“You want to start with the evening before?”
“First, roll the footage for the front entrance from around 5pm the night before. You said there’s no footage from his floor, or the stairs, so I want to look at the rear entrance. I’m looking for anyone that was hanging around the previous night that didn’t look like they belonged there. If you can find a woman in her twenties with blonde hair, then I’ll get you in the office next week for some work experience as a thank you.”
My phone buzzed again. It was Detective Williams. I didn’t answer, but I didn’t have a good feeling about it. In the whole time I’d known him, he never called me for a chat. He had something else to say, and by the number of missed calls, it looked like something that couldn’t wait.
Robbie clicked five more commands on the keyboard and one of the screens opened to footage of the front entrance, starting at 5:05 pm. It started to play but flickered for a moment, before the screen went black.
“No. Not now.” Robbie stared at the screen and began punching more buttons. He slapped the side of one of the monitors. “Don’t fail on me. Not now.”
“What’s wrong?”
“The file for the rear entrance isn’t working. It’s just playing a blank screen.”
“Why? What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s the boss.” He sighed and dropped his head. He could see his chance for work experience with me slipping. “This has happened before. The boss sometimes wipes files to make more space. Cheap prick won’t even pay for more computer storage. He knew I’d be looking at it and that’s probably why he wiped it. I transferred the files back from the head office via the USB drive, but it looks like the boss got his hands on the drive during the day shift. He must’ve wiped it.”
I nodded. “Anything from another entrance? Perhaps the back door.”
“I don’t think so.” Robbie typed a few more commands. “Nothing. Everything has been wiped up until yesterday. I’m so sorry. I really thought that I’d transferred it back here without my boss noticing.”
My phone buzzed another time. I looked at the number. Williams, again.
“Is there a backup file at head office?”
“Yeah, that’d still be there. Head office is a warehouse in Aurora, and I could try to get back there and transfer the files again. I’d just have to keep the trip a secret from my boss. I’m due back out there for more training in five days’ time. I could do it then.”
“Why would he wipe the drive?”
“I don’t know.” Robbie slumped forward. “But my boss has mentioned before that he’s well-connected. He likes to talk himself up and tell everyone about all the people that he knows. Maybe someone asked him to wipe it?”
I nodded. That made sense. DiMarco’s reach was far and wide.
My phone buzzed again. This time it was a message. I opened it.
Urgent. It was Williams.
“Thanks for trying, Robbie.” I patted him on the shoulder. “I’ve got to make a call. We’ll stay in touch.”
I stepped out of the office, took a deep breath, and made my way back through the parking lot and the foyer before I called Williams.
Williams and I only talked for a couple of moments, but it was the news I didn’t want to hear.
Chapter 19
“Casey, give me everything we’ve got on DiMarco.” I stormed into our office, slamming the door behind me. “We’ve got to move fast.”
Casey knew that tone; she’d heard it so many times before. That tone, that driven determination, that tension, meant something, or someone, had pushed my buttons.
Within twenty-five minutes, our meeting room was filled with files, photos, and papers laid out across the large wooden table. Although all our files were on computers, stored on hard-drives and in the clouds, I still worked so much better with the physical copies in front of me. It frustrated Casey to print out so much paper, she hated the idea that trees were cut down for me to work, but she was younger and more computer savvy, and screens were a part of her life. She looked at a computer tablet the same way I did a piece of paper. That didn’t work for me. I had to do things the way I knew best.
The meeting room was dim, with closed blinds, dark furniture, and lighting that created shadows in the corners. The indoor plant near the door did little to lighten the mood. But it was the way I liked to focus—closed off from the outside world, shut away from distractions, my attention narrowed to the information in front of me. It was here that I could see the small piece of information that I might’ve missed before. It was here that I could solve a puzzle that previously seemed impossible.
“Are you sure it’s the same MO as our guy?” Casey circled the table. She was shocked by the information Williams had told me over the phone, but not surprised. “Did Detective Williams confirm that a second bullet was found nearby?”
