Superhero Detective Series (Book 3): Killshot

by Darius Brasher

  “No, I’m just trying to right a spelling wrong,” I said. “As someone who is smart enough to count past twenty without taking his shoes off, I consider it my civic duty to help the less gifted.”

  My comment was met with mutters. Some of them were unsure of whether I had insulted them. Bigotry rarely was accompanied by a high IQ. It soon sank into the group’s awareness I was not being complimentary. In moments, the shouting began. “Filthy Meta lover!” “Why don’t you go back to where you came from?” “Come over here and say that to our face!” they said. One gem floated up above the rest: “Ass-faced bastard!” the woman with the dreadlocks said.

  I figured no one else in the group would be able to top that one. I smiled broadly and blew the group a kiss. Why the Guild did not hire me to head up its public relations department was beyond me. I turned back around to walk towards the Guild building. The shouts from the protesters receded behind me.

  I should not have provoked those knuckleheads, but they irritated me. Talking to people like them was like wrestling a pig: the pig enjoys the attention, and you only succeed in getting yourself dirty. I was proud of being a Hero. I thought society was better off with us than it was without us. If aliens invaded again, people like the protesters would be the first to holler for us Heroes.

  I mounted the marble steps of the Guild building. A long line of tourists snaked out of the massive, silver double doors of the building. People had to go through security to be admitted to the Guild building and tour it. In addition to being the Guild’s national headquarters and housing the Guild’s administrative offices, the part of the building that was open to the general public was a museum. The museum housed relics connected to notable Heroes since the passage of the Hero Act of 1945. As a result, the Guild building was a tourist destination, attracting visitors from far and wide.

  I did not get into line with the tourists. I turned to the right, walking to the side of the building. Ordinary people had to wait in line to gain admittance to the Guild building. Licensed Heroes did not. Rank had its privileges.

  There was a normal sized door sunk into the middle of the side of the building. Though the door appeared to be wooden, I knew it was not. A large, black, glass panel was mounted chest-high next to the door. I put my right hand on the glass while crouching down a bit to stare into the pinpoint of light emanating from the panel. I knew my prints were being scanned, as was my retina. After a second or two, the panel glowed green.

  “Welcome Truman Lord, Licensed Hero,” a feminine voice said. The throaty sexiness of her voice hinted at least a C cup bust. I did not get excited. I knew the voice was computer generated. I wondered if female Heroes going inside were instead favored with a deep masculine voice. Perhaps, if I managed to avoid being defrocked, I would volunteer my vocal talents.

  The “wooden” door shimmered, and disappeared. I stepped inside. I felt a slight tingle as I did so. I was undergoing a third scan, this one a DNA scan. I did not know what would happen if the scan did not match the DNA on file for me in the Guild’s records. Whatever it was, I knew it would not be good. Teleported to the dark side of the Moon without a spacesuit, maybe. Or worse, teleported into the middle of the protesters across the street. Fortunately I really was me, and I found myself inside of a dull metallic chamber that was about twice the size I was. The opening I had stepped through disappeared.

  “Please remain still,” the same throaty voice said. I obeyed. I spent the short time I waited thinking of how maybe I should adopt an alias. While I liked my name, Truman Lord did not have the same cachet something like Omega Man did. I felt faintly nauseous for several seconds. Then, the queasy feeling passed. The chamber wall in front of me dilated, forming an opening large enough for me to exit. I stepped out. Directly ahead of me was what appeared to be thick, clear, curved glass. I looked out. The Earth lazily turned below, looking like a giant blue, green, and white marble. It seemed close enough to reach out and touch, though of course it was not.

  I had been transported up to the Heroes’ Guild’s real headquarters, a space station in geosynchronous orbit. The building in Washington, D.C. was little more than a sham headquarters and tourist trap. The existence of the space station was a closely-guarded secret. As far as I knew, only licensed Heroes knew of its existence. Only licensed Heroes were permitted on the station. It could only be accessed through the transporter in D.C. plus a handful of other transporters in regional Guild offices scattered around the world.

  I continued to look down at the Earth. If the protesters knew of this secret space station, they would say it was proof of how Heroes thought they were better than regular humans. Above them. I would argue the opposite. Looking down on the Earth from here humbled me, making me realize how small I was in the great scheme of things. From up here, there were no nations, no borders, no states. There was just one beautiful but fragile-looking planet. Nation’s leaders could learn a lot by coming up here.

  As coincidence would have it, North America was directly below. I put my finger on the glass in front of me, right where Kansas probably was.

  “Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore,” I murmured to myself. My words gave me an idea. Since my powers were water based, how about Wicked Witch’s Bane for a code name?

  Naw, no good. I would probably get sued for trademark infringement. It was a shame. All the best names were already taken.

  CHAPTER 20

  I stood at the window of the space station for a while, watching the Earth below. I did not come here as often as I would like. I could not imagine ever tiring of the view. I had a vague understanding the “window” was not in fact a window, but rather a very complicated and high-tech projection of what was outside the Guild space station. But it looked like a window, so that was what I thought of it as. I was a professional ass-kicker, not a scientist. Lately I had not done such a good job at kicking ass. I was doing a bang-up job of getting my ass kicked, though. Perhaps experience in being kicked would lead to greater proficiency in doing the kicking. Turn lemons into lemonade, right? Unfortunately, my lemons still ached thanks to my run-ins with Eugene’s killer and the inmates at the Astor City jail.

