Superhero Detective Series (Book 2): The Missing Exploding Girl

by Darius Brasher

  I stood in front of the desk patiently as the women played games on their cell phones. They ignored me with an ease born out of long practice. It warmed the cockles of my heart to see my tax dollars hard at work.

  “Can I help you?” one of the librarians finally asked me. She had shoulder length oily brown hair, a huge silver stud in her left nostril, and a face that looked like the surface of the moon. Despite her question, she sounded like she would rather do anything in the world other than help me. Maybe she figured speaking to me was the only way to get me to go away. Little did she know I was Truman the Tenacious. I laughed in the face of being ignored.

  I smiled the smile I reserved for impudent civil servants. It was the one that said “Even though you theoretically work for me and other taxpayers as a civil servant, I recognize you actually view yourself as my master, not my servant. I promise to bow and scrape before your civil service protected magnificence.”

  “I want to review newspaper articles about a certain person. Can you point me in the right direction?” I asked. I could have done Internet searches from my office or on my phone, but lot of newspapers had their articles behind a paywall. I knew the library had subscriptions to a wide array of newspapers and news services.

  “Dedicated news computers are in our media room,” the woman said. A “Duh!” was implied by her tone of voice.

  The woman looked back down at her phone. She no doubt thought she had just amply earned her salary for the day. Or, maybe using a big word like “dedicated” had exhausted her.

  “Do you mind showing me where they are and how to use them?” I said. I put a slight genuflection before her awesome importance in my voice. I was Truman the Tame.

  With a long-suffering sigh, the young woman rose from her seat. She was wearing a frayed gray sweatshirt that looked like it had not seen the inside of a washing machine in a while. I bet myself five dollars she had on torn jeans and flip-flops.

  She moved from behind the desk and started walking towards the back of the building without a backwards glance at me to see if I was following. I followed behind her. I was a professional detective; tailing someone who was trying to lose me was second nature. I looked down to see torn jeans and flip-flops on her dirty feet. I congratulated myself on my predictive abilities. If Miss Congeniality here did not also have a tramp stamp and a thong on under her sweatshirt and jeans, I would eat my private eye license.

  I followed the woman into a room full of computers, magazines, and newspapers, the latter of which were mounted on wooden dowels. There were maybe ten or so people in the room. Still without looking back at me, the librarian bent down over a vacant computer station. The station was in between two others. At the station on the left sat a well-dressed, middle-aged Hispanic woman studiously studying the screen in front of her. At the station on the right sat an unshaven white man in tattered clothing who was sound asleep. Perhaps he had fallen asleep days ago while waiting for a librarian to help him.

  With the librarian bent over, her sweatshirt had risen up on her back. I got a confirmatory flash of a butterfly tattoo stenciled onto the soft white flesh of her lower back. A white thong peeked out of the top of her jeans. It had sparkles on it. Classy. The woman did not look like she worked out or ate right, and I had little doubt the butterfly would grow into a pterodactyl in a few years.

  I slipped stealthily into the chair in front of the computer. Despite her lack of good grace, the librarian was actually making herself useful by operating the computer system and showing me how it worked. I did not want to make any sudden moves and startle her back into her default state of uselessness.

  After a few minutes, I thought I had a handle on the computer system. I thanked the librarian for her time. She walked off, no doubt to take a well-deserved vacation after all of her hard work.

  I did some searches for the Pied Piper. I doubted that was the name that appeared on the man’s birth certificate, but one never knew these days. After all, Moon Unit Zappa was not a lunar powered Metahuman, but rather a regular person.

  Fortunately, regardless of whether the Pied Piper was his birth name, there were several news reports that referenced him. It turned out he was the founder and leader of the Metahuman Liberation Front, or the MLF. I remembered Stan Langley of the Astor City Times telling me the MLF was one of the organizations that had taken credit for the Dupont Circle explosion. I also remembered how John Barton had told me it seemed like this Pied Piper character had taken control of Clara somehow when he came to the Barton house to pay John off. Perhaps the Pied Piper had used his powers to make Clara cause the Dupont Circle explosion.

