Superhero Detective Series (Book 3): Killshot

by Darius Brasher

  If I had known at the time I had choked Ares unconscious that his name was Ares, I might have giggled too hard to be able to knock him out. After all, a supervillain who named himself after the Greek god of war really ought not have a gut. Back then, Ares had a belly so big that, in his skintight costume, it looked like he had swallowed a third bag of money. That was one of the reasons why I did not wear a mask and a costume unlike a lot of other Heroes—it was much harder to look ridiculous in regular clothes than it was in spandex.

  “Come on in, Ares,” I said. I already had my right desk drawer open and my hand on the Smith and Wesson Model 500 handgun inside of it. At this range, the gun had the firepower to stop a charging African Cape buffalo in its tracks. It was more than enough gun to stop a human, even a superpowered one like Ares. Though there were plenty of Metahumans whose skin could stop bullets, Ares was not one of them. Even though I was buzzed from the bottle of scotch I was nursing, I was confident I could hit him at this close range if I needed to. An elderly woman with palsy and glaucoma would be able to hit him from this range. Besides, in addition to the gun, I could always use my powers on Ares if I needed to. I always kept a large bowl of water on the corner of my desk for just such a reason.

  Ares’ real name was Eugene Poindexter. I had learned that when I showed up at Ares’ armed robbery trial to testify against him. If I had a name like Eugene Poindexter, I would go by Ares too. As it was, I was happy to report my given name Truman went with my birth name Lord like peanut butter and jelly.

  Ares grimaced slightly at my use of his code name.

  “Ares,” he said, with a rueful shake of his head. “It’s been a while since anyone has called me that.”

  Ares closed the door behind himself. He sat down in one of the four client chairs in front of my desk, unbuttoning his suit jacket before doing so. The belly I remembered him having was gone. Ares now appeared trim and athletic. His jawline and cheekbones were defined, and his taut skin was tanned. Ares crossed his legs. His socks matched his suit, his shoes matched his brown leather belt, and his silver cuff links matched his watch. Stylish. Though he did not seem threatening, I now had my gun out and pointed at him under the lip of my desk. Though it was of course rude to point a gun at a guest, it was better to be rude and alive than polite and dead. Or, as Hamlet put it, readiness is all. Everything sounded better when Shakespeare said it.

  “Would you prefer if I called you Eugene instead of Ares?” I asked.

  “You remember my real name,” he said, pleased. He said it like I had just gotten an A on a pop quiz. “Please do call me Eugene. Ares is a relic from an earlier time in my life. A less prosperous time.”

  “I can see that,” I said. “You’re looking well. The bank robbery business must be going gangbusters.” I found I had to enunciate carefully to avoid slurring my words. Day drinking will do that to you. Night drinking too, for that matter. I knew from experience. I had been doing both recently.

  Eugene smiled. His teeth were even and white. When I had last seen Eugene, his smile had been snaggletoothed and yellow.

  “Robbing banks is also a relic from an earlier, less prosperous time. I have changed,” Eugene said.

  He paused, looking pointedly at the heavy clear glass tumbler on my desk that was half full of scotch. His gaze then shifted to take in the open bottle of scotch next to it. I was suddenly acutely aware of the empty liquor and beer bottles in the small trash can on the floor next to my desk. I had not emptied it in days.

  “I see that you have changed, too,” Eugene said. “I recall hearing that you did not drink. You were a stickler for the idea that superpowers and alcohol did not mix. Or so I was told.” Eugene wrinkled his nose. “Clearly I was misinformed. It’s not even eleven in the morning yet and it smells like a distillery in here.”

  “Hey, it’s a big wide world out there,” I said. I was slightly embarrassed for being seen drinking during the workday, even if the spectator was a supervillain. Perhaps more scotch would wash away the embarrassment. “It’s got to be time for cocktails somewhere. Want some? It’s single malt scotch. Pretty good stuff, too.”

  Eugene smiled slightly.

  “Why not?” he said. “As you say, it’s got to be happy hour somewhere.”