“Larry Fittler was shot in the neck sometime last night,” I grunted. “His cleaner found him in the bedroom of his apartment. He was sprawled out on the bed, gun in hand, and you guessed right—a second bullet was found in the wall nearby. This isn’t a coincidence, Casey. The killer knows we’re close and he’s moving faster.”
“Or she.”
“Or she.” I nodded. I leaned on the table pushing two pieces of paper apart. “Detective Williams called me this morning and gave me as much information as he could. He said that the investigating detectives are going to write it up as suicide because there’s nothing else to raise questions. There’s no evidence that suggests anyone else was there. No witnesses. No video footage. No complaints of arguments from the neighbors. This was as clean a suicide as they can get. If I was a cop, looking at this case alone, I’d also write it up as a suicide.”
“Are they even going to investigate the links to the other suicides? They have to acknowledge the correlation with the other cases now. They have this information. They know that these guys are all lawyers who defend sexual assault cases. That evidence is too hard to ignore.”
“Suicides are known to be contagious. The action is known to be catching. The police will say that Fittler saw his colleagues commit this act, and he thought it was a viable option. But Fittler didn’t even look close to killing himself when I talked to him last week. He was so arrogant, and so far from suicide. I warned him, but he didn’t listen.”
I stared at the profile we’d built on Jenny Carpenter. We had a social media profile photo of her, and under the photo was the file we’d built. Casey had spent the morning gathering information on the failed case fifteen years ago when Jenny was only ten. It made for terrible reading. There was evidence of the abuse, witnesses, and even a video of Jenny being groped by her abuser at gymnastics training, but the evidence was thrown out because it was discovered that a police officer gathered the information outside the rule of the law. The key witnesses were dismissed when the defense lawyer presented evidence to show that they’d received money from the Carpenter family. The Carpenter family said it was a thank you, not a bribe, but the judge wouldn’t hear it. All the witness statements were dismissed. Jenny’s first abuser walked free without justice—that had to leave a mark on a person, no doubt about it. A simmering, murderous mark.
“Surveillance footage near Larry Fittler’s home? Maybe something down the street?”
“Williams said the investigating detectives weren’t even going to look down the street. They’ve got footage of the front door, and there’s no movement on the night of his death. No one in or out.” I tapped my finger on the table. “But we’ll look around. We’ll canvas the area and see if a neighbor had another angle on the house. We might get a lucky break.”
“What about Matthew Wilkerson, Jenny’s fiancé? He’s a cop, he could pull this off.” Casey pushed a file across the table. “He’d want the best for his future wife. Maybe they’re a team? A Bonnie and Clyde type of couple. What could be more passionate than teaming up against a common enemy? They might even be taking it in turns. One did Waltz, and the next did Fittler.”
I nodded at the possibility. It made sense. A bond over a common enemy was a common connection for couples. I’d even heard that some marriage counselors were deliberately terrible at their job in an effort to bring a warring couple closer together. What could be more bonding than an attack on the people that tore your life apart? I started to pace the room. It was my way to think, my way to move through the ideas that fueled my investigations.
“And perhaps DiMarco is the one inspiring them. Perhaps he’s pulling the strings.” Casey sat down at the end of the table. She crossed one leg over the other and swiveled gently on the chair. “They could be all in this together. DiMarco is the ringleader, with Jenny and Matthew acting as his minions. In her vulnerable state, DiMarco could be taking advantage of Jenny. She’s clearly got a fiery streak and a lot of unresolved anger.” She leaned forward and opened a file. “This is all we have on DiMarco, and there’s a lot of information, but there’s not a lot that helps us. All the information we have leads to dead ends, and I can’t find anything that might help us. There are no other witnesses that saw anyone near these places, and there’s no video footage in the previous deaths, or any other footage that shows DiMarco near these sites, except for his appearance at the coffee shop before Waltz’s death. DiMarco’s car didn’t go anywhere near Fittler’s place last night, and nor did Wilkerson’s car.”
