The Shooter

by Peter O'Mahoney

  Now, I realized that the man with the sword was defeating the birds. There were also dead birds on the ground around the hero.

  And they weren’t just birds—they were vultures.

  Chapter 29

  In a daze, I stood next to my truck on the sidewalk outside of Anthony Waltz’s apartment building, The Five-Five. All glitz and glamour. A statement of what hard work, luck, and privilege could achieve. A homeless man sat on the sidewalk, at the far corner of the building, his hat out and his head down, a contrast to the building in front of me. His handwritten sign, scrawled on an old piece of cardboard, said he was a veteran, and he was looking for work. The homeless man served as a contrast to the wealth before me. How could he sleep on the street when there was such excess for these people? The excess of wealth was something I never understood. I threw a twenty-dollar bill into his hat, patted him on the shoulder, and sat next to him, bringing my large frame down to the concrete sidewalk.

  “You around here much?” I asked.

  “A bit. It’s a good spot here with people passing.” His speech was stammered. “Get a few good tips. Enough to eat a Potbelly sub some days. They’re my favorite.”

  “I bet the residents of that building toss a few bills your way. That must help.”

  “The residents?” He turned, coughed, and then spat on the ground. “They don’t help out in any way. They’re the worst with all that flashy money—why do they deserve it more than me? I worked hard. I fought for our country. I risked my life for their freedom. And what do they give me? Nothing. Just cold nasty stares. Pricks.”

  “Right.” I nodded. “So, I guess the security guard has asked you to move along a few times? Not a good look for the building, I suppose.”

  “Only the day security guard. He’s the worst. He kicked me last week. Solid boot right into my ribs, but the night security guard is a good guy. He’s a young kid, but a big guy with anger issues. You can see him simmering most of the time, but he’s been nice to me. He even brings me some food if he can. Says he likes looking after the little guy.”

  “You’ve seen the night security guard angry?”

  “Yeah, just once, but I wouldn’t want to see it again. He was talking to me, about midnight, and some drunken idiot yells at him. The guy was all dressed up with a rich watch and a nice suit. The guard told him to move along, but the guy didn’t listen, and he came over and pushed the guard. Well, that was it. The anger exploded out of him and he slammed the rich guy into the ground. Lots of blood.” The homeless man smiled. “Cops came and asked me about it the next day. I said it was self-defense, and the guard didn’t have anything to answer for.”

  It was all starting to fall into place. I thanked the man for his time, wished him well, and then walked back towards my truck. A parking enforcement officer approached, studying my parking job on the edge of the sidewalk. I looked at my watch, almost 7:30pm, and wondered why he was still working this late. I walked towards the officer and stood in his personal space, towering over him. He went to say something, but I stared at him and shook my head. He turned and continued walking, checking the next car.

  Leaning against my truck, I removed my phone and called Casey. “Casey, I need your help with some information. You up to it?”

  “I can’t leave the hospital yet, but if it’s information you need, then I’m up to it. I’ve got access to my laptop and I can hook it up to the hospital’s Wi-Fi.”

  “I need Robbie McAdams’ address.”

  “Robbie McAdams?” Casey answered. “Why do you need his address?”

  “He quit his job this morning. Didn’t even give the owner five minutes’ notice.” I looked up to the penthouse floor of the Five-Five. “And get this—all those pictures that he drew on the walls, all those pencil drawings, they were of a man fighting vultures.”

  “Vultures?” Casey questioned. “Which is what DiMarco called the lawyers.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You think Robbie’s a suspect? What’s his motive? Why would he be on a vindictive quest against lawyers?” Casey asked. “Wait. He said his stepfather was a lawyer. Maybe there’s a link?”

  “Look into it.” I said. “But I need to find him first. Before he left, Robbie wiped all the video files, and blocked the access to all the old security cameras. The security manager couldn’t even open Robbie’s employment file.”

  “Give me five minutes.”