  It was times like this I wished I had a sidekick who could congratulate me for having uncovered a clue. The Hispanic woman had already gone, and only the sleeping white man remained nearby. I would have asked him if he wanted to be my sidekick, but he looked so peaceful I did not want to disturb him. Besides, he smelled a bit. Regular bathing was one of my strict requirements for a sidekick.

  I continued to read articles about the Pied Piper and the MLF. The more I read, the more I was surprised I had not already heard of them. The MLF was apparently a relatively new group, and had been started by Pied Piper and a couple of his followers in the United States. But, more Metahumans were flocking to the Pied Piper’s banners, and the MLF was growing in Metahuman followers by leaps and bounds worldwide. Its goal in short was to establish a worldwide social and political order where Metahumans ruled over Unevolved humans. As Stan Langley had mentioned, Unevolveds were what the MLF called people who did not possess superpowers.

  The MLF had even released a written manifesto which a few newspapers had printed in its entirety. I fed some coins into the printer connected to the computer, and printed a copy of the manifesto out for later reference. It read:

  1. Metahumans are the latest and ultimate evolution of the human species, as separate from and superior to Unevolved humans as Unevolved humans are from their chimpanzee cousins.

  2. Expecting the superior Metahuman species to live peacefully with Unevolved humans is like expecting wolves to live peaceably among sheep.

  3. Having a society structured so that Unevolved humans are in charge is like having chimpanzees rule over men. Unevolved humans are ill-equipped to rule, as indicated by the thousands of years of war, poverty, and bloodshed throughout their history. Now that superior men and women in the form of Metahumans have taken history’s stage, it is time for them to take their rightful place at the head of society. The only way Metahumans and Unevolved humans can coexist is for Metahumans to take complete control of society.

  4. The so-called United States Hero Act of 1945 is nothing but a tool of oppression, a vain attempt by Unevolved humans to stave off the inevitable supremacy of Metahumans by forcing them to register with the government, reveal their abilities, and keep the government apprised of their whereabouts. Furthermore, the Act’s requirement that a Metahuman not use his powers under pain of being imprisoned unless he becomes a licensed Hero first is nothing more than a transparent attempt by the government of Unevolved humans to control Metahuman powers and exploit them for its own benefit.

  5. The so-called Hero Act of 1945 is both oppressive and repressive, a violation of Metahumans’ civil and human rights, and it flies in the face of God’s natural law.

  6. As one of the Unevolved humans’ own leaders once said, the long arc of history bends towards justice. In time, Metahumans will take their rightful place at the head of human society. It is inevitable. It not a question of if it going to happen, but rather, of when it is going to happen.

  7. The sole reason for the existence of the Metahuman Liberation Front is to hasten the day Metahumans take charge of the world from their lesser Unevolved human cousins and usher in the Golden Age of Mankind. The Metahuman Liberation Front will take any and all steps it must to bring forth that happy day, peacefully if it can, violently if it must, but, in any event, BY ANY AND ALL MEANS NECESSARY!

  Metahumans now, Metah
umans tomorrow, Metahumans forever!

  Scarcely able to believe my eyes, I read the manifesto a second time after I had printed it out. It sounded like something Hitler or a wacky cult leader might have written if he had superpowers. If the manifesto was any indication, the man who had taken Clara was batshit crazy. The fact I and other Metas had powers did not make us better than everyone else. More powerful, yes. But better? No. It was like a mugger saying he was better than his victim because he was strong enough to wrest her purse from her. Strength and power did not equal virtue and righteousness. I was no slouch in the power department myself, and I did not think my abilities qualified me to be one of society’s leaders. I had trouble controlling my own impulses, sometimes. I had no business controlling someone else.

  According to the MLF, I should be a Metahuman aristocrat. People could call me Lord Lord. Or, I could be a monarch somewhere. King Lord had a nice ring to it. I shook my head at the ludicrous thought. Uneasy was the head that could wear a crown.

