The Shooter

by Peter O'Mahoney

  “Do you think one of them had enough?” Casey continued. “Perhaps he had a girl over the other night, and she found his behavior to be too much?”

  “I don’t know.” Daley shook his head. “That’s why I’m paying you guys. I want you to investigate every avenue, every chance, and every hint. I need to make sure that he did this himself. I just… I don’t think the PD looked into it enough. I think there’s a chance that he didn’t do this.”

  We walked through the dim underground parking lot and across to a small grey metal door, near the ramp entrance, that had the words ‘Security Office’ plastered across the door in bright yellow. I knocked on the door twice before it swung open, and a guard stood in front of us, with an eager look on his face like a small dog.

  “Hi. I’m Robbie McAdams.” He panted, before looking at Daley. “Are these the private investigators?”

  “The very ones.” Daley stepped forward. “They’d like to ask you a few questions about what you found in Mr. Waltz’s apartment.”

  “Ok, ok, ok.” Robbie’s voice was high pitched and nervous. “Come in, come in. I want to help any way I can. I’ve always wanted to work on an investigation. I think you guys have the most awesome job.”

  Robbie stepped back, holding the door, allowing us to enter.

  In his mid-twenties, Robbie McAdams had broad shoulders and thick arms, but the rest of his body was overweight and flabby. He looked like he hadn’t been on a run in the last five years and spent most of his time playing online computer games. His face was puffy, and those tall enough to see the top of his head could see his brown hair was already thinning. His skin was pasty white, and freckles covered his face.

  “Jack Valentine.” I extended my hand. “And this is Casey May. We’ve been told that you can help us. We’re hoping you can give us a few moments of your time.”

  “Absolutely. Definitely. Yes. I can give you as much time as you need. Anything I can do to help.” He shook both our hands. His palms were sweaty. I didn’t like that. “I’ve been going over everything in my mind and jotted down some notes. I didn’t want to miss any detail. I know that even the tiniest bit of information can help this sort of investigation.”

  Casey let out a small sigh, indicating the limited patience she had for overly helpful and well-meaning witnesses that often proved to be nothing more than huge time wasters. Everyone wanted their fifteen minutes of fame next to the gore and shock of tragedy. It seemed to make them feel like they had meaning and purpose that reached beyond their quiet, ordinary lives.

  The security office was small, tucked away at the corner of the parking lot, with just enough room for a white Formica table stuck in the corner, a couple of well-used office chairs, and five small CCTV monitors. There was no natural light, little ventilation, and no air-conditioning. The smell from old pizza boxes was thick in the air, and the trash can looked like it hadn’t been emptied in weeks.

  Robbie sat down on the old chair, the only chair in the office, his navy-blue uniform standing out from the beige and white interior. I could tell that he was full of eager energy. The logo emblazoned in white on the left side of his chest said SafeA and underneath: We Secure Your Apartment.

  “Bit of a superhero fan, Robbie?” I asked, indicating to the wall of the office, artfully arranged with pencil comic sketches stuck to the wall with tape. “These are some cool pictures.”

  “Yes, sir. Most of my drawings are at home, including some really big items, but I like to make my workplace nice too. You know, I spend a lot of time around here.”

  “Ok, great, that means you know a lot about what goes on around the place and can help us out.” Casey interrupted before we got off track. “Can you tell us about what happened two nights ago? A resident complained about a gunshot and you investigated?”

  Robbie seemed to swell with pride before launching into his story. “Well yes, it was Mrs. Fryer in penthouse one. She likes her coffee from a little café around the block, Professor Coffee. She gets it early. Anyway, she said that she heard two gunshots, but she didn’t seem too concerned. That was at 5am, she thought. She’d ignored it and just mentioned it in passing as we saw each other in the foyer.” He consulted a small notebook as he listed the times for us. “She said it had woken her up and it was unusual to hear from the top floor, but she thought it was outside on the street.” Robbie flipped to the next page of his notepad. His writing was small and strained. “I made a mental note to ask the residents of the other penthouses about it when they came down for work. Mr. Waltz usually leaves after 5am, he goes to his office gym, I think. But two days ago, he didn’t. He didn’t come down. But Mr. Jameson did. He’s in penthouse four. Well, he was pissed off. Excuse the language.”

