I stared at the photo of Jenny Carpenter in the file. Her eyes looked so broken, so lost, that even I felt a pang of regret that her case didn’t end with a better result. “Are there any other cases over the past year that match that sort of profile?”
Sarah paused for a long moment, and then sighed. “There’s a few, but this is one that I’d thought you’d like to look at. The lawyer’s name was Clarke Hudson. Five months ago, he walked another abuser out of court after he had a witness statement thrown out.”
“And where is Clarke Hudson now?” Casey asked as she flipped through the pages. “Still practicing in Chicago?”
“He’s dead.” Sarah’s voice was blunt, with no remorse for his passing. “And you’re right—he shot himself. Apparently, it was a surprise to everyone that knew him.”
Casey and I exchanged a glance. She handed me the latest file.
“Is there anything that these cases have in common, apart from the exonerations? Anything that you can see, from your perspective, that links them in any way?” I asked, my eyes still skimming the Clarke Hudson file.
“You mean apart from what you told me on the phone, that there are now three defense attorneys six feet under, all suicides by gunshot in the last fifteen months? No, there are no similar witnesses, linked pieces of evidence, or common locations that I can see. I’m sorry guys, but I don’t think I’ve got anything that will help you out on this one.”
“But if you did think there was a connection, who do you think would also fit the profile of these lawyers?” Casey leaned forward.
“You’re looking for the next victim?” Sarah asked, and Casey nodded her response. “Well, Larry Fittler would fit the profile. He came up in my search this morning. In fact, he’d be number one out of all these guys. High end lawyer, very arrogant, and defends rich people accused of rape and sexual assault. Last week, he got an accused pedophile off because there was a missing step in the paperwork. How ridiculous. A pedophile walks free because the paperwork wasn’t filed correctly, and the evidence couldn’t be used in court. Fittler’s client was guilty, no doubt, but he managed to escape any charges.”
“Sounds like our MO.” Casey looked at me. I nodded my agreement.
“You can try and talk to Larry Fittler and see what he thinks, but he’s not a nice guy. He’s sly, cunning, and thinks he’s better than everyone else. And he hates women. Thinks we’re to be seen and not heard. Yeah, he’s one of those types.” Sarah glanced up at the clock above the door. “Listen, if you have any more questions, I’ll be happy to help, but I have to run. My boss doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“Thank you, Sarah.”
Casey caught me watching a little too closely as Sarah stood up, grabbing her suit jacket from behind the door and bending to pick up her briefcase from the floor next to her desk.
“Just step carefully around the cops that worked these cases.” Sarah led us to the door. “Cops don’t like it when they write something up as suicide, and then they turn out to be wrong. There’ll be people trying to stop you from doing anything with this.”
“Thank you for all your help, Sarah.” Casey said. “We really appreciate it.”
Casey and I walked out the door together, and said our goodbyes, before Sarah hurried off in the other direction. My eyes lingered for a moment while Sarah rushed away.
“Seriously, Jack, can you be any more obvious?” Casey said once the sounds of Sarah’s heels echoed down the hall. “You’re an embarrassment. Any chance you could try and keep it in your pants when we’ve got a case on the clock? A little professionalism would be nice.”
I laughed in response. “Settle down. A man can look and appreciate the fine form of a classy woman. And I’m an investigator. I notice how every time we go to the new coffee shop near our office, you check out the hipster barista with his long blonde hair and nose ring. His skinny jeans sure do give you a nice view of whatever it is that seems to make you smile.”
Casey felt herself blushing before she turned and strode towards the elevators.
“Ok. We’ll get to Larry Fittler’s law firm in the morning. Sound good?” She asked as the elevator doors closed.
“That’s exactly what I was thinking.” I said. “Let’s find out if he’s seen or heard from Jonathon DiMarco this week.”
