Superhero Detective Series (Book 5): Accused Hero

by Brasher, Darius

  ACCUSED HERO

  A Novella in the Superhero Detective Series

  By Darius Brasher

  Though this is a stand-alone novella which can be enjoyed without reading the other books in the series, you can check out the other books here:

  SUPERHERO DETECTIVE FOR HIRE

  THE MISSING EXPLODING GIRL

  KILLSHOT

  HUNTED

  Click below to sign up for Mr. Brasher’s e-mail newsletter for exclusive information on his new releases. His novels are often sold at a discount for only a few days when they are first released. Newsletter subscribers are the first to be able to snap up these deals and discounts:

  DARIUS BRASHER’S NEWSLETTER

  Accused Hero Copyright © 2016 by Darius Brasher

  All rights reserved

  First Edition, Published December 2016

  Second Edition, Published September 2018

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

  Special thanks to Michael Hofer, Paul Krause, and Flint L. Miller, higher level supporters of Darius Brasher’s Patreon campaign. Michael, Paul, and Flint your support is much appreciated!

  Though a part of the Superhero Detective Series, Accused Hero can be read and enjoyed without first reading the existing four novels in the series. For those who have read those novels, the events depicted in Accused Hero take place after The Missing Exploding Girl and before Killshot.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  OTHER BOOKS BY DARIUS BRASHER

  CHAPTER 1

  This all happened a while ago, after a teenaged exploding girl named Clara Barton died because of me and while I was still finding solace in alcohol. Those days I was still curling up in the bottom of more bottles of liquor than I could count, like a superpowered tequila worm.

  * * *

  It was close to midnight when I walked out of Julie’s Tavern onto Conway Street’s sidewalk. Big buildings loomed over me like dark giants, their tops barely visible in the overcast night sky. I was in Astor City, Maryland, the big city I called home. They say that home is where the heart is. These days, because of all the drinking I did, I was more concerned about my liver than my heart.

  I paused for a moment outside the bar, sucking in fresh air and trying to clear my head and orient myself. I wondered if I could get the expression Home is where the liver is to catch on.

  Nah, probably not. Not alliterative enough.

  I frowned, racking my brain, trying to come up with a synonym for home which started with the letter L. I came up empty. Coining new expressions was hard work. It was harder still when you had a bellyful of rotgut like I did. Maybe creative inspiration was like love in that it appeared when you stopped looking for it.

  What I needed was a break from all my hard brain work. What I needed was more alcohol.

  My frown of concentration transformed into a smile of happiness. More alcohol? I’d drink to that.

  Despite the fact I knew Astor City like the back of my hand, it took a moment for my alcohol-sodden brain to puzzle out where the next closest bar was. My thoughts were like butterflies, flitting from subject to subject with no apparent rhyme or reason, and my brain felt like a crippled entomologist trying to chase them down while wearing cement shoes.

  I was great at similes when I was drunk. Directions, not so much.

  Once I untangled the Gordian knot of which way was north and which way was south—a street sign helped with that, so God bless the Astor City Department of Public Works—I started heading south, toward another bar I knew.

  Thanks to the drinking I had done so far tonight, I had to focus more than usual on putting one foot in front of the other. Walking was an effort. I was certainly in no condition to play hopscotch. That was all right, as I had not felt the urge to play hopscotch since I was six. But, if I were challenged now to a hopscotch deathmatch tournament by a wild gang of nocturnal preschoolers, I would definitely be in trouble. Then again, maybe they would be the ones in trouble. After all, I was the redoubtable Truman Lord, licensed superhero and private detective, righter of wrongs and drinker of liquor, armed with superpowers, a gun, and words like redoubtable. On top of all that formidableness, I had a well-known reputation for spitting in the eye of feral children and laughing in the face of preschool hopscotching danger. I would take a chance and continue to brave the sidewalks.

  My legs were a little unsteady as I walked, though I was not yet at the point where I staggered. But the night was young. Julie’s Tavern was not the first bar I had stopped at for a drink tonight, and it would not be the last. I had left Julie’s because I did not like to spend too much time drinking in one place. Though I was not a household name the way some other Heroes were, I was still well-known in parts of the city. Especially the grimy parts. I was sufficiently concerned about my Heroic reputation that I did not want to stay in one place so that a bar’s denizens could watch me make the journey from sober to drunk, like rubberneckers watching a slow-moving but inevitable car accident. If experience was any guide, by the end of the night, when I had more liquor sloshing around in me than a rumrunner, I would stop caring so much about my Heroic reputation. Pretty much everything else too. Alcohol had a funny way of getting you to stop caring about things. That was why I had recently taken up drinking again after many years of being a teetotaler.

  It was raining, gently but steadily, like all the angels in heaven had decided to take a group piss. No doubt about it, I was a dab hand at similes when drunk. The wetness of everything around me glinted in the streetlights. Thanks to the rain, the city and its colors seemed brighter, fresher, and cleaner than usual, like something out of an Edward Hopper painting.