  Casey ended the call. Even though she was still in the hospital, I could count on her skills. I looked up and down the street, leaning against the door of my truck. People stared at my parking job, but I ignored them. I saw a police car turn into the street, a block away, but it was stuck in slow moving traffic. No doubt that little parking enforcement officer called them. I walked around my truck, opened the door, and started the engine, rolling down the street into the backed up traffic.

  Casey located the information. Within five minutes, she called me back with his address. “Robbie lives on South Miller St, in a basement apartment in Pilsen. I’ll send you the address via text, but I can tell you right now that it doesn’t look classy. It’d be a cheap address.”

  “I’m going to pay a visit to Robbie.” I hung up the phone and dropped my beast back a gear, screeching through the street, listening to braking cars behind me. The cops were a block back, stuck in traffic, and even with sirens, they weren’t going to bother me.

  I took the turn off to the underground network of roads under Downtown. Most people knew about Lower Wacker Drive, the network of roads under the city made famous by Hollywood movies such as the Blues Brothers or The Dark Knight, but I wanted to go down one level more. Lower Lower Wacker drive was an underground catacomb of concrete pillars and was barely used by the residents of Chicago. It was mostly used for deliveries and garbage trucks servicing the skyscrapers above, but for those in the know, it was also a way to avoid the bottlenecks of traffic. I raced through the empty streets, past the homeless camps, drug dens, and the impound lot, before roaring back onto the streets above. By the time I’d reemerged, I’d avoided twenty-five minutes of traffic in a matter of minutes.

  When I was halfway to the destination in Pilsen, my phone rang again. It was Casey. “What else have you got?”

  “We never looked at Robbie. Of all the people we investigated, we never looked at Robbie.” Casey sounded exasperated. “I’m looking at his social media profiles now. He’s put a few posts up about his father. It looks like his biological father died when he was young… and you’re not going to like this—his lawyer stepdad was accused of sexual abuse, at least that’s what he posted about five years ago.”

  “Of whom?”

  “I haven’t got that information yet, but what I can find at the moment, says that the stepdad escaped any charges.” Casey said. “He posted that his stepdad was charged with sexual abuse, but the prosecution lost the case in court. I’m trying to find more information about this now.”

  “That’s what must’ve triggered Robbie.” I tapped my finger against the steering wheel as I waited at a set of traffic lights. “That’s what must’ve driven his hatred for defense lawyers.”

  “And when Jonathon DiMarco came along, he added the fuel to the fire.” Casey said. “Wait. Robbie said that he ran a number of websites. You don’t think he runs D-TAL?”

  “Is there a way to check?”

  Casey went silent as she typed furiously on her keyboard. I could hear the keys tapping at a fast rhythm. “I can’t access the name of who registered the website domain name… it’s been suppressed. You’ve got to pay for a website domain name to be suppressed. Wait. I’ve got a forwarding address for the website. Oh.”

  “What is it?”

  “The address the owner has listed for the website is South Miller St, Pilsen.”

  “Robbie’s address.” I grunted. “How did we not see that?”

  “I looked, but the owner’s name was suppressed.” Casey said. “How are you going to play this, Jack? Are you going to g
o in guns blazing?”

  “Robbie’s clever. A lot smarter than we gave him credit for.” I roared the engine to life when the lights turned green. I gripped the door of the truck, screeching around another corner. “But I still don’t have any evidence. I need him to trip up with something.” The thoughts rolled around in my head. “I’ll talk to him and I’ll have my phone recording. If he’s going to say anything, we’ll have it recorded to the cloud.”

  “Jack, you should wait,” Casey pleaded. “Give the information to Detective Williams. Let them chase Robbie. This guy is a serial killer. You have to wait. Don’t go in there alone.”

  “No chance.” I sped around another corner.

  “At least wait for me,” Casey complained. “I’m fine now. I can help.”

  “No way. You need to rest,” I said. “And Williams already said that he wasn’t going to touch it. If I’m going to nail this killer, I need to do it myself. I need Robbie to confess.”

