Powers (10 page)

Walker shrugged, understanding how frustrating this was for the special investigator. Boucher made his bones in Atlanta, helping contain the gang wars and trying—though failing—to find the Liberty killer. Or killers.

Then again,
the ageless detective considered,
hardly coincidence that Boucher resurfaces just as Liberty does.
But the hypothesis and its implications seemed laughable. Boucher had nearly ruined his career trying to catch the killer. And three murders had been committed after he'd left Atlanta.
C'mon, Christian. The years and circumstances have you looking for conspiracies around every corner. Boucher didn't show up because of these killings; he came to investigate your big, immortal ass. His involvement in the Monroe case is only due to his relationship with Deena. He's here because she's here.

“The Rampage Brothers!” Deena suddenly hooted, triumphantly flipping through a handful of mug shots. “Three dudes who ran muscle for the pre-corporate Front during the nineties.”

“The Brothers were Front-connected well before that.”

Deena waved off Walker's contribution. “These jamokes festooned themselves with heavy-duty construction equipment—didja see that alien movie? That power loader thingy? Like that, but with more balls. Also? Monster masks. Like werewolves and gorillas.”

Recognition dawned in Boucher's eyes. “Right. Like a merman mask? Creature from the Black Lagoon.”

Deena swiped left. “Ernst Rammler. Charbroiled a year after the gang wars ended.” She gawked at the mobile device and swiped again. “This app is awesome. Like that ‘Powr' dating app, but for douche bags and criminals.”

Walker cleared his throat. “Rampage Brothers?”

Deena squinted and got on with it. “Right, so brother Ernst got barbecued. The second-to-last Liberty murder, if you'll recall.”

“Too hot for you?” Joe asked.
Walker squeezed his eyes closed, shelving the memory. This was no time to wallow.

Deena swiped to reveal another image. “Older brother Max had been strafed or sniped in the Detroit Powers Riots.”

Boucher glanced Walker's way. “You there for that?”

He nodded in confirmation. “As was the Soldier.”

“So that's two connections.”

“There's more,” Deena confirmed. She launched a notebook app. A short list appeared on the screen, and Walker scanned the list of names.

“What's this?”

“The list our baby compiled this morning. Former associates of Malachi Crane. Associates still at large with connections to Joseph Monroe. Associates with strength enough—powered or not—to pulp the man's skull with his very heavy shield.”

“And?”

“And suspects one through three are Johann, Dolph, and Bruno Rammler. The last remaining Rampage Brothers, currently deceased.”

They watched the medical team carefully bag their samples, take notes, and prep the bodies for transport. Deena lobbed the tablet to Kirk, who juggled it for a moment before gripping it with both hands.

“All right,” Walker began, recapping for the team. “Two murders. One, a legend who'd seen action in Korea and championed Powers rights for as long as I've known him. The second—actually, a chain of three—a group of anti-Powers activists, all of whom have tangled with said legend. All of whom might have
performed
the first murder and share the same collegial markings as, yes, the original victim.”

“Let's not forget,” Deena reminded them, “that Monroe was present at—or at least in the vicinity of—the murders of the other Rampage Brothers.”

“Finally,” Walker concluded, “we can't discuss this with anyone outside this circle that isn't Captain Cross because we have to keep the first murder under wraps.”

“Because of said collegial markings.”

“Which opens up an entirely different can of shit.”

Boucher eyed them both. “Do you two always talk this much?”

“Only when we have nothing new to say. The cadence often jars loose an idea.”

“How exhausting. Look, there are layers beyond all that. The Liberty tag, for instance. Is it a pretender? The same killer I tried putting away twelve years ago?”

“Can we answer that?” Walker posed. “The Liberty killer never worked the same way twice. The only reason we even knew it was serial had been the tagline.”