  I sighed. Though I would have liked to linger longer, I had a job to do. I started walking to the right, around the space station’s Promenade, towards where the Guild had its administrative offices. The window through which I could still see the Earth continued its gentle curve on my left as I walked. If you saw it from the outside, the space station would look like a thick cigar stuck through the center hub of a bicycle wheel with spokes radiating out to the tire. The Promenade was the tire, the spokes housed the offices where the Guild conducted its business, and the cigar area contained all the machinery and electronics that kept the space station running. That included a power plant, an artificial gravity generator, waste treatment and recycling, and atmosphere generators and scrubbers. It was rumored the space station was also armed to the teeth in case of another alien invasion. I did not know whether that was actually true. I was used to dealing with street thugs and criminal Metas. Unsuccessfully, lately. Dealing with alien invasions was way above my pay grade. If the Guild needed someone to come up with an alien anal probe joke, though, I was their man. For example: “Greetings, human! We’ve come to Earth to explore Uranus.” It was good to know one’s strengths.

  The Promenade was littered with comfortable chairs and couches, both clustered together and off by themselves. It put me in mind of what a very well-maintained and expensive college faculty lounge with a world-class view must have looked like. As I walked through the Promenade, I passed other Heroes, most of whom were admiring the view. Not all of them were in their full costumes and masks. Unlike seemingly everywhere on the planet below, there were no recording devices on the space station. On Earth, cameras had become ubiquitous, partly to deter crime and to help track down criminals once a crime had been committed. That was not a concern here. The process to become a licensed Hero was so rigorous it was assumed a
Hero would never dream of committing a crime. Generally that was true. Occasionally, though, a bad apple slipped through the system’s cracks and into the barrel. I had dealt with just such a Heroic bad apple months ago.

  Since the interior of the space station was not under electronic surveillance and Heroes using devices to record their fellow Heroes here was strictly prohibited both by custom and by regulation, Heroes who came here were encouraged to remove their masks and costumes if they so chose. I passed Amazing Man and Avatar, deep in conversation. Their masks were off. I only recognized them because the rest of their iconic costumes were still on. They were world-famous, very powerful Heroes. Avatar looked the way an underwear model would look if he was also a professional basketball player and Olympic gymnast on the side. Amazing Man was also a physically imposing figure, though with his mask off I could see he was a distinguished-looking older man with grey hair.

  The two Heroes were probably mulling over how to save the world yet again. I wanted to ask them for their autographs. I fought off the urge. Such things were frowned on as being bad form. Despite varying power levels and fame, we were all licensed Heroes after all, and supposedly equals. But, as with any group of people, some people were more equal than others.

  With effort, I suppressed my fanboy tendencies. I walked right past Amazing Man and Avatar. They did not ask for my autograph either. I swallowed my surprise. Perhaps they had not seen me.

  I turned right, off of the Promenade and onto one of the space station’s spokes. The view of the Earth faded behind me. With the rich wood paneling on the corridor’s walls and plush carpeting on the floor, it was as if I was walking the halls of a Fortune 500 company instead of those of a space station. This section of the station was where the Guild’s senior staff maintained their offices. Ghost’s office was somewhere down this corridor. Maybe I should have stuck my head in his office and put the fear of God into him as he had done with me. I suspected he did not find me as intimidating as I did him.

  I headed to the office of Aurora, the Guild’s executive secretary. She kept records of every licensed Hero and Hero candidate. If anyone would be able to tell me about Killshot, it would be her. I did not have an appointment to meet with Aurora. Each Guild administrative employee on the space station had an open door policy when it came to other Heroes. Since they were paid partially with the Guild dues all licensed Heroes were required to pay, the Guild employees worked for us Heroes. At least theoretically they did. That meant Ghost worked for me. That did not change the fact he scared the crap out of me.

  I arrived at Aurora’s office. I knocked on the open door. Aurora looked up from where she was seated behind her desk glass and metal desk. She smiled.

  “Mr. Lord, so good to see you again. Come in,” she said. She stood, extending her hand to shake mine. Her handshake was firm and warm. Aurora had on a light grey pantsuit and a white blouse. Faint yellow pinstripes on the suit added a flair of color. Physically, she looked the way a college cheerleader would look if that cheerleader grew up to be a company’s chief executive officer. If it were not for a canary yellow mask that obscured her features from the bridge of her nose to the top of her head, one might easily mistake Aurora for a CEO instead of what she was: the light-bending executive secretary of a group that regulated Metahumans.

  “I am surprised you remember me,” I said as I sat down on the other side of Aurora’s desk. “We only met once several years ago.”

  Aurora smiled.

  “It’s part of my job to remember the Heroes I meet,” she said.

  “And here I was hoping you remembered me because I was so charming,” I said.

  Aurora’s smiled broadened. It seemed genuine.