  I went back to my search for information about the Pied Piper and the MLF. The MLF had lately been taking credit for several terrorist attacks. Before that, though, the MLF apparently had been responsible for a spate of robberies across the country. It was widely speculated the MLF needed the money to fund their organization’s aims. They reportedly had stolen millions of dollars, not to mention millions more in precious metals, jewels, and works of art.

  I paused thoughtfully when I read this. The fact the MLF had been active in high-end robbery circles gave me an idea for how I could locate them in general, and the Pied Piper in particular.

  I could not find a picture of the Pied Piper or even a solid description of him. It was speculated, though, that both he and the MLF were based out of Astor City. Astor City had a lot going for it. We were one of the biggest cities in the country; the Sentinels, one of the preeminent superhero teams in the world, was based here; and we were the home of the best chili cheese dog in the world, the tallest building in the country, a baseball team with ten World Series championships, and, apparently, a nest of Metahumans with delusions of grandeur and aspirations for world domination. Yes, there really was no place like home. Astor City: come for the chili cheese dog, stay for the rabid superpowered terrorists.

  Once I realized I was at the point in my research where I was reading pretty much the same thing over and over but stated in different ways, I shut off the computer. Careful to not wake up my sleeping neighbor, I got up and left. I thought about leaving him my card in case he decided to take a bath and was looking to fill a Hero’s sidekick position, but I decided against it.

  I walked out of the library and went to my car. It had not been towed despite it being parked in a space for librarians only. There was not a ticket on the windshield. I quickly got in and sped away. I was not sprayed with a hail of bullets by police trying to foil my escape.

  The Parking Scofflaw had struck again.

  CHAPTER 10

  The next morning at about 6 a.m., I was at my gym to work out as I normally did. It was a Wednesday. I weight-trained three days a week, and did some sort of cardio or sparred the other days. Except for Sunday, of course. If it was good enough as a rest day for the Creator, it was good enough for me. Crime-fighting and being out of shape were not a good mix, so working out was an important part of my life.

  Though I was at the gym to work out, I hoped to kill two birds with one stone. I was also there to look for a Metahuman named Shadow.

  I had briefly joined Zenith Fitness, a high-end gym on the other side of town, for a case weeks before. But, my short-term membership at Zenith had expired. I did not want to mortgage my condominium and sell a kidney to raise the money to renew my Zenith membership. Going from Zenith back to my regular gym was like going from eating Wagyu beef to dining on discount expired hamburger. But, a fitness and cost-conscious superhero had to do what he had to do.

  My regular gym was in the basement of a building in Astor City’s warehouse district. The gym did not even have a name. There was no sign on the front of the warehouse it was in announcing its presence. That was just as well as the punch-drunk boxer who owned it probably would not be able to spell the name right on the sign if the gym had one.

  The gym advertised by word of mouth and appealed to a select clientele. It was not a gym for people who worked out once or twice a week and who felt they needed to wear the right outfit or adopt the latest workout look. If someone showed up at my gym wearing makeup, they probably would have been ridden out of there on a rail. It was a gym for meatheads, professional combat sports athletes and ex-athletes, and unsavory characters who did not want their names showing up on a conventional gym’s membership list. Plus, several Metahumans who did not want a big deal made of the fact they had powers were members. That included me and Shadow, the woman I hoped to talk to about the Metahuman Liberation Front and the Pied Piper.

  I did my usual hour and a half workout. I did not see Shadow anywhere by the end of it. If she was in town, I usually saw her Wednesday mornings. Though I was pretty tired, I decided to go to another area of the gym and hit the heavy bag for a while before giving up for the day on talking to Shadow. I would have called her instead or gone to her house, but I had no idea what her phone number was or where she lived. If someone had ever found out where Shadow lived, she had probably killed them. I would not put it past her.

  I hit the heavy bag until my arms felt rubbery. If the bag had been the Pied Piper, he would have pled for mercy and promised to sin no more. After he regained consciousness, that is.

  I unwrapped my hands, took a quick shower, and put on some street clothes. I went back into the gym’s weight room to see if Shadow had made an appearance. And, just like that, there she was. She was doing bench presses. Even while lying down on the bench press bench, Shadow was hard to miss.