Chapter 7
Larry Fittler’s office was slick. Nothing was out of place. New couch, new table, the latest computers. Even the receptionist looked like she’d been pulled from the pages of a fashion magazine. I sat on a chair in the reception area, trying not to break anything. The brown leather couch looked inviting, but it was much too firm. As I waited, I was careful not to move suddenly in case I damaged what looked to be a very expensive artwork hanging behind me.
Following Sarah Kingston’s advice, Casey and I reviewed Fittler’s profile online, and decided he would react better to a male presence, than a female one. Casey chose to investigate Jenny Carpenter’s background while I talked to Fittler. Jenny Carpenter could provide the lead we were after, and even with the files from the State’s Attorney’s office, we still had many questions about Anthony Waltz’s last case. Could someone had been so angry on Jenny’s behalf that they killed Waltz? I didn’t know the answer, but from her photos, Jenny Carpenter appeared to be a vulnerable angel, the type of woman that provoked a protective response from most red-blooded males.
Larry Fittler’s media presence over the last few years had been hard to ignore. If he could get his face onto television, his name in the papers, or his voice heard on the radio, he was there. There were too many appearances to even count. He loved controversy, loved playing the bad guy, and loved arguing with anyone about anything. One of his most memorable interactions was with a female reporter who dared to suggest he got where he was because he was a white male. He tore the poor woman to shreds, not allowing her to even get a word in for the next five minutes. He said nothing of substance, but he said it with conviction.
“Mr. Fittler will see you now.” The receptionist yelled at me, not even looking up from her computer. She was pretty enough to be a model, and by her lack of customer service skills, I thought that was the only reason she was there. “It’s the door at the end of the hallway.”
I nodded my thanks and walked down the hallway. There were five senior lawyers in the firm, each with private offices on the fiftieth floor of the building in the upmarket neighborhood of the Gold Coast.
“Mr. Fittler.” I smiled as I walked into the room. “Thank you for seeing me.”
The private office was as I expected—massive and flashy, filled with recently purchased items, and completely and utterly soulless. There was a large desk in the middle of the room, a long leather couch to the side, floor-to-ceiling windows behind that. The view was impressive, although I doubted Fittler ever took the time to appreciate it. The largest picture on the wall was of Larry Fittler’s own smiling face, a cheesy grin wiped across his jaw. He had a number of photos with other people, but each photo had his face as the centerpiece.
“Are you looking for work?” He didn’t even greet me, remaining seated behind his desk, staring at the computer screen. “Because I’ll stop you there if you are. I’ve already got an investigator. One of the best. And I’m not willing to pay you for whatever information you think you can sell to me. If it’s information for a case, then I’m sure my investigator has already found whatever it is you want to sell.”
“I’m not after work. I have more work than I can handle,” I said. “These are busy times for private investigators in Chicago. Crime certainly pays my bills.”
He stopped and gestured towards the chair in front of his desk. “Alright. So, you’re not selling something. Sit down, and tell me what you want. Just don’t get comfortable because I’m a busy man. And no small talk. I don’t want to talk about the photo on the wall with the President.” He gestured behind him. I hadn’t noticed that picture, but Fittler wasn’t going to let me miss it. “So, Mr. Valentine, get st
raight to the point.”
“I’ve been investigating Anthony Waltz’s death—”
“Why would you need to investigate a suicide?”
“Because I’ve been paid to.”
He squinted and then leaned forward. “And who is employing you to do that?”
“A friend of Anthony Waltz’s.”
“Friend? You’re joking. I don’t believe that.” He scoffed. “Waltz didn’t have many friends. In fact, I’d be surprised if he had any. The only people at his funeral are likely to be colleagues and perhaps some distant family members. He certainly wasn’t the sort of guy to go to the bar with his buddies. He just didn’t have a friendly personality. So, tell me, what do you know that I don’t?”
“That man’s greatest hero should be the guy that created the tradition of a groom not seeing the bride in her wedding dress before the big day, because it’s saved husbands everywhere from hours and hours of dress shopping.”
He smiled at the joke. The ice was broken. “Alright, Mr. Valentine. How can I help?”