  Chapter 30

  I parked on South Miller St, five doors down from the apartment, next to a sedan I’d seen in the Five-Five’s parking lot a few days earlier. It had to be Robbie’s old red Chevy sedan. The beaten-up car was the only one in the parking lot of the Five-Five older than a few years. I checked in the windows. There was nothing of note—an old sweater, a McDonald’s wrapper, and a well-used football. I looked up and down the street and then checked the doors. They were locked.

  The streetlights provided small patches of brightness outside a row of Chicago Two-Flat townhouses. Almost twenty-five percent of Chicago’s housing, ‘Two-Flats’ were a Chicago-style townhouse, comprised of three stories—a unit on each floor and a basement—with bay windows facing the street through a facade of brick or Indiana greystone. The row of houses was detached, and the pride that some people took in them was obvious. They each had their own personality—some had children’s bikes in the front yard, others had rows of flowers, and some had the American Flag hanging out front. Robbie’s townhouse was the worst on the street—an overgrown yard, a wire fence that was falling apart, and a paint job that was fifteen years past its use-by date.

  I was going to play it dumb with Robbie, feed into his ego, and let him think that I was still going after DiMarco. That was the plan, at least.

  I turned on the recording device on my phone, relaying the recordings directly to the cloud, and found the stairs that led down to the basement door, treading carefully as there seemed to be a broken globe in the porch light. There were weeds on the stairs, an empty beer can next to the door, and mold growing underneath the window next to the entrance. It was dark, but I think that was the way Robbie preferred it. I knocked on the door and then heard heavy footsteps making their way towards me. The door opened wide, and Robbie was standing there, dressed in jeans and an old Bears jersey.

  “Jack Valentine?” he questioned. “How did you find my address?”

  “Come on, Robbie, I’m an investigator. I’ve got the know-how to find anyone.” I opened my hands wide and laughed. Robbie smiled. That was good. “I need your help. I think we’re close with Jonathon DiMarco and I need your expertise.”

  “DiMarco?” he questioned.

  “You know how you said you wanted some experience in investigation? Well, this is your chance to be involved. Get into the exciting world of hunting down a murderer. I’ll tell you what I’ve got, and you can decide if you want to help.” I bluffed. “DiMarco is our guy. Through and through. And I’m going to go hard after him. I only have one chance to nail DiMarco, and I want everything to be lined up and running smoothly. So, I was wondering if you could help me nail him. I need your security skills. I won’t keep you long, I know you’ve got the late shift later tonight.” I lied.

  “So, you don’t think Anthony Waltz committed suicide?”

  “That’s what I think, but I can’t prove anything yet. I need evidence and that’s why I need your help. Now, are you going to invite me in or tell me to go away?”

  Robbie nodded. The bluff seemed to have worked. “Come in.”

  He opened the door, but there wasn’t enough room in the narrow hallway for me to move past him, so he walked deeper into the apartment. I ducked my head slightly as I stepped through the doorway, closing the door behind me. He led me past a small, yellow kitchen and past a second door that was closed, and then into the den, motioning for me to take a seat on the worn, red sofa. I took him up on the offer. The dark brick walls were covered by five framed pictures of superheroes, the furniture looked older than me, and the small bookshelf had piles of comics stacked on-top of each other. There was a damp smell in the air, and I wasn’t sure if the small basement apartment received any natural light at all.

  “Sorry if I disturbed you,” I said. “But it’s important.”

  “Not at all. I was up... getting ready for my shift later tonight. I’ve got a later start than usual.” He lied. “Did you want a coffee?”

  “That’d be great.”

  Robbie didn’t move as he tried to process what he should, or shouldn’t, say to me. I looked to the pictures on the walls as he stood there, bewildered. “Some of these drawings are completely awesome. I mean, I know the regular superheroes, but some of these I’ve never seen before.” I complimented Robbie and he smiled, embarrassed.

  “Yeah, you wouldn’t have seen them before because they’re mine. You know, I created them.” I noticed his shoulders relaxed and a calmness washed over his face. “I love drawing heroes with an edge. The world’s not black and white, and that’s what I want to say in these pictures. A lot of superheroes are so good and righteous, they’re so holy, but that’s not the real world. The real world is a lot more complicated than just good and bad.”