“That’s not what I want to hear.” I flicked through the file on DiMarco, wishing the answers would jump out at me, hoping I’d missed a vital clue. “There has to be something that proves DiMarco is involved. Something that shows he had a hand in killing Fittler. The other deaths had a long time between them, but this time, it’s only been a week. Maybe they made a mistake with the added time pressure?”
“A troubled defense lawyer takes on difficult cases, and it all gets to be too much so he shoots himself in his apartment. In isolation, it sounds simple. It sounds like an open and shut case.” Casey leaned her head against the top of the office chair, and stared at the ceiling. “But the similarity between the now four deaths? Everyone has to question that connection. Everyone. That has to be obvious to all involved. I would question that, and I think the cops will start to have questions as well. They can’t keep ignoring all these coincidences.”
“They’re not going to make more work for themselves.” I slumped into a chair, almost defeated. “DiMarco has a lot of connections still in the force, so Williams can’t get involved in the case unless he has evidence. It’d be his job on the line if he pushed this too hard. It’s all there in front of them, but they won’t investigate it any further than they have to.”
“So, what do we do?”
“Surveillance footage is the key.” I tapped my finger on the table again. “Without it, we can’t prove any of them was even close to the sites of the murders. We need something solid. Anything that shows them near Fittler’s place.”
We talked about ideas for another twenty-five minutes, before we both conceded that we didn’t have a lot to go on. We had to manage Daley’s expectations, we had to work within the confines of our costs, but there were lives on the line. If we didn’t find the killer, then any more deaths would be on my conscience if I didn’t do everything possible.
After a long silence, a look of concern washed over Casey’s face. She leaned forward on her chair, bit her fingernails, and crossed her legs.
“What’s wrong?” I questioned.
“Murderers like this are known to escalate quickly when under pressure. It’s been studied so many times. As soon as they’ve got a real taste for it, then the rate of murders escalates. At some point, the killer will snap, and start killing more and more, perhaps even daily. They’re trying to get that rush and beat the system while they can.”
Casey was right. The next death was nearing closer by the second. “We need evidence, Casey. We can’t just go and accuse them because of a hunch.”
“What’s making me nervous is wondering who the next person is on the killer’s list.” She bit her fingernails again. “If the killer knows we’re close, and we’re the only ones who are investigating the murders…”
“Then we’re targets.” I turned and looked back at Casey. “Which means that our names have moved to the top of the hit-list.”
Chapter 20
The ballroom of the historic Chicago Athletic Association Hotel was the height of modern affluence—tall ceilings, polished wood flooring, and two crystal chandeliers sparkling overhead. In the grand hall, the wealthy mingled, fueled by their need to prove their wealth to each other. The who’s who of Chicago politics conversed and talked about the latest rumors, the latest business appointments, and the latest high-end backroom deals. Gossip thrived, allegations were suggested, and stories snaked through the room. The two hundred and fifty people in attendance of the criminology lecture were all dressed in their best suits, or their best dresses, and wearing their most expensive jewelry. This room would’ve been a pickpocket’s dream, if only they could get in the front doors.
I’d managed to snare a pass through a friend of a friend of a friend. I was wearing my only dinner suit, the most uncomfortable I could manage to be. My chest felt like it was going to pop off the buttons on my crisp white shirt. I walked around, nodding hello to anyone that looked in my direction, melting into my surroundings. As a waitress walked past, I acquired a champagne glass, and waited for the right time to interrupt Jonathon DiMarco.
I had a plan, but I needed to talk to DiMarco directly. He’d been refusing to take my calls, and even blocked my phone number.
“Jack Valentine.”
