Jonathan Wood - No Hero

NO HERO

JONATHAN WOOD

NIGHT SHADE BOOKS

SAN FRANCISCO

No Hero 2011 by Jonathan Wood

This edition of No Hero 2011 by Night Shade Books

Cover art by E. M. Gist

Cover design by Amy Popovich

Edited by Ross E. Lockhart

All rights reserved

First Edition

Printed in Canada

ISBN: 978-1-59780-282-6

eISBN: 978-1-59780-328-1

Night Shade Books

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http://www.nightshadebooks.com

ONE

I ts the pretty blonde that completes the scene. No question. Pressed up against the side of a building? Check. Life-and-death situation? Check. Significantly more sweat running down my back than really seems appropriate? Big check for that one. And yes, against all likelihood, theres a pretty blonde by my side. Check.

Because now, after years of paperwork, after years of trawling through minutia, police work is finally fulfilling the promise Tango and Cash made to my impressionable teenage self.

It is time for action.

Except that, in the heat of the moment, my heart beating a sharp tattoo against my ribcage, I rather wish that Kurt Russell had taken the time to turn to the camera and explain the sheer bowel-loosening terror involved in doing this sort of thing. Because right now, even with a killer so close, even with a life on the line, paperwork has never seemed so appealing.

SIX MONTHS EARLIER

The office block is under constructionstill in the skeletal stagesso its the stairs for Sergeant Swann and me. She just transferred in from Peterborough, lured by the Dreaming Spires, or by dreams of reprimanding drunk students, or some such, but its most definitely their loss. Im huffing a bit by the time we reach the top, which is hardly likely to impress a pretty girl, but so far the most flirtatious thing Ive managed to say to her is, Good work, Swann, so its not like Ive got chances to damage.

Plus, seriously, shes not even thirty, so its about an eight-year age difference or something. And Im her boss, and that sort of thing is totally frowned upon. And she is far too pretty to be the sort of thing that happens to someone like me.

So, in conclusion, buying Starbucks and staring at corpses are likely to be the main activities we share together.

Anyway, todays corpse is lying in the middle of the concrete floor five stories up in the air. Hes in more parts than normal. Everythings business as usual right up until his eyebrows where someones given him a rather extreme haircut. Diagonal slice down through his skull. The scalp lies a few yards away. Theres quite a lot of blood.

First off I think about how Im quite glad I missed my alarm and therefore my breakfast this morning. Then I think about how, as crime scenes go, this one is actually pretty cool. Then I go back to my first thought because thats a horrible thought to have when its real life. Then I think about how I really need to watch fewer movies.

Top o the morning to you both. Doc OMeaney is poking at the scrap of scalp with a ballpoint pen. He looks up and waves as we come up the stairs.

Bit of a strange fish, Doc OMeaney. We both joined Oxford PD around the same time and back then he had a cockney accent and no O in front of his name. Then there was a rather fateful trip to Ireland and he came back... well I heard someone call him born-again Irish. Right now hes wearing a shamrock pin through his blue coveralls. Still, hes a nice enough chap and handy with a scalpel, so its probably best not to mess with him too much.

So, Swann looks at the body, heart attack was it?

I laugh. Possibly too loudly.

Not so much the cause of death thats a stumper on this one, says the Doc, but more the cause of the cause of death, if you catch my drift.

Come again? I raise both my eyebrows. Never learned the trick of just lifting one.

Well, Doc OMeaney scratches the back of his head, see its just the one slice weve got. Comes right through the ear, he traces a line, and through the hindbrain. Hits all the important lizard brain bits that control your heart and your lungs. All that good keeping-you-alive stuff. He shrugs. Insta-death. Just add machete.

A machete? Quite an exotic weapon of choice for a sleepy university town like Oxford.

Might have been. Might have been. Doc OMeaney chews his lip. But, well, if it was... I just cant imagine how it was done, see? I mean, the skull is tough cookie. And this was just one blow to cut through it. I mean thats a hell of a lot of force. Mucho Newtons. More than a person could manage, I should think. And its a downward slice, so that means theyre taller than him, or above him. He indicates the empty expanse of floor. Best I can come up with is something mechanical. A machete and an industrial strength spring perhaps. But... He indicates the empty space.

Too empty, Swann says.

I nod. No reason to come here. Off the beaten track. It was a Sunday so no work men.

Someone looking for a quiet place? says Swann.

To...? I dont have answers. I dont have any vital clues. I dont have a German with a suspicious accent and a bald cat standing in the corner of the room.

Meet someone? Avoid someone? Swanns guessing. Its all just guessing now. Even if its the right guess we wont know for a long time. Interviews. Statements. Forensics. The dreary machinery of detection.

Could have been a meeting, says Doc OMeaney, nodding at Swann.

And it could be the right guess. Except... Cant really see a chap standing there, I say, while someone lines up the blow. Can you?

NOW

Couldnt see it then. Couldnt see it for another six months. There were five more bodies to work with in that time, and I couldnt see it once. No signs of restraint. No signs of drugs in the system. For a while we toyed with the idea that maybe the victim had been led there and hypnotized. Except... well, it was a bloody stupid idea really.

Still, I cant help but wonder now if it was a failure of imagination on my part. Because now a life may be on the line and all I can do is imagine things: great tracts of machinery hastily assembled; a gleaming machete blade, tarnished by only a few traces of blood, a few hacked-at hairs; a coiled spring; a trip wire; me sneaking around this corner and the sharp tug of it on my ankle; a snag, a stumble, a swish... Swann screams. Or... well, maybe she just shrugs and thinks she always knew her bloody awful boss would come to a sticky end.

Im frozen. I cant move for the imagined possibilities. Ive become the inverse of my dreamsa man of inaction.

Insta-death. Jesus.

Behind me I hear Swann shifting her weight. You planning on moving any time soon, Boss? she whispers. I sort of had plans that didnt involve standing around and freezing my tits off quite so much.

THREE HOURS AGO

One more time. I say.

Swann sighs loudly.

You dont have to stay, I say. Everyone else buggered off down the pub a few hours ago. Its Friday night. The weekend beckons. No need for you to suffer just because I have police officer OCD.

I open a folder, start leafing through notes. Bank records. School reports. Employment certificates. Coroners report. Minutia. Details. And the devil is hiding in them somewhere. Just need to find him and arrest him.

Nah, Swann picks up the next folder in the pile. One more time.

I smile. Shes a good cop.

Six victims, she says, shutting down my grin. Six months. No pattern that we can see. Time between killings varies from ten days to five and a half weeks. Both male and female victims. Still no pattern. Ages spread between twenty-eight

My eyes flick up to the white board, to the photo of that first man we found, back before his head became a two-piece jigsaw puzzle.