  “So true.” I was genuinely impressed by the pictures. I looked closer at a large framed picture of a figure dressed entirely in dark blue Spandex with black and gold accents, the letters ‘DOA’ emblazoned across his chest. He had an assortment of weapons on his utility belt and his face was twisted in rage, fighting off a vulture using a gold shield to protect himself, and standing in front of a distressed young child. “Cool name—Dead on Arrival. And the artistic talent that’s gone into it is incredible.”

  “Thanks.” Robbie half smiled and looked away. The tension was back. “What can I help you with, Jack?”

  “I’d like you to have a quick look at some photos and let us know if any of these men had been hanging around or asking about Waltz in the weeks before his death.”

  Robbie nodded and moved next to me on the sofa. I removed my phone and pulled up a picture of Wilkerson’s social media profile. Wilkerson was looking straight into the camera, serious, dressed in his police uniform. I held it out for Robbie to look at, but he shook his head.

  “Nope, sorry, Jack. Never seen him before. Who is he?”

  “A friend of Jonathon DiMarco’s. Tell me, have you ever heard of Jenny Carpenter?”

  “Jenny Carpenter?” Robbie pondered the name for a few moments. “Nope, doesn’t ring any bells. Never heard of her.”

  “Ok, no worries. If you could look at the second picture.” I held up a picture of Jonathon DiMarco and Robbie narrowed his eyes.

  “Of course I’ve seen Jonathon DiMarco.” He mocked. “Anyone who’s picked up a newspaper or switched on the news knows him. And actually, now that you mention it… Maybe I did see him hanging around a few times in the weeks before the murder.” He paused for a moment. “Do you really think that he killed Anthony Waltz?”

  “I do, but right now, I don’t have the evidence to prove it. Can you remember any details about when you saw him, like the day, or the time, or what he was doing?”

  Robbie closed his eyes, thinking hard, but he shook his head again. “I’m really sorry, there’s been so much happening in the last few weeks. It feels like it’s just a blur. But I’m sure he’s been around.”

  “That’s fine, it’s understandable. Must be hard to see something like that. And I’m wondering if you could clear somethi
ng up really quickly for me.” I was watching Robbie’s face, looking for a tell, a twitch, anything unusual. He simply nodded. “When I reviewed the security footage from the nearby street, I noticed you having coffee, at Professor Coffee, about 9:30pm the night before Waltz was killed.” I opened my photos and selected a picture. I zoomed in on the exit to Professor Coffee as Robbie was stepping out. “Can you talk me through who this guy is you were with?”

  Robbie looked genuinely confused for a moment and then leaned in closer. “You accessed the cameras down the street?”

  “Of course. It’s part of standard procedure for an investigator to look at all available angles.”

  Robbie bit his bottom lip before looking at me again. “I have no idea who he is. I mean, I was there grabbing a coffee to get me going for my night shift and I see this guy talking to Jonathan DiMarco. When DiMarco leaves, the guy seems real shaken up, so I went to see if he was alright.” Robbie sat up taller, running his hand through his hair. “I just, you know, like to help people.”

  “And was he? Alright, I mean?” I asked.

  “Well, he seemed pissed off. But I figured DiMarco had a habit of doing that. Anyway, he seemed ok. But then the guy started asking all these questions about where I worked and did I know where Anthony Waltz lived. It was pretty weird. I’m surprised I didn’t think about it actually until just now. Actually, now you mention it, the guy looks like the picture you just showed me of the cop.” He started nodding, as though the memory was coming back fully. “But I didn’t tell him anything. I told him I had to go and start my shift. And that was it really.”

  He shrugged his shoulders, tiredness etched across his face. He stared across the room, not at anything in particular, trying to gather his thoughts. I looked around the room and noticed that the back door, leading from the back of the living room, was slightly open. There was a cool draft blowing through.