Doctors couldn’t help me, but an old friend sure could. I called Williams, and he agreed to meet at the bar just after lunch. After a burger and two