Boucher paced between pylons. “Of course we can. This has to be a second chance. We might—”

“Boucher,” Walker interjected, “the Liberty killer worked
only
in Atlanta. He disappeared ten years ago. This is a scumbag copycat who's getting his jollies by jerking into old newspaper clippings.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Let's just figure this out and move on. Leave the past in the past. We have another priority. A bigger, possibly explosive case. The connection between Joe and the Human Front is more important than a decade-old—”

“No!” Boucher rapped his hand against a steel pylon. He turned back, face drawn and haggard, eyes yearning. The medical examiner stuck his head out of the car to determine the cause of the commotion but swiftly returned to work, unwilling to be drawn into whatever drama was playing out across the platform.

“No,” Boucher reiterated. “I will not sweep this under the rug and watch it become history. Not again, not because someone may have something to hide.”

“Aaron.” Deena stepped forward. “Come on, that isn't—”

“Stay out of this. He knows what I'm talking about.”

Walker's nostrils flared. He wanted to defend himself against Boucher's erratic pronouncements. But he knew the truth. He knew that Boucher
was fucking right.

“Fine, Aaron. Reopen the Liberty murders. Connect them to whatever happened to the Soldier. But let Deena take the lead—it's her case. And, besides … you're only here to strip me of my badge. Right?”

Boucher frowned. “Which I'll be able to do when armed with the facts surrounding this case and how they tie in to your history of powers.”

“No, fuck that.” Walker pointed an accusatory finger. “You were ready to burn me before you knew about Joe's death. You have a case? Let's go. Because otherwise, all you got is whatever my partner figured out. And right now? That isn't a hell of a lot.”

“Well,” a hesitant voice disagreed. “That isn't exactly true.”

They swiveled about to behold Corbin Kirk, baby detective, awkwardly shuffling on the periphery of the confrontation. He held something in a clutching fist, and Deena beckoned with grasping fingers like a mother to a troublesome child. “New fish,” she said. “I forgot you were even here. Whatcha got?”

“I found something,” he admitted, warily entering their hostile circle. “While hunkered down to, ah…”

“To puke.”

“Uh, right.” He opened his palm to reveal a handful of metal strips—long and wiry, coated with blood. “These seem important. Definitely more substantial than ‘not a hell of a lot.'”

A dull flush rose to Walker's cheeks. He patted the rookie's shoulder. “Good find. Though you should have left them alone. If these are part of the murder weapon, your prints may have covered over the actual killer's.”

Now it was Kirk's turn to blush, but the homicide detectives barely noticed as they huddled around the evidence. “Quick, before we hand these off,” Deena whispered to the others, “initial conjecture? They look like guitar strings.”

Aaron agreed. “That's because they are.”

“How do you know?” Walker asked. “Could be piano wire.”

Deena bit her lip. “Aaron would know. He's played for years.”

“That's right,” Boucher confirmed. “I had a set like these. Steel, heavy-gauge for added tension. About a .027. Bought them accidentally for a vintage acoustic, was worried they'd bow the neck. Traded them for a set of nylons. Less stress on the frame.”

“Okay, so the Liberty killer decapitated three Human Front associates with a set of guitar strings? Doesn't compute.”

“Well, he may have killed them some other way first. Then sliced their heads and moved them here. We could wait for the ME's findings before jumping on this.”

Deena shook her head. “No time.”

Walker grunted. “Fine. Here's what we do, then—”

Boucher stepped between them. “Ah, ah. You, sir, are doing nothing. You're off this case, remember?”

“The Monroe case.”

“While under investigation, Walker, you're off all cases. Especially those with ties to a delicate set of circumstances that could fall into the hands of federal investigators anytime over the course of the next several hours.”

Walker fumed. But he knew the pompous asshole was right. He had to sit this out for the sake of his career—and for the sake of both the integrity of the precinct and discovering the truth pertaining to his dead friend.

“Fine,” he relented, arms crossing the barrel of his chest. “What's your plan?”

They turned to Deena, who had been mostly silent throughout their argument—which, Walker had to admit, set off warning lights. Deena Pilgrim was rarely silent; Boucher's presence had thrown her off. Walking away from this case, especially during the critical discovery period, was a mistake. But his hands were tied. Walker's place was back at his desk, sweating out Boucher's investigation. Out of the media glare, away from any place he might say too much and embarrass himself, his history, and any late, lamented friendships.