“It’s not so much what you can do for me, but more what I can do for you.” I started. “We’ve identified a pattern with defense lawyers in Chicago over the last year, and Anthony Waltz’s death is the latest to match the same pattern. There have been three dead lawyers in the past fifteen months who were all managing the same type of cases. It could be a complete coincidence, it could be nothing more than a quirk of misfortune, or it could be something more. I’m investigating if it’s something more.”
“Anthony Waltz, and who are the other two?”
“Jeffery Stone and Clarke Hudson.”
“Sad cases, all of those guys. I’d worked with Jeffery Stone recently, actually. We’d worked together in the past. He was a charmer. Smooth. Charismatic. He even had hopes of running for council one day. He’d just come out as gay, so I guess it all was a bit too much for him. We all knew he was gay, for decades, but he had a wife, or a number of wives, over the years. I was glad that he finally came out. But, having said that, I was as surprised as anyone when he shot himself.” He squinted as he looked at me. “The question is—what does that have to do with me?”
“There’s a fourth lawyer who has handled a case that matches the same pattern. Joan Islington’s case.”
He leaned back in his chair; mouth open, shocked to hear the name. “Sexual assault cases where the accused got off?”
I nodded.
“So, you think I’m about to off myself. Do my last dance. Choose my last song. Just because of an old case where the system found there wasn’t enough information to charge someone with rape? I hate to break it to you, but I’ve had a lot worse cases than that. I didn’t hurt that woman. All I did was my job. I’m not about to let that case break me.” He stood and walked over to his bookshelf, leaning against it. He clasped his hands in front of him and paused for a reflective moment. “And unfortunately, I’ve seen a lot more terrible situations than that.”
“I’m sure you have.”
“And I’ve gotten rapists off before. Abusers. Pedophiles. I’d like to say I feel bad about it, but I don’t. I really don’t. I’m serving my profession. I’ve gotten people off who I know are guilty, but there wasn’t enough evidence to convict them. I’m not going to kill myself over it. I mean, I barely lose sleep over those types of cases. Just more money in my back pocket. The richest men can afford the best lawyers, and the best lawyers can afford to sell their soul. With that perspective, I’m at no risk of offing myself.”
“I don’t think you’ll have a choice.”
He turned to stare at me and tilted his head to the left. “What are you saying? That Anthony Waltz was murdered? Jeffery Stone? Clarke Hudson? Is that what you’re investigating? A serial killer?”
“I’m not saying that, yet. I’m doing what I’m paid to do and that’s investigate Anthony Waltz’s death. That investigation has led me here,” I said. “At this point, I’d like you to be careful, but what I need from you is to tell me if you see anyone following you, or anything unusual. Anything that may lead me to a killer.”
“Ridiculous.” He scoffed, waved his hand at me, and moved back to his desk. “You haven’t got a clue, have you? You’re clutching at straws and trying to create work for yourself. I can see through your little game—you’re trying to get me to pay you protection money, aren’t you? This is a scam.”
“I don’t want a cent of your money.”
“Everyone wants money. I can see through your little scam and let me tell you now that I won’t fall for it. You’ll have to do better than that.”
“I’m warning you that trouble may be coming for you.”
“Trouble follows me everywhere I go. Just yesterday, there was a protest outside my office about sexual assault cases. They were yelling at me as soon as I stepped out of my cab, saying that I was doing the devil’s work. Those jobless, mindless woke folk were so angry. I told them to go and get a job and live in the real world.”
“Let me guess—Jonathon DiMarco organized the protest.”
“You’re right.” He replied. “That was all Jonathon DiMarco’s doing. He was there, front and center, yelling at me. He organized the protest, and they went crazy and attacked me. The guy hates me. Well, he hates anyone that defends the justice system.” Fittler sat back down, running his hands along the edge of the table. “But the system needs people like me. We’re a part of the wheel. Without us, the whole system falls apart. People like Jonathon DiMarco don’t see that. They see us as being worse than the criminals. Their lack of understanding is astounding.”
