“Then maybe your department should look at increasing its commitment to solving crime.” I grunted. “Half of all homicide cases are never solved in Chicago. What are you guys even doing? Going out for doughnuts and beers? If you applied yourself, then we wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.”
Williams didn’t answer. I’d hit a nerve. He was a good cop, he worked hard in the department, but the stats didn’t lie. The number of cold cases in Chicago were growing year in, year out. From an outsider looking in, the numbers were embarrassing, but there were many external reasons why a lot of the cases went unsolved, including witnesses who refused to talk, gang members who refused to testify, and citizens who refused to trust the police.
Although the clearance rate for murder in Chicago was as low as fifty percent, the solved murder rate for African Americans in Chicago was as low as twenty-five percent. There was a fear that if a witness testified against another community member, then they would see the repercussions against their own family. They didn’t feel they had the protection of the police. But without witnesses, without members of the community helping, solving crime is just about impossible. And without penalties from the police, communities are left with street justice—one person is killed, then another is killed in retaliation. With a seventy-five percent chance of walking away from murder, the assailants had confidence that they could avoid prison time.
Williams was one of the good ones, someone with the trust of his African American community. He always was the good guy, and he took any attack on his department’s performance personally. We’d gone to high school together, and even back then, his career path was clear. He played football, but was also the hall monitor. He wrestled, but was also the library’s assistant. He played basketball, but also refereed the junior games. He was destined to be a cop.
“Why’d you call me, Jack? To tell me how bad the department is performing? Does that make you feel better about yourself? Is that why you called me here? To lay down some stats about crime in Chicago.”
“I called you because I’m going to go after Jonathon DiMarco.”
“And what do you need me for?”
“I need you to back me up. I’m going to force DiMarco into a corner, and I need you to make sure he doesn’t get out of it.”
“I told you, I can’t be involved. This isn’t an active investigation and if I go after DiMarco, then it’s my career. I have kids to feed, Jack. I have their college fees to pay for. I can’t risk my career on a hunch of yours. You don’t even have any evidence.”
“No wonder your department has so many unsolved crimes. This is staring you in the face. You have all the information, you’ve got all the facts, but still, you won’t investigate. There’s an active killer out there and you won’t do anything about it.”
“You’ve got no actual evidence. If you had something, anything, that could stand up in court, then I could look at opening a case, but you’ve provided me with nothing.” He looked over his shoulder as the first of the lunchtime office workers began to come in. He leaned closer to me. “And you want me to help you go after Jonathon DiMarco? You’ve got to be kidding. The guy is a former department captain who still knows a lot of important people on a first name basis. What about my kids? What about my family?”
“What about Casey?”
“I can’t help you.” Williams drew a long breath, then shook his head. “When are you going to do it?”
“Tonight.” I tossed a few notes on the table and stood. “And I’m going to make sure that DiMarco pays for what he’s done.”
Chapter 25
I hate hospital waiting rooms.
The rows of uncomfortable plastic chairs, the tiled floor, and the overbearing smell of disinfectant. The faint cries of people in physical pain, the subdued sobs of people in emotional turmoil, and the hidden anguish behind the eyes of the visitors. It all added to the sense that this was where final goodbyes were said, where devastating news was delivered, and where stories of immense hurt unfolded.
I’d been in this hospital once before, in this very waiting room, trying to process the flood of emotions that were coming out of me. It was here, in the halls of this hospital, that I walked through these very doors, and saw a dead body for the first time. My mother’s body was just a shell. The life, that effervescent energy, had been taken from her. Where did the warmth go? Where did her vibrant personality go? I was so confused that day. There was a body, but it had no soul. I was only five years old at the time, but even now, the memory of that day was still as clear as what I had for breakfast. I spent a full day in the hospital after that. I didn’t leave. I didn’t know where to go. I just sat on the chair in the waiting room, mostly with my head in my hands. People came and talked about funeral arrangements to my father. They talked about support services. They talked about where I could go. But nothing sunk in. I was lost. I didn’t know what to do. The next weeks went by in a blur. I couldn’t remember a thing—where I was or what I was doing.
The nurse at the counter had asked me to wait in the room until the doctors had finished their discussion with Casey. I asked if there was another room, but she said no, this was the only one available. Staying near the exit to the room, I leaned against the wall, arms folded across my chest. When I finally lifted my eyes off the ground, I looked around the room. It was just about the same as it was thirty years earlier—the magazines on the table, the plastic flowers in the corner of the room, the bulletin board full of notices about support services. There was a new coat of paint, there were new plastic chairs, but the feel of the room hadn’t changed.
The nurse tapped me on the shoulder, interrupting my thoughts, and informed me that the doctor had finished with Casey and she was able to see me. I was happy to leave behind the tears that threatened to pour out. I wiped my eyes with the back of my leather jacket sleeve, coughed, and then proceeded to Casey’s room.
Casey was in a long room, five patients along one wall, portioned off by curtains. I came to the last space, the one next to the window, pulled the curtain back and smiled. Casey was sitting up in bed, staring at the television hanging from the ceiling. Her face was bruised down the right side, colored deep purple with spots of red.
