers from friends and teachers, what thoughts were ticking through their minds. I thought I was going insane. To see someone like John, to have a trailblazer mapping out the way for me… I’m not sure where I’d be without him.”

  “It’ll be another world,” Tom considered.

  Spooning another mouthful of oats into her mouth, Juliet continued to eat. Relentless would be the word Juliet would use to describe the world, at least her part of it, before John died. Every day there was a fresh case, some crime that needed attention or a witness investigating. People presumed as Juliet and John were both British and had powers they knew each other well, yet both of them were far too busy for much interaction. Actors had Hollywood award ceremonies to bring them all into the same room outside of film sets, but there were no award shows for the superhumans like John and Juliet. When they crossed paths a handful of times, it could barely be called a shared glance. As Juliet ate, her mind flicked back to the footage of John being accosted at the school shooting. Only once in a while, a report a month, she got the sense that people were forgetting the human element of that title. Humans make mistakes. Humans have limitations. If people were expecting perfection, what would happen when they didn’t get it? What would happen now the biggest one of them all was gone?

  “It makes little sense,” Juliet bemoaned. “None of it does.”

  “It’s never made much sense,” Tom replied.

  The response threw Juliet slightly, and she looked over at her partner, deep in thought with a bacon roll in his hand. “A handful of individuals across the globe who can read minds, fly, deflect bullets or shoot fire out their hands. We’ve never got close to working out how your abilities work the way they do, why the people who possess them do. Yet somehow we’ll try to figure out how John’s powers stopped working. Any actual idea how you read minds?”

  Juliet shook her head. “It’s like a tap. Someone once twisted it to let the water flow, and it never stopped.”

  “So theoretically a stranger turning John’s power off like that,” Tom said, snapping his free fingers to illustrate, “is nonsense.”

  “The barmaid met him three weeks ago. He sat at her bar and drank himself into a state. Kept muttering to himself, ‘I can’t take it’.”

  “Maybe he’d had a tough day, the kind that makes you reconsider things. Being a superhero like that is a tough paper-round.”

  “He’s not the only one who feels that way,” was the sentence Juliet wanted to say, but she noticed people all around her had stopped what they were doing, eyes glued to their phones. Juliet pulled hers out and shared the stream from the BBC app with Tom.

  A podium waited empty in front of Downing Street, near the famous black door. The same spot where past Prime Ministers resigned or made statements of great importanc
e to the world. The ticker below stated that George Eden, the Prime Minister, would make an urgent address. As Juliet read it, she spotted the door swing open and the portly man in his mid-sixties stride out. A soft politician, the kind to take care of the numbers and fade into the background. The coming days would be the biggest of his career.

  “Good morning, Britain. It is with great sadness that I stand here today to announce one of our fellow citizens, John Fitzgerald, has been found dead. His death is being investigated as a murder. The victim is one well known to every man, woman and child, both here and further afield. Hero, saviour, our champion and Superman, the loss today is unimaginable. What I can tell you so far is that, at five this morning, a member of the public stumbled upon John’s body and our finest officers are chasing down leads as we speak. In the next hour, Gregg O’Connor, head of the Metropolitan Police, will hold a briefing and share what scant details we have.

  “The news of John lying dead in our capital city, will fill all listening with disbelief, terrible sadness, and a quiet fury. This murderous act was not just an attack on John, but on everything he stood for. The brightest beacon of freedom, opportunity, safety and hope, the blood spilled today is an attempt to frighten those principles into timid retreat. I stand here before you to promise that his murder will not crumble this nation. We did not cower during the Blitz, the Great Fire or to any group who has tried to topple Great Britain. Today, our nation sees evil, the worst of human nature. And we will respond with our best. To those waking up to the news, scared of the uncertain future before us, I have no immediate answers. I can only tell you what my mother would say whenever I saw something I feared on the news. Look for the helpers. The police, the emergency services and the ordinary citizens checking on neighbours or providing calm with a simple cup of tea. Out there right now, there are so many people helping.

  “As soon as the news reached me I implemented our government’s emergency response plans. Our intelligence agencies, police force and military are both prepared and powerful, as too are those of our allies. The functions of our government continue without interruption. Our police remain steadfast in the face of this murder, protecting the citizens of this country and keeping us safe. The search is underway for those who are behind this evil act. I’ve directed the full resources of our intelligence and law enforcement communities to find those responsible and to bring them to justice. Britain has faced dark days before, and we will do so in the days to come. None of us will ever forget this day. Yet I promise we will catch John Fitzgerald’s killer and we will bring those accountable to justice. Thank you.”