  He looked at Casey and she smiled back with fake sincerity. “Thanks, Robbie, but it’s fine. Go on.”

  “Well, Mr. Jameson came down into my office around 5:55 am, which is not his usual time. But apparently, he hadn’t been able to get to sleep after the disturbance and trust me, he’s not the sort of guy who needs to miss sleep. He said he heard two gunshots. He was sure they were on his floor. He loves his guns, so I didn’t want to argue with him. Anyway, he complained, and it made me think that perhaps I’d better go to the penthouse floor and see if everyone was alright.” Robbie stopped, looked at his notes, then up at Casey. He took a slow, deep breath and continued. “I checked the other apartments, and they were fine, but then I tried to buzz Mr. Waltz. I knew he’d be up. And he likes me. You know, in his line of work, I think maybe he finds it a comfort knowing I’m always around if needed. And my stepfather was a lawyer, so we bonded over that. They knew each other. My father was also a defense attorney. He—”

  “So, what did you do after you tried to buzz him?” Casey interjected before Robbie became sidetracked.

  “Well, I couldn’t reach Mr. Waltz, so I decided to go in and check things out. I knocked on the door but there was no response, and I was sure he hadn’t left. I can see the videos, you see.” He pointed to the monitors and the live stream of the security cameras. “So, I was concerned about him. I knocked again and then decided to use the master key to his apartment. It was a hunch. I thought something was wrong. And that’s when… well, that’s when I found him. I didn’t touch him at all. It was horrible. I could see that he was dead, so I just called the cops right away. But it was, you know, awful. He was just lying there. And there was so much blood everywhere. Honestly, I wanted to throw up. But I didn’t,” he added, puffing his chest out. “I know Mr. Waltz is a criminal attorney so he must deal with a lot of violent people, and I didn’t want to compromise anything. Just in case, you know?”

  “You did well, Robbie.” I moved behind him to look at the cameras and patted him on the shoulder. “Do you know if anyone ever came around here looking for Mr. Waltz?”

  “Waltz had a reputation for being a major leaguer in the world of attorneys,” Daley said, standing near the open door. “His clients were not just hiring him for misdemeanors like jay-walking; he was constantly dealing with felony criminals with questionable morals and large bank accounts to help them justify their sins—the foulest of the putrid, liquefied ooze. And in his world, big money meant big danger.”

  Robbie thought for a moment then nodded. “Jonathon DiMarco was here last week, and he had a yelling match with Waltz in the foyer.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me that he was arguing with Waltz. DiMarco hated sexual assault cases the most, and that was Waltz’s last high-profile case.” Daley added. “I don’t think he’d be a suspect though.”

  Casey moved closer to Robbie, the cramped space wearing on her. “Did you see anyone come and go from the building the night before his death?”

  “So, you don’t think it was suicide?”

  “We’re looking for a trigger. Anything that could’ve set him off,” Daley interjected, not wanting to give too much away. “Perhaps he met with someone before he shot himself?”

  Robbie swung his chair around to fa
ce the monitors. “Here’s the thing: my job isn’t to watch every entrance to this place every second of my shift. I move between the front door, watching the security cameras, and checking to make sure the rear entrance has been locked. And Mr. Waltz flat out refused to have any cameras installed on his floor. Another reason Mr. Jameson was so angry. Sometimes Waltz brings—um, paid—clients home. To put him at ease, so to speak. The building manager tried to insist on the cameras, but Waltz wouldn’t have it. He said he paid millions for the apartment so he should have the choice.” Robbie gave Casey a serious look and then faced back to the computer monitors. “My job is only to do an hourly sweep. I’m really here to be on call more than anything, if anybody needs me. I check the cameras and deal with any problems. We have a doorman during the day, and I’m here at night.”