The voice came from behind me. I knew that voice, but I never wanted to hear it again. Standing behind me, sipping champagne, was a figure I knew too well. It was Hugh Guthrie, the man who gave the school shooter the gun that killed my wife. Guthrie was in his fifties, weak, and sly. His hair had grayed since the last time I saw him, or perhaps it grayed a long time ago and he was only now starting to reject using hair dye. He deserved to be behind bars, not only for the hand that he had in my wife’s death, but also, he murdered newscaster Brian Gates in a moment of passion. Those charges were dismissed in court, expunged from his record, and he was now snaking his way back into the circles of the wealthy and famous. Money seemed to help people forget a lot of things.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” Guthrie took a long sip on his champagne. “But here we are, like two old friends hanging out, reminiscing about our past. What shall we talk about, Jack? Did you want to talk about your wife, or perhaps you’d like to cry about it? Being an old friend of yours, I’ll happily be your shoulder to cry on.”
My chest heaved up and down. My fists clenched. I could feel the rage pulsating through my body. I wanted to rip out his throat. But I couldn’t. It wasn’t the reason I was there.
“What’s the matter, Jack?” Guthrie continued. “Have you forgotten how to speak?”
I’d grown up as a thug, someone who could get what he wanted by physical force. I developed early, rising to six-foot-tall by the time I was twelve, and I continued to grow and fill out my frame. Now, at over six-foot-four, and two hundred and twenty-five pounds of muscle, I could still use physical force to intimidate most people. But I had to hold back.
Claire was the first person who taught me how to settle my anger. When I met her at age twenty-one, I didn’t know how to control my rage. I didn’t know how to turn off the anger. Her loving touch, her loving care, calmed me. She showed me how to meditate, how to use breathing to settle myself, and how to walk away from certain situations. Her love was the only reason I could function in the real world.
I needed to use all of those skills to prevent myself from tearing Guthrie limb from limb.
“I’d heard that you got out of prison. That’s not justice.” I breathed deep, slow, and stepped closer to him. I was here for a job, here to pressure DiMarco, but Hugh Guthrie was one man that knew how to push my buttons. Even seeing him outside of prison was enough
to make me angry. “Justice would mean you’d die behind bars.”
“What can I say?” He laughed. “I had a good defense lawyer. Sometimes, that’s all you need to get out of prison. You pay top-dollar and then you’re able to use the system to your advantage. That’s what I did. Paid top-dollar. Life’s funny like that sometimes. And look at this now, all these people have chosen to forget the charges. It’s funny what money and power make people forget.”
I took another deep breath, holding myself back from ripping his head off. “What do you want, Guthrie? Why are you talking to me?”
He smiled. “Now that I’m out of prison, I wanted to warn you to stay away from me, or you’ll be in the plot next to your beautiful Claire.”
I took another step towards him, and I could see the fear in his eyes. He stepped back. “What are you going to do, Jack? Beat me up in front of all these people?” He laughed. “Wouldn’t that be ironic justice—Jack Valentine behind bars for taking justice into his own hands.”
“I’m not here for you.”
“You’re not?” He questioned.
“No, but you’d better be prepared. Claire is dead because of you, and I’m not going to let you get away with it.” I drew a number of long deep breaths before I continued. “There’ll be no defense lawyers where I’ll be taking you.”
I brought my face within an inch of his, snarled, and then turned and walked away, knowing that it wasn’t going to be the last time I saw him. I walked into the bathroom, splashed my face with five handfuls of cold water, and stared at myself in the mirror. I had a job to do. People were dying and I was the only one who was going to stop it. I couldn’t let my personal life get in the way of work. I had to focus.
After five minutes of trying to calm myself, I walked out of the bathroom and back into the hall, looking for DiMarco. It didn’t take long to spot him. He was standing over a young girl with an empty glass in his hand, telling a long-winded and involved story, talking as much with his hands as with his voice. DiMarco talked for five minutes straight, not allowing the girl to even get a word in sideways. When he finally took a breath and stopped talking, he turned to look around the room, and caught me staring at him.
The Shooter Page 12