“Was anyone violent yesterday?”
“DiMarco has punched me before, but not yesterday, there were too many witnesses and he’s too smart for that.” He rubbed his jaw. “DiMarco is a big guy, and he can throw one mighty punch. After he hit me, I went to the police and they said they couldn’t do anything about it. There were no witnesses and no video evidence. DiMarco met me in a location where he knew there wouldn’t be any cameras and punched me in the jaw. I thought my jaw was broken, but I was fine after a few days.” He made a clicking sound with his jaw. “Are you telling me that DiMarco is a suspect in your investigation?”
“He’s a person of interest.”
“But why would he do that? Why would he kill lawyers?”
“Because he believes that defense lawyers are tearing the system apart. He wants to deliver karma to those he thinks have wronged the system.”
Fittler paused for a long moment, staring into nothingness. He bit his bottom lip and then turned to look back at me. “Alright, say I believe you. Say I believe that you’re investigating a possible murder. Are you saying that you’re going after Jonathon DiMarco? Because good luck to you if you do. He’s connected. Very well connected. He’s buddies with all the heads in the police department, the Mayor, and just about every powerful person in the city. Even if you had evidence, his friends would make that evidence disappear.”
“I don’t run from danger.”
“No.” He grunted. “You look like the type of guy that searches for a bit of danger.”
Fittler stood again, the nerves getting to him. He walked back to the bookshelf and leaned against it, arms folded. “When DiMarco was protesting last week, he was talking about two people in particular. Two victims of sexual assault that hit a nerve for him.” He was talking aloud to himself, more than talking to me. “DiMarco was talking about Joan Islington and Jenny Carpenter. Jenny was Waltz’s last case before he… well, before his death. DiMarco had a picture of Jenny and Joan together. As I walked into the building, he asked me how I felt about letting those women down. But I laughed at him and told him that it was easy to feel good about myself sitting on the fiftieth floor of this building.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t punch you again.” I said.
“Too many witnesses this time, but he still went into a rage. He was yelling about the karma...” A look of realization washed over him. He turned and stared at m
e with his mouth hanging open. “He was yelling about how karma was delivered to Anthony Waltz.”
Chapter 8
Larry Fittler didn’t offer much more information. I left my card, told him to call me if he saw anything, and left his office. The arrogance that he had displayed when I walked in had disappeared by the time I walked out. I saw fear, real terror, in his eyes as the realization that Waltz could’ve been murdered hit him hard. As I was walking out of his office, I heard the pop of a whiskey bottle opening behind me. I guess he was going to try and drink his troubles away.
Casey had succeeded in making contact with Jenny Carpenter. She sweet talked the family on the phone, and they agreed to meet with us. I came along for the ride, but I was letting Casey’s softer touch take the lead on the discussion.
“Jenny and her fiancé, Matthew Wilkerson, live with her parents. She’s twenty-five, works part-time at the local supermarket, but doesn’t leave the house much. The fiancé is a local junior cop. Doesn’t see much action. From what I’ve gathered, their world was rocked by her rape after a night out twelve months ago. They’ve spent much of the past year preparing for the court case.” Casey explained as I drove to the suburb of Buffalo Grove, forty-five minutes north of Downtown Chicago. “And to watch Waltz get her attacker, Chesterfield, off the charges must’ve cut deep. I couldn’t imagine that pain. That’s a motive to kill a lawyer, right there.”
Buffalo Grove was a pleasant suburb. Pleasant streets, pleasant homes, pleasant gardens. Everything, and everyone, was agreeable. The streets were clean, the shop fronts were well-maintained, and neighbors waved to each other as they passed. Safety and comfort were some people’s ideal living conditions, but for me, it was too suffocating. If I lived in a place like this, I’d have too much time to think, too much time stuck in my own head. That was dangerous. I needed to be in the city, amongst the action, distracted by the constant chaos that was created by millions of people crammed together.
The Shooter Page 5