  “Is there footage from the rear entrance?” I asked.

  “We try to encourage people not to use the rear entrance, but it connects to the fire escape stairwell. A lot of the residents like to be more discreet when they have, you know, visitors. Especially on an evening after a few drinks.”

  “We’ll need to see the security footage, Robbie.” I said. “Both entrances.”

  “There’s a problem there. The security camera on the rear entrance has been out for the past five weeks.” Robbie started typing on his computer, and then tapped one of the blank monitor screens in front of him. “I reported it to the building manager, but he’s a lazy son of a gun. He kept saying he’d get around to getting the maintenance company to fix it. I just don’t think he likes to spend money.”

  “Well, isn’t that just peachy?” Casey complained, as she saw the opportunity for a quick, clean case disappear.

  “Robbie, anything you’ve got would be helpful,” Daley added as he folded his arms. “If you remember anything else about that night, make sure you call these guys.”

  Robbie nodded as I handed him my business card. And after another five minutes in the cramped space, we left the security office with more questions than answers.

  Chapter 3

  My new office was the sort of place you could only find if you knew it was there, and I liked it that way. Casey had demanded an upgrade if she was going to work with me as a partner in the firm, and it didn’t take much to convince me that it was time to part with the old offices and move somewhere different. The new offices were on the fifth floor of a brick building off Clark St., in Downtown Chicago, only two blocks from my old offices. On our floor were a number of accountants, along with a design studio. I don’t think they appreciated a PI firm moving in, but then, I’d like to see them kick me out.

  The new offices were slicker, shinier, and presented a more professional first impression of our firm, not that I was concerned about what clients thought. I didn’t want street signage, nor my name on the door, and the fifth floor suited me. I had enough work to avoid taking walk-ins off the street. Walk-ins were mostly a waste of time, often they were people with small issues and small budgets.

  “What are your thoughts?” I asked Casey.

  “That Pavlov would’ve considered feeding his dogs every time he heard a bell ring.” She slumped down into her office chair, and swirled a full 360 degrees.

  I thought for a second. “Ok. Yep. I suppose you’re right.”

  “Or that security at an airport is ridiculously tight, all the way up until you get to the baggage claim. Then it’s just like a free-for-all, take whatever bag you want.”

  “Well, I guess.” I smiled. “But I was talking about the case. What are your thoughts on the case? More particularly, Daley?”

  “He’s not perfect, but that’s probably because he’s a sleazy lawyer. You?”

  “There’s nothing that concerns me, yet.” I turned on the computer. “Right now, he looks like a man who’s lost a friend and is questioning if he could’ve done anything more. He’s clutching at straws and living off hope and he’s willing to pay us to prolong that hope.”

  The first part of any investigation is to question the motive of the person hiring the investigator. Normal people with normal lives don’t hire private investigators. Citizens doing average things don’t need the services of expensive detectives. People on the edge do. People with questions about their lives.

  “But there is one question I’ve been thinking about.” Casey stood and walked over to the coffee machine. She lifted up a mug, and I nodded my response. “Why wouldn’t he use the investigators in his law firm? Why call us first? Maybe he’s not telling us everything. Maybe he’s hiding something.”

  “You think he shot Waltz and made it look like a suicide?”

  “It’s worth a look to see what their relationship was like in the past few weeks.”

  “But then why hire us if the police have let him get away with it?”

  “To make sure his tracks are covered. If we find any evidence, then he’ll be the first to know, and he’ll also be the first to get rid of it. Better we find it than the cops.” Casey poured a coffee for me, and one for herself. “This decaf life isn’t working out.”

  “How long did the decaf life last?”

  “At least fifteen hours.” She looked at her watch. “What about Waltz’s death? You don’t think it’s suicide, do you?”

  “There’s no forced entry, nothing stolen, and nobody saw anything. He was in a tough business and he was a guy on the edge. Cops have written it up as suicide. At first glance, it doesn’t look premeditated and most likely it is a suicide, but that second bullet does raise questions. It’s an old mob trick, but it’s an effective one.”