“You’d think there’d be something on daytime television.” She didn’t take her eyes off the screen. “But there’s nothing. It’s almost enough to force me back to work.”
I smiled. At least the attack hadn’t dented her cheeky attitude. “How are you?”
“Don’t give me that bull, Jack. Don’t start treating me like I’m some sort of little girl that needs protection. I don’t want, or need, your sympathy.” She snapped. She was embarrassed by what happened to her. I could give her a speech about how it wasn’t her fault, but I was sure that would only make her angrier.
“I’m not asking for you. I’m asking for me. I want to know how you’re doing.” I pulled up a plastic chair next to her bed, turned it around, and sat down. “Because you’re my business partner, of course. I need to know when you’ll be back at work, to look at costs and business stuff.”
The tension from her face disappeared and she turned and looked at me. She was going to be in pain once the drugs wore off, that was obvious. “Doctor Wright says I should be out of here in a few days. There’s nothing broken, but he wants to monitor the concussion. They’ve just wheeled me back from an x-ray to look for cracks in my skull, but they think I’ll be ok. Results will come in early tomorrow.” She drew a long breath. “I took a big blow to the back of the head and if it doesn’t go down, they might have to cut me open to relieve some of the swelling.” She pointed to the area at the base of her skull. “I can feel the swelling, and I’m barely able to swallow without pain. And I sure don’t want to look in a mirror right now.”
“You’ve never been prettier.”
“Always the charmer,” she scoffed, and then grimaced in pain. “The doctors think there’s some swelling on the brain, so if it gets any worse, they’l
l have to whisk me off to surgery, but right now, it’s just wait and see. They said there shouldn’t be any long-term effects. And I’m in good hands here.”
“If it’s swollen, then at least you’ve got a bigger brain.”
She laughed, but then grimaced again, bending forward. She paused for a moment, before resting her hand on the back of her head. “I didn’t see him, Jack. I was walking to my car, and the next thing I know, I’m on the ground. I didn’t even have a chance. I was cautious, but I didn’t see anybody around the parking lot.”
I could see a tear in her eye. “It’s ok. We don’t have to talk about it.” I reassured her. “When you’re ready.”
“No, I’m ready to talk about it now. It’s better to talk about it when it’s fresh.”
I nodded my response.
“I was hit from behind. I didn’t hear him coming, and suddenly I was on the ground. He must’ve hit me with a bat, because it was harder than a fist. I hit the ground, turned over, and I saw this guy in a face mask and ski goggles. The mask covered his face up to his ski goggles. He also had a hood on. I didn’t see any distinguishable features. Not one.” She touched her swollen lip. “I think he was surprised that I was still conscious. He went to hit me again, but I rolled out of the way, and then lunged up at him. I got one good punch, a left hook straight on his jaw, and he dropped like a sack of potatoes.” She paused for a long moment. “So, I stood up, ready to kick the life out of him, but then I started to feel dizzy, and I leaned against the car, but my vision was going black. That’s when I saw him crawl away.”
“He crawled away?”
“That’s what I saw, but then I blacked out. I must’ve fallen pretty hard. Next thing I remember was waking up in the hospital with doctors and nurses talking to me. They said that you brought me in. They said that you carried me into the emergency ward.”
“Like a little baby.” I smiled.
“Thanks.” She shook her head. “A few of the nurses were impressed. They’ve already asked about you. They want your phone number.”
“I called the ambulance, but they said they were twenty-five minutes away. I could get you to the hospital quicker than that, so I threw you in the back of the truck, and raced to the emergency ward. Got out, picked you up, and carried you in here, leaving a trail of blood behind us.”
She touched her head again. “Thanks, Jack.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“No, really,” she looked at me, reached out, and gripped my hand. “Thank you.”
“All good.” I looked away, trying to avoid being drawn into any state of emotion. “Is your sister still here?”
“She’s downstairs buying some lunch. She said she’ll stay as long as I need. She’s got my back. You don’t need to stay and worry about me. I’d rather that you were out there trying to find this guy.”
“I’ll stay as long as you need too,” I said. “Are you sure it was a guy?”
“I think so. It wasn’t Jenny Carpenter; I can tell you that. The person was too tall, and too strong to be her.”
I nodded. “Is there anything that you can tell me about the attacker? Anything at all?”
“Just his size. He was between five-seven and five-eleven, solid but not muscular, and not skinny.”
“Could be half the men in Chicago.”
“It matches Wilkerson and DiMarco’s description.”
“It’s not Wilkerson.”
“How do you know that?”
“I had a chat with him this morning. He was at work all night and even if he wasn’t, he looked like he couldn’t harm a fly. I’ve crossed him off the list.” I looked around the room. It was all there—the beeping noises, the filtered light, the sounds of people crying in the hallway outside. It was like nothing had changed in three decades.
“I’m sorry, Jack. I wish I saw more.”
“Don’t apologize,” I said. I squeezed her hand. “It’s not your fault.”
A silence fell over us as we listened to the television. Casey flicked through five channels, but she was right—there was nothing on.