  Shadow was black. It was both a description of her race and of her skin color. Her skin was the color of night. Her hair was shaved down close to her scalp, so her tightly curled jet black hair hugged the contours of her skull. Though Shadow was slim and toned, her hips and bust swelled out like those of a fertility goddess. As she reclined on the bench pushing the barbell overhead using perfect form, her prominent breasts pointed up at the ceiling like rockets ready to launch. She had on loose black sweatpants, black sneakers, black socks, and a black sports bra that left her waspish midriff exposed.

  I walked over to her. She moved the barbell slowly up and down as I approached. I counted the plates that were on the heavy-duty barbell. She was pressing over twelve hundred pounds as easily as I could one hundred.

  “Hi Shadow. You’re dressed as colorfully as always. Do you need a spot?” I asked once I was alongside her. It was bad form to talk to her mid-rep, but I was hot on the trail of a supervillain. Sometimes the niceties have to be ignored for the greater good.

  Shadow’s eyes flicked over to me, and then back to the weight she held over her chest. The whites of her eyes were startlingly so in her dark face. Her irises were such a dark brown they were almost black.

  “I’m dressed colorfully? If that is some sort of racial crack, I’ll belt you once I’m through,” she said. “And no, I don’t need a spotter.” Her breathing was normal and her voice was as easy and conversational as if she was talking to me over a cup of coffee. Only the beads of sweat on her forehead betrayed the energy she was expending. “Today is a light weight, high rep day. Now be quiet. You’ve made me lose count.”

  As requested, I kept my mouth shut as Shadow completed her reps. It was a common misconception that Metahumans who had super-strength did not need to work out. If they did not work out, they would never be able to reach the full potential of their super-strength. Just as a normal human who never worked out would never be as strong as he could be, a Meta with super-strength who never worked out would never be as strong as he could be. Many of the Metas I knew who had super-strength worked out as diligently as the meatiest of meatheads. Shadow was one such Meta. You would neve
r know it from her lithe, feminine arms and legs, though. She looked like she should be on a stage somewhere ripping her clothes off rather than ripping the arms off of her opponents. More than one person who had gone up against her had been foolish enough to underestimate her because of the way she looked.

  In addition to her super-strength, Shadow had augmented reflexes and her skin was super-tough. In a rare moment of candor years before, she had told me her skin was tough enough to stop a blade, especially if the blade was being wielded by a non-Meta, but that she was not invulnerable. A bullet would pierce her skin almost as easily as it would mine, she had said. That was good to know on the off chance I ever had reason to shoot her.

  The name Shadow hinted at another ability she had. Her name was not a politically incorrect reference to her skin color or race. Rather, it hinted at the fact she was invisible to any kind of electronic detection—motion detectors, cameras, that sort of thing. Even microphones were useless on her. Her invisibility to electronic detection made her the ideal Metahuman thief, which was part of how she made her living. Shadow was a high-priced mercenary. If someone paid her enough money, Shadow would do almost anything, whether that meant stealing a Picasso, spying on China, or assassinating an African dictator. The “almost” was key. She had a personal code she followed that made her too proud to do just any old thing, regardless of the amount of money someone threw at her.

  Shadow’s personal code kept her, if not on the right side of the law, then at least on the right side of morality. In my mind, at least. It was what kept me from subduing her and turning her in to the authorities. Well, that and the fact she would not be too easy to subdue.

  “I think that’s fifty reps,” Shadow said. She lowered the loaded barbell back onto the bar holder. Though she let the barbell down gently, it was so heavy I felt the vibration through my legs.

  Shadow sat up. She dried her face with a towel. I was tempted to examine her impressive cleavage while her eyes were obscured. I was a professional detective after all, and trained to take careful note of my surroundings. Plus, the caveman in me wanted to look. But, I resisted the powerful temptation. God only knew what Shadow might have done had she caught me stealing a peek. She might have choked me unconscious. Or, she might have pulled up her bra, flashed me, and forced me to motorboat her. One never knew with Shadow. She was unpredictable.