  I was getting wet. If I had my superhero cape on, I could have wrapped it around myself to protect my clothes. But I did not have it on. I had worn the damned thing exactly once, years ago on the day I had been sworn in as a licensed Hero by the Heroes’ Guild. People who were licensed under the Hero Act of 1945 were Heroes; those who used their Metahuman powers despite not being licensed were Rogues or, as they were more commonly called, supervillains. I had not worn my cape since my swearing-in ceremony because it was too easy for a Rogue to grab it and choke you to death with it. I did not know how Heroes who wore full superhero costumes and capes avoided such a fate. I had heard of being hoisted by your own petard but being hoisted by my own leotard would be more than I could stand.

  In addition to not wearing a cape, unlike most of my fellow Heroes I also didn’t wear a mask, costume, or an emblem with my initials emblazoned on my chest. Nor did I have a reckless and inappropriately young sidekick, a lair, a secret identity, or a superhero code name. Years ago, I had considered going by the sobriquet Long Dong Lord, but the Heroes’ Guild had refused to register it. “Too undignified,” they had said. They were probably just jealous.

  As I walked, the rain soaked through my light jacket to dampen my long-sleeved tattersall shirt and snub-nosed holstered gun. My khaki pants were completely wet, making me feel like I had
worn them while swimming across Astor Bay. Rain dripped from my hair into my eyes.

  Even if people refused to call me Long Dong, they would have to call me a doctor if I didn’t soon do something about the rain. By now, I was shivering. It was a cool autumn evening and getting soaked made it feel cooler still. Though I was a hard-nosed private eye in addition to a Hero, I did not have on a fedora and trench coat to keep me dry. I defied both superhero and private detective stereotypes left and right. Defying stereotypes was not helping me defy a good soaking, though.

  Fortunately, some superhero stereotypes were universally true. We Heroes were all Metahumans, and therefore we all had superpowers. So, I used my hydrokinesis—that is, the ability to manipulate water—to make the rain fall away from me instead of hitting me.

  From the outside, it must have looked like I now walked inside of an invisible glass bubble that kept the rain out. Then, I increased the temperature of the water that soaked my clothes and body. I did it gradually to avoid scalding myself.

  In just a few moments I was as dry as a Mormon prayer meeting. Which was more than my blood alcohol level could say.

  It was that blood alcohol level which made me think at first I was hallucinating when I started walking on air.

  No longer was I on the sidewalk. Rather, I rose slowly into the air, like an untethered helium balloon.

  My loins tightened as I looked down at the rapidly receding street, which made me realize I wasn’t really hallucinating. A slight shimmering in the air that looked like rainbow colors swimming on the surface of a soap bubble made me further realize I was inside of and being lifted into the air by a small, barely visible sphere. The rain hit and curved down its sides.

  This was not good. I could do a lot of things with my powers, but fly was not one of them. Someone was using his Metahuman powers on me. The last time someone had done that, it had been the Rogue Great White.

  He had nearly bitten my head off.

  CHAPTER 2

  Panicked, I scrambled for my gun, thinking I was under attack. Despite my sparkling personality, I had made a lot of enemies over the years. My jacket was zipped up over my gun, and my clumsier than usual fingers made it hard to get at it.

  Before I could get my gun out, it penetrated my alcohol-pickled brain that I had seen spheres like the one I was in before. Many times before, as a matter of fact. I then realized I was in no danger, unless I shot myself in the leg trying to unholster my gun. Or worse, in the genitals. I had suffered from whiskey dick in the past but shooting it off seemed like a mighty drastic way of avoiding the problem.

  I relaxed, panic now transforming into curiosity.

  The almost invisible sphere I was in rose to the top of a nearby mid-rise office building. It set me down gently on the building’s rooftop. Then it disappeared as abruptly as it had appeared. Since it still rained, I resumed repelling the water with my powers.

  A figured dropped out of the dark sky like a glowing meteorite. He landed lightly on the other side of the rooftop. He was dressed in a shiny, skintight outfit from his neck to his feet. It was royal blue on his torso, and black on his legs. The costume hugged the man’s well-developed muscles as if it had been shrink-wrapped on. There was a bright red mask on his face covering his eyes, nose, and cheeks. A red and black stylized shield with the letter M in the middle of it was etched into the center of his costume’s chest.

  As a 6’2” former mixed martial arts fighter who worked out religiously—or at least I had before I started drinking again weeks ago—I was a pretty big guy. Even so, the man standing in front of me made me look like I had anemia with a side of consumption. He looked like he ate a steady diet of raw beef marinated in steroids and seasoned with creatine and human growth hormone.

  “Where do you keep your wallet in that thing?” I called out to the man regarding his tight costume. My tongue felt thick in my mouth; I had to focus on not slurring my words. “And how in the world do you pee? Does it have a zipper?” I was tempted to look and see but did not want to get caught staring at another man’s junk. In some circles, that would get you punched in the eye. Or propositioned.

  “Are you Truman Lord? The detective and Hero?” the costumed man asked, stepping closer. Apparently he wasn’t going to answer my sartorial questions. Both rude and uninformative.