  “Perhaps it’s like you said, he fired at the wall just to check the gun worked first?”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “But then there’s the connection with the other lawyer. Jeffery Stone, about fifteen months ago, another high-profile lawyer who committed suicide by shooting himself, or so they wrote it up. And l bet if we looked at his cases,” I typed into the computer. I read the first few lines on a news website. “Yep. Jeffery Stone’s last big case was a sexual predator who he got off on a technicality.”

  Casey cocked her head at the new information, feeling how it fit together.

  “And here I was thinking we were having a slow week,” Casey handed me a coffee and then sat back down. “Ok, but there are hundreds of lawyers in this city. Thousands even. And some of them shuffle off this mortal coil every year. Other than the sexual assault charges, what makes the connection between these two?”

  “Just a hunch,” I offered, and Casey groaned inwardly. The only thing she hated more than a sexist comment was me working on a ‘hunch’. “The cases both involve sexual assault charges and the lawyers got their clients off without any punishment.”

  “We need something solid, Jack. Some actual evidence,” Casey continued. “The media have been like flies on dog doo-doo with Waltz for the last four months. That rapist Waltz got off is probably happily planning his retirement somewhere in Florida near an all-girls’ high school. The public have been baying for Waltz’s blood. That means there are a hell of a lot of suspects to get through and a hell of a lot of people who won’t want this case solved, and will make it their mission to be giant pains in our asses.” She slapped her mug on the desk, with a small drop of coffee spilling out, and both her fists became tightened balls. I pointed to the stress ball on the side of her desk but was rewarded with a more intense glare. “But I get it, you know?”

  “Get what?”

  “If there is a killer out there, I get why they’re targeting the lawyers. The cops had done their jobs in arresting the assailant. The system was doing its job, trying to put these people away, but these defense lawyers were creating the problem. They’re the ones that are getting guilty people off.”

  “You’re saying that if those clients didn’t have great defense lawyers, then those rapists would be spending their best years behind bars?” I tapped my fingers on the edge of the desk. “What about Waltz’s will? Where does all that money go?”

&nb
sp; “To a brother and a sister. One lives in Canada and the other lives in Europe. When they were informed on the phone…” Casey took a sip of her coffee as she read the police file that Daley had handed us earlier. “It says that neither of them had talked to Waltz in more than five years. The report notes that while neither sibling seemed upset, they weren’t surprised either. We’ve got statements from the siblings, but neither were in the country at the time of death, so we can cross them off.”

  “This was an easy write-up for the cops.” I kicked my feet up on the desk and leaned my head on the back of my chair, staring at the ceiling. “Waltz had the gun in his hand. There was gun residue on his fingers. No-one else was seen near the apartment. The recipients of his estate had nothing to do with him. It’s all very simple. If I was a cop, I’d be writing it up as suicide as well.”

  Casey took out a cloth from the top drawer of her desk, wiped the spilt coffee, and then folded the cloth, before placing it back inside the top drawer. Her desk was neat and ordered, and the polar opposite to mine. A single photo—her dark hair loose, large smile and an arm draped over her 8-year-old niece’s shoulder—was the only evidence of having a life outside of the office, everything else was neatly stacked or hidden in drawers.

  “You know what, you’re rather poetic this morning. I particularly loved the Shakespeare reference. ‘Mortal coil’—was that Hamlet or Macbeth?” I mused, still staring at the ceiling.

  “I think it was Mac-I-Don’t-Give-a-Crap.”

  Casey glared at me from across the desk. The caffeine hadn’t kicked in yet.

  When I offered to employ her as a co-investigator, she jumped at the change. A former investigative journalist, she was fired when a co-worker attacked her and came off second best. Casey had a fire in her belly, and found it hard to contain her rage, but that sort of gritty attitude was needed in this job.

  I pointed at the picture on Casey’s desk. “So, what sort of cake did she have last night?”