“Jack.” She turned off the television and then shifted her head to look at me. She grimaced as she did.
“Yeah?”
“Get out of here. Go and get that prick before he gets to someone else.”
Chapter 26
North Michigan Avenue was busy as the time approached rush hour. The wide sidewalks were packed with workers making their way out of office life and into the after-hours where they could express themselves more freely. Tourists stopped to take photos of the towering skyscrapers, couples walked arm in arm, and children held tightly onto their parent’s hands in the rush. The traffic crawled at a snail’s pace, the cars packed with people, and the noise of angry car horns rung out. A rush of pedestrians stepped onto the street as the lights changed, and the smells of the nearby food carts were wafting along the evening air. Standing next to a pillar, eating a sub-par hotdog, I watched the people come and go from the building that housed the Washington and Daley Law Firm.
As I finished the cold hotdog in five bites, I spotted the black Chevy SUV pull into a parking space further down the road. Walking quickly, moving amongst the crowd, I saw Kenneth Daley step out of the building, briefcase in hand. I needed to talk with him. I moved quickly. He entered the backseat of the SUV, but as the door was about to close, I reached out and gripped it.
“Jack.” Daley called in surprise when the door didn’t close. “Is there a problem?”
“There’s a big problem.” I swung the door open. “You and I need to talk.”
Daley hung his head out the door, looked up and down the sidewalk, and then opened the door further. “Hop in, Jack. We can talk in here.”
I folded my large frame into the SUV and slumped onto the cream-colored leather backseat. Daley moved across to the other side, allowing me enough room to spread out. He leaned forward and asked the driver to wait outside the car.
When the driver hopped out, Daley turned back to me. “He’s our company driver. He’ll be able to wait here for a few minutes without a problem. What’s the desperate turn of events that you need to talk about?”
“The partner in my firm, Casey May, was attacked in the parking lot near my office last night.”
“Is she ok?”
I nodded my response and held my gaze on Daley.
“And you think it’s related to your investigation into Waltz’s death?”
I nodded again.
“Are you sure?”
“One hundred percent.”
Daley took a moment, clenched his fist, and then looked out the window. I could almost see the problems work through his head.
“And that means that I was right, doesn’t it? Someone is doing this. Someone wants you to stop investigating this case. And this proves that Waltz didn’t kill himself.” He bit his lip. “And if the killer has figured out that you’re investigating them, they’d want to know who employed you to do so…” The thought shocked him, and he turned around to look out the back window of the vehicle, his eyes searching up and down the street. “Which means they’re close to finding out I paid you to do it. Are you being followed? Is that why you’re here? To warn me?”
“As the person who employed me, you’re a target.”
The breath caught in his throat and he turned back to me. “That’s a problem, Jack.”
“It’s a problem for all of us,” I agreed. “The man attacked Casey from behind and she didn’t get a look at him. We’re close to finding the killer, and they know we’re close.”
“What about Larry Fittler? I heard about him this morning. Is he… was he connected to this?”
“We think so.”
His fist gripped again. He punched the door lightly. “Larry Fittler wasn’t a good man. He double-crossed so many people that I was sure he did it for fun. He had more enemies than a country at war. But he was still a colleague. He was still another lawyer. He was still someone I knew well. If
he was killed, like you say, then… then there’s a serial killer out there. And I’m… well, I’m on their list, aren’t I? This is my field. I defend sexual assault cases.” He turned to look at me. “Do you think I need protection?”
“For now, yes.”
“I’ve got some people I can call.” He looked out the window. “Have you told the police? Or at least hinted that there might be a serial killer out there?”
“I’ve talked to my contacts in the PD.”
“And what are the police doing about it?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” There was desperation in Daley’s voice. “Have you presented the evidence to them? There’s a serial killer out there, Jack. That’s police business. This is bigger than our investigation into Waltz’s death. This is a matter for the cops now.”
“They’re not going to do anything without solid evidence. All they currently have is a group of defense lawyers who officially have committed suicide. Larry Fittler’s death will also be written up as a suicide. All the evidence we have is circumstantial. We can’t prove anything, yet.”
I stared at Daley for a long moment. I was testing him, leaving the silence in the air, building the pressure. Even the bravest of souls can break under the hefty weight of silence. If he was involved in any way, I’d see it now. But staring at Daley, sweat starting to build on his brow, knee nervously bouncing up and down, all I saw was fear.
“And who do you think it is?” he whispered. “Who do you think is killing these guys?”
“Jonathon DiMarco.” My voice was firm.
“What? DiMarco? That crazy son-of-a-gun? Are you sure?”
I nodded again.
“What makes you think it’s him?”
“All roads are leading to him. If he makes a comment about a defense lawyer on his website, Death to All Lawyers, then within a week, the lawyer has shot himself in the throat. Clarke Hudson, Jeffery Stone, Anthony Waltz, and now, Larry Fittler, have all died with a gunshot wound to the throat. A second bullet was found in the wall at each crime scene. Jonathon DiMarco is a dangerous man with the connections to have these crime scenes reported however he likes.”
The Shooter Page 15