  “That would be the other reason why I remember you,” she said. Despite Shadow’s scoffing, perhaps I would be able to charm the information I need out of the Guild after all.

  “So what can I do for you, Mr. Lord?”

  “I have had a couple of violent encounters with a female Metahuman. She recently murdered a client of mine. I have reason to believe she is the same Meta known as Killshot who stood for the Trials at the same time I did. She did not complete them though, and as a result did not receive her Hero’s license. I want to get Killshot’s legal name and last known address from you, plus any other information you might have about her. I want to track her down and bring her to justice if she is the murderer I believe her to be.”

  “I see,” Aurora said. She frowned. “I would love to help you, but the secret identities of both Heroes and potential Heroes are held in the strictest of confidence by the Guild. Even though you are a Hero yourself, I cannot give you that information.”

  “Maybe you missed the part where I said Killshot is a suspect in a murder case.”

  “Oh, I heard you. But, unfortunately, the rules are the rules.”

  “One of the points of Metahumans being required to register with the government and the Guild under the Hero Act of 1945 is so they can be located if they use their powers to commit a crime. Or am I misremembering my Hero Act history?” I asked.

  “That is true enough,” Aurora said. “But, from what you have told me, you are not absolutely certain Killshot committed a crime. Rather, a Metahuman you have reason to believe to be Killshot committed the crime. Reason to believe is not proof. It is not enough evidence to permit me to break protocol and Guild regulations to violate Killshot’s privacy by giving you her personal information.” Aurora gave me a regretful smile. She seemed sorry she had to say no to me. “If you can convince a court of the appropriate jurisdiction to issue a writ in compliance with the Hero Act permitting the inspection of Guild records regarding this Killshot woman, I would be more than happy to accommodate you. If what you say is true about Killshot, both the Guild and I would love for you to locate her and bring her to justice. But, until you have such a writ in hand compelling me open the Guild’s records, I have an obligation to maintain the privacy of our records. Sorry.”

  Frankly, I had not expected a different response. But it never hurt to ask as sometimes people surprised you by saying yes to a direct request even when they should not. Time for Plan B.

  “Would your answer change if I said I’d be your best friend if you gave me the information I needed?” I asked. I gave her my best smile, the full strength one designed to compel women to disrobe and do things that were against their better judgment.

  Aurora’s face dimpled as she smiled back at me. Even with her face partially obscured, she was quite pretty.

  “No,” she said. She somehow resisted disrobing. My nudity-inducing smile must have been on the fritz. It seemed to be on the fritz more often than not.

  “How about if I juggle my guns for you? Or, I could pull up my shirt and show you where Killshot shot me with an energy beam. The wound is not fully healed yet, but it’s leaving a really neat scar. I hear you ladies love a good scar. Makes a man seem rugged and dangerous,” I said. I stood and started to pull my tucked-in shirt out of my pants. Aurora laughed. She stopped me with a raised hand.

  “Thank you, but no,” she said, still laughing. I sat back down. “Now a question for you: Does this clown act ever work in getting information out of people?”

  “Some days yes, some days no.”

  Aurora’s light brown eyes sparkled behind her mask.

  “Guess which kind of day today is,” she said.

  “A ‘yes’ day?” I asked hopefully.

  “Guess again,” Aurora said, still smiling. She was the most cheerful brick wall I had ever dealt with. Oh well. I had not really expected Plan B to work, anyway. As with Plan A, it did not hurt to try. I already had a Plan C in mind.

  “All right.” I sighed dramatically. “I know when I’m licked. Can you at least tell me that I’m right about a Metahuman named Killshot having taken the Trials the same time I did? That was over nine years ago, and I fear my memory is playing tricks on me.”

  Aurora pursed her lips at me thoughtfully.

  “All r
ight,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “I do not see how I’m violating anyone’s privacy or breaking any Guild regulations by refreshing your memory.” She swiveled a bit in her chair to face the large screen of her desktop computer. Her hands hovered over the keyboard for a moment. Then they reached out to turn the monitor slightly so I could not see any of the front of it.

  “Promise to not try to steal a peek?” Aurora asked. Though she was still smiling, her eyes were not. She was serious.

  “I promise to not try to look at Killshot’s records while you’re looking at them,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “Cross my heart,” I added, pantomiming the motion with my hand. I wanted to make sure Aurora’s computer was logged into the Guild’s record system. Plan C would take care of the rest.

  Aurora asked me when I had stood for the Trials. I told her. Her fingers flew over her keyboard. Her eyes narrowed as she read what apparently had come up on her screen.

  “Yes, a registered Metahuman with the code name of Killshot did stand for the Trials in the same Hero candidate class you were in. As you remembered, she did not complete the Trials,” Aurora said. She looked up at me. Her look was regretful, but firm. “And, I’m afraid that is all I can tell you.”

  I stood, extending my hand over Aurora’s desk. I carefully avoided looking at her computer screen. A promise was a promise. Aurora stood as well, and shook my hand.

  “Thank you for taking the time to talk to me,” I said.

  Aurora’s eyes danced merrily behind her mask.

  “You’re not getting away that easily,” she said. “You promised to show me your scar in exchange for information, and a scar is what I want to see.”