  “I am. Would you like my autograph? No one ever does, but there’s a first time for everything.”

  “I’ve left messages at your office and didn’t hear back. I’ve been looking all over the city for you.”

  “Lo and behold, you managed to find me. If you were looking for me so you could hire me to find me, now that you’ve found me all by yourself like a big boy, I guess you don’t need my services after all.”

  The man shook his head in annoyance. He stepped even closer. The outline of his body shimmered in the same fashion as the bubble which had lifted me up to the roof. The rain bounced off the shimmering field surrounding him like the nimbus was plate glass. The man examined me carefully, staring first at one eye and then the other. His nose flared as he took a whiff of me.

  “Good God man! Are you drunk?” His deep voice sounded aghast.

  “If I’m not, it’s not for lack of trying. Now be a good scout and put me back on the ground so I can keep at it. I’m nothing if not persistent. If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. I read that on the back of a scratch-off.”

  “I’ll put you back down once we finish talking. I need your help.” Now that the man was close to me, I saw his features more clearly. His hair was dark brown, almost black. His eyes flashed blue behind his mask. The whites of his eyes were tinted red. He looked tired, as if he had not slept in a while. There was several days’ worth of stubble on his chin. His jaw was square and, though obscured by the stubble, his jawline looked like it could cut diamonds. His hands were massive, with big veins like earthworms under the skin.

  He was a very good-looking man, the kind of guy who would feature prominently in most women’s wet dreams, and not an insignificant number of men’s. Unlike him, I did not have a perfectly symmetrical face: there was scar tissue on my mug and ears from my martial arts days, plus my nose was literally bent out of shape from being broken over the years. I was not jealous of the man’s looks, though. What I lacked in handsomeness, I made up for in personality. Or at least that’s what my grandma had told me, though I’d found few people over the years who had agreed with her sentiment. Haters gonna hate.

  “Do you know who I am?” the handsome man asked.

  “Sure. You’re Massive Force. Like me, you’re a Hero. Though we haven’t crossed paths before, I’ve seen you a lot on the news. You can fly, you’re super strong, you can project tangible energy fields in various geometric shapes, and you can also probably knit a sweater with your eyes closed, heal the sick, and walk on water. I recognized the energy field you lifted me up here on. It’s why I haven’t shot you already for kidnapping me. Or is it mannapping since I’m not a kid? Heronapping? Detectivenapping?” I chewed on my lower lip in thought. If I had been less tipsy I probably could have puzzled it out. “I’m not sure. You wouldn’t by any chance be an etymologist in addition to a Hero, knitter, and kidnapper?”

  Massive Force shook his head at me. He clearly did not find me amusing. Too few did. Or maybe he simply did not know what an etymologist was. Disappointing. Not every Hero read as much as I did.

  “I heard you’re kind of a smart-ass,” Massive Force said. “But I also heard you’re good at what you do.”

  “Drinking? I’m an expert at it, with an unquenchable thirst for getting even better. Speaking of which, put me back down on terra firma. These are my prime-time practice at drinking hours. I’ll bet Edvard Munch did not have to suffer through interruptions like this when he painted The Scream.”

  Massive Force shook his head at me again. “Would you knock it off? This is serious. I meant I heard you’re a good detective.”

  “What do you need to have detected? Where your z
ipper is? I can refer you to a female colleague who might be more inclined than I to help you with that. My hormonal interests lie in another direction.”

  Massive Force let out a long, frustrated breath before saying, “It’s probably easier to show you than tell you.” He glanced around. Seeing that we were still alone on the rooftop, he reached up and started to peel off his mask. It startled me so much, I sobered up a little. Heroes who maintained secret identities did not usually reveal them, not even to fellow Heroes, and certainly not to ones they had just met. Their secret identities allowed them to maintain normal lifestyles while they were not acting in their Heroic capacities, and they also protected their friends and family from being targeted by enemies.

  Massive Force pulled his mask completely off. The contours of his face changed subtly, but enough to completely transform his features. Clearly his mask contained some of the face-obscuring technology that was all the rage with both Heroes and Rogues these days.

  Unmasked, he was in his late thirties, maybe early forties. Despite how different he looked with his mask off, Massive Force was still male model handsome. I recognized his real face as readily as I had recognized his masked one.

  I took a couple of quick steps back, out of his reach. If I let him get hold of me, he could twist me into a bloody pretzel with his super strength.

  He was Ethan Lamb, a fugitive wanted for the brutal murder of his pregnant wife.

  I recognized Ethan because I followed local crime news the way a farmer followed the local weather, and for much the same reasons. Ethan Lamb was the prime suspect in his wife’s death, and the police had been searching high and low for him the past few days. Sabrina Lamb had been found stabbed to death in the Lambs’ home a week ago, on the twelfth of the month. Due to the gruesomeness of her death, Ethan’s face had been plastered all over the news since then. Clearly the police and the media did not know that Ethan was also Massive Force, one of Astor City’s most prominent Heroes.