  I put the gun I had been holding in my concealed right hand back into the open desk drawer. I did not sense any menace from Eugene. I did not close the drawer, though. After all, a rattlesnake that is not rattling in warning is still a rattlesnake. Eugene’s eyes widened slightly when he spotted the gun.

  “I’m not here looking for trouble,” he said.

  “Good,” I said. I almost added, “because if you’re looking for trouble, you’ve found it,” but I fortunately swallowed the words before they could escape my lips. It sounded like a line out of a bad B movie. Drinking scotch neat was really impairing my ability to come up with witticisms. On the upside, if I continued to be a lousy Hero, I could take my cheesy line generating abilities and go make my fortune in Hollywood. Ninety percent of the dialogue that came out of Hollywood these days sounded like something out of a bad B-movie. I would fit right in.

  Now that my hands were gun free, I took a clean tumbler out of my desk. I poured Eugene two fingers of whiskey. I leaned forward to hand the glass to him.

  “You want some ice?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  I triggered my powers and stretched out my will towards the bowl of water on my desk. It was fresh as I had refilled it only an hour or so before. A tendril of water rose from the surface of the water, broke away from the main body of water, and snaked through the air towards Eugene. As he watched with widened eyes, I used my powers to compress the tendril into the shape of a cube. I then quickly lowered the temperature of the water until the cube of water crystallized into ice. I gently lowered the ice cube into Eugene’s drink.

  “Nice trick,” Eugene said. He swirled the glass around a bit to hasten the ice cooling the scotch.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’m fun at parties. If I ever decide to use a superhero alias, I’m thinking of going by Icebox Man. Or, maybe Cube King or Ice Icon. More alliterative.”

  “Salud,” Eugene said, raising his glass to me. I mirrored his gesture. I did not add any ice to my own glass. Good single malt scotch should not be adulterated by water. I was no philistine.

  Eugene tipped his glass back and took a couple of large swallows. For my part, I merely took a sip of mine. I had a head start on Eugene, and it would never do to get rip-roaring drunk in the presence of a known supervillain. Passing out and falling out of your chair in front of a criminal was not a recommended crime-fighting tactic.

  “Wow,” Eugene said, looking at the remainder of the amber liquid in his glass with admiration. “You weren’t kidding about this being good.”

  “Nothing but the best for us Metahumans,” I said. We both took another drink. We took a few moments to silently savor the whiskey. A licensed Hero and a known supervillain, drinking together in perfect harmony. Would wonders never cease? Perhaps I should have taken my peacemaking skills to the Middle East, or to an even more war-torn and chaotic place like Washington, D.C.

  CHAPTER 3

  As we drank in companionable silence, Eugene looked around my office. It was not much, but I did not need much. In addition to the chairs we sat in and the desk I sat behind, there was a small couch against the wall and a filing cabinet. Behind me was a window that overlooked Paper Street, one of the main arteries running through downtown Astor City. My office was on the third floor. For the past few months I had spent a lot of time staring out of my office window, drinking, and thinking about Clara Barton. She was a young Metahuman with the ability to explode at will. She had died while in my care months before. Her death was what had made me end my long-standing practice of not drinking. Drinking did not make the pain of her loss go away. But, it did dull it a bit. Too much, maybe. Part of me was starting to get concerned I was coming to rely on alcohol. I was drinking in my office in the m
iddle of the day, after all, and had awoken in an alley the week before. The other part of me, the part that kept me drinking, did not care.

  After a while, Eugene spoke.

  “Though you and I have both changed, you are still as big as I remember,” he said. “You certainly look the part for what I’m looking for.”

  “Let me guess—you’re financing a movie and are looking for someone to play the leading man. You wouldn’t be the first to ask me to grace Tinseltown with my talents.”

  Eugene smiled at me.

  “I see the fact you cannot take anything seriously has also not changed,” he said. “No, I am not looking to cast a leading man. Even if I were, your nose is a bit misshapen and there is some obvious scar tissue on your face and ears.”

  “You try being an unsuccessful mixed martial arts fighter like I was. Your face wouldn’t come away unscathed, either.”