Deena cleared her throat and retrieved Kirk's tablet. She studied the mug shots again and then the photos from the Monroe crime scene.

“Here's how we play this, and we have to work fast. Walker, you and Aaron go back and finish your little drama.”

The two men traded hostile looks; Deena ignored them. Forensics was removing all bodies from the train, and she wanted to talk to the ME before he slithered off to a morgue or bottle, whichever came first. “Kirk and I will work our list.” She tossed the tablet back to the baby. This time, he caught it, right as it buzzed. A new e-mail, perhaps. Service was spotty below, and they'd been out of contact for far too long … especially with the Monroe case hanging over their heads.

“The guitar strings,” Aaron suggested. “Track sales to recent buyers. The .027 is rare—only a handful of instruments will take it, due to the bend it induces because of higher tension. Gotta narrow it down within the metropolitan area.”

Deena agreed. “Great. Walker, help us by looking into that.”

“Sure. After I'm done with the Gestapo here.”

“Seriously, dude?” Boucher's hands curled into fists.

Kirk's device buzzed again, and the rookie stared at it in his hand, unsure whether or not to look, whether or not to step in between the simmering detectives.

Deena interceded. “Girls, you're both prom queens. Go back. Find the strings. New fish and I will work the Human Front angle, this time expanding to known enemies. Old rivals of Monroe who might be seeking revenge.”

“Someone with musical ties?” Aaron gestured at the strings in her hand. “A Power or hater with an acoustic—or in the market for one.”

A lightbulb clicked on in Deena's head, just as Kirk's tablet buzzed for the third time. “Goddammit, fish,” she spat. “Check your e-mail.”

Kirk dove into the screen, happy to detach from the tension. As the rookie checked his messages, she ventured a guess as to the identity of the next suspect.

“You know, there was a Front member with musical ties. The strength isn't there—I doubt she killed Joe—but I can definitely see her being involved.”

Aaron arched his eyebrows. “A woman? You think a woman
twanged
these tractors on legs?”

“Hey, a woman decimated the entire city of Chicago, remember?”

“Fair point. Got a name?”

“Uh … guys?” Kirk held up a hand, trying to get their attention.

Deena ignored him. “Actually, you may already know. Wailing Willie Quince. Short for Wilhelmina. Malachi Crane's girlfriend, back in the day.”

“Seriously,” Kirk raised his voice in intensity. “Guys, you should definitely—”

“She had a way of connecting instruments to a kind of vibratory harness—pounded the decibels. Killer headache; brains-through-your-ears killer. Plus, she was in Atlanta, too. She and my family … well, there's history.”

Aaron nodded. “Right. She was on the stand that time.”

Walker frowned. “Oh, I know who you're talking about. Last I heard, she'd left the cause after the whole Kaotic Chic thing. Retired, far as I know. Singing a different tune now under the name ‘Willie Wails.'”

“As far as you know.” Deena smirked. “You fucked her, didn't you?”

“Hey, come on.”

“You slipped her the mickey. You let her ride the Bologna Express. You—”

“Deena!”

Kirk shoved the tablet in Deena's face. “Detective! You need to see this!”

She slapped Kirk's hand. “Personal space!” Walker removed the device from the rookie's grasp and turned it around to see. He found an open e-mail, linking to an embedded video.

“What's this?” He jabbed the Play button, and all sorts of hell unfolded, streaming as fast as the signal would allow.

A memory stirred again. Detroit, long before Atlanta.
“Too hot for you?” Joe had asked. “Then you're in the wrong goddamn business.”

Deena stepped closer, curiously watching her partner's face. “What is it?”

“Aw, hell,” Christian Walker moaned in dismay. “Some moron leaked the Soldier's death to
Powers That Be
.”

 

8

December. Monday afternoon. 3:17
P.M.

“Commissioner Tate spared little time for reporters, nor did he elaborate on plans for any sort of press conference. But despite outward appearances and claims otherwise,
“Powers That Be
has confirmed the lurid details surrounding this morning's grisly discovery. Credible sources—”