  “No doubt,” Eugene said. “In any event, you’re way too rough looking to be a movie leading man. The leading man’s henchman, maybe. I’m not here to cast you in a movie. I’m here to talk to you about hiring you as my bodyguard.”

  “Last I heard about you, you had just gotten out of prison for serving time on that bank robbery you and I had crossed paths on,” I said. “If you’re not still robbing banks, what are you up to these days where you need a bodyguard? Based on the pretty penny that suit must have set you back, insider trading maybe? Or, maybe you’ve set your sights on the big bucks and gone into politics?”

  “Hardly,” Eugene said. “I’ve gone straight. It happened a while after I got out of prison. I had gone right back into the supervillain lifestyle after prison, and fell in with four other Metas. We called ourselves the Felonious Five.” Eugene snorted. “Felonious Five—God only knows why we picked that. It sounds like something out of a bad Saturday morning cartoon. Anyway, one day, after a particularly gruesome job, I took a nice long look at myself. I did not like what I saw. I was an out of shape D-list supervillain with a record. At the rate I was going, I was going to wind up in the graveyard, either because of another criminal, one of you Heroes, or because of my own bad habits. Back then, a drug I wouldn’t snort, smoke, swallow, or shoot up hadn’t been invented. So, I got out of the game and hung up my supervillain costume. It took a little while and a lot more effort, but I got myself clean. I got myself into compliance with the Hero Act of 1945 by registering with the government as a Metahuman and by stopping using my powers. Lost weight and got myself into shape, too.” Eugene looked down at the glass in his hand. “I don’t even drink much anymore. This is the first taste of alcohol I’ve had in weeks. When I do drink, it’s just the occasional glass of wine with dinner. You know, for the antioxidants. About the only vice I allow myself is gambling. Poker’s my game. I win more than I lose, so it hasn’t been an issue the way drugging and drinking was.”

  Eugene was quiet for a moment. He had a faraway look in his eyes, as if he was thinking of the man he had been. After a while, he shook his head vigorously like he was shooing away an irritating gnat.

  “After I got myself straightened out, I even thought about standing for the Trials and becoming a licensed Hero so I could use my powers to do some good for a change. But then I met Gloria, who is now my wife.” Eugene’s eyes darted down to his wedding band. Eugene’s face softened a bit. A smile played on his lips. Marriage implies, but does not always necessitate, love. I had done enough surveillance work in divorce cases to know that. Eugene was clearly in love.

  “When I met her, Gloria was widow and single mother. Her daughter Sabrina was a smart girl who I suspected one day would get accepted into a very elite—and very expensive—college. After Gloria and I got serious, I saw years of crippling college debt in my future if I became a Hero. So, I decided to go out and make some money instead.” Eugene smiled ruefully. “Legally this time, and without dressing up like a cartoon character. I became a stockbroker. Now I’m a partner in a small investment house here in the city.” He gestured slightly at his clothing. “This is the only costume you will catch me in these days. The funny thing is I’ve discovered a man in a monkey suit can make more money than a man in a supervillain suit ever could.”

  “So why are you in the market for a bodyguard?” I asked. “Did you tell someone to buy low and sell high and the advice backfired?”

  Eugene smiled, and then his face quickly got serious.

  “Hardly. I think someone is trying to kill me. Three someones to be exact. I have gotten word through the grapevine the living members of the Felonious Five have taken a contract out on me with a Metahuman assassin.”

  “Why? They wanted to form a barbershop quartet and you refused to sing tenor?”

  Eugene frowned.

  “I know you like to make jokes, but there is a time and a place. Do you find my potential death amusing?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “Like you say, I kid around sometimes. Too much, some would say.”

  “Well, this is no laughing matter. Hellfire, Sampson, Lead Pipe, and Ricochet—the members of the Felonious Five—are pretty bad guys. I should know. I used to be one of them.”

  “Why are they trying to have you killed?”

  “Years ago, the five of us broke into a house owned by Randall Garnet. He was a real estate magnate, and richer than Midas. He didn’t entirely trust banks, and we had gotten word from someone who worked for him he kept a lot of money and valuables in his house sealed up in a vault. We thought it would be the easiest score in the world—one old rich man versus five Metahumans. We’d find out where the vault was, break into it, and spend the next several years enjoying the money.”

  Eugene sighed.

  “Turns out Garnet was a tough old bird,” he said. “When we demanded he tell us where the vault was and its combination, he told us we could go fuck ourselves. Said it would be a cold day in Hell the day he’d be intimidated by a bunch of thugs dressed up like cartoons. We slapped him around a little, but he still would not tell us anything. I wanted to leave, but the other four insisted we had come too far to turn back.”

  Eugene shook his head in evident disgust.

  “I tried to stop them, but they proceeded to torture that old man. As Sampson restrained me to keep me from intervening, the other three wound up killing Mr. Garnet.” Eugene looked away. “They never did get the information about the vault out of him. He was literally laughing at them when they killed him. I think him taunting them is what pushed them over the edge.”

  Eugene looked back up at me. His eyes looked haunted.

  “I was a Metahuman strong enough to tear down a building with my bare hands. And yet, Mr. Garnet was more of a man than I was. Maybe more than I’ll ever be. That was the moment I decided to try to turn my life around and to give up being a supervillain. I had done some bad things, but I had never been involved in a murder before. I did not have the stomach for it. Moreover, I did not want to develop the stomach for it.”

  “So is that why the other members of the Felonious Five are trying to kill you?” I asked. “Because you stopped being a supervillain?”

  “No, they did not have a problem with me stopping being a supervillain as long as I kept my mouth shut about the things I had done with them and seen them do. And, for a while, that’s exactly what I did—I kept my mouth shut. But, Mr. Garnet and what they had done to him haunted me. Before that incident, I slept like the dead. Being stoned out of my mind half the time probably helped with that. But after I witnessed Mr. Garnet’s murder, I developed insomnia. A lot of times when I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, I would see Mr. Garnet’s blood-covered face, with one of his eyes swollen shut.” Eugene shuddered. “And that laugh. That taunting laugh rang in my ears like an unanswered phone. It still does, sometimes.

  “As the years passed and I turned my life around, I never forgot about Mr. Garnet. How could I? I saw him in my dreams more time than I care to remember.

  “It took a while, but eventually I became a pillar of the community: a business
owner, devoted husband, and step-father. That is how I was perceived at least. As long as Mr. Garnet’s murder went unpunished though, in my heart I still felt like that drug-addled supervillain who was hurtling down the expressway to nowhere. So, after talking the whole thing over with my wife, I finally decided to go to the police over what happened to Mr. Garnet even though he had been killed years ago.”

  “Well, there is no statute of limitations on murder,” I said.

  Eugene nodded.

  “The case on Mr. Garnet’s disappearance was still officially open, though the police told me unofficially they had long given up on what had happened to him. After the other members of the Felonious Five killed him, they had taken his body out of his house and buried him in the woods in a state park outside the city. I told the police what had happened, and took them to where they could find the body.” Eugene shook his head. “Between the passage of time and Mr. Garnet’s remains being gnawed on by animals and insects, there was nothing left of him but his bones and some scraps of his clothing. But, the police were able to identify his remains based on his dental records. I kind of think the police thought I was just a bored attention seeker making up fairy tales until they dug up Mr. Garnet’s remains and ID’d them.”

  “I begin to see why your life has been threatened. I take it you pointed the finger at the other members of the Felonious Five,” I said.

  “That is exactly right,” Eugene said. “Based on what I told them, the police located and arrested Hellfire, Sampson, and Lead Pipe. Ricochet was dead by then, having died in a fight with the Hero Avatar a few years ago. The rest are in Metahuman jail now. Their murder trial is scheduled to begin in a few weeks. They all have pled not guilty. They are going to have a hard time showing their innocence, though. In addition to me being an eyewitness, hair from Hellfire and Lead Pipe were found in Mr. Garnet’s clothing.” Eugene shook his head in awe. “It’s amazing what forensic science can do these days. Both the prosecutor and my own lawyer tell me that evidence, along with my eyewitness testimony, should ensure the three of them go to prison for the rest of their lives, especially since they all have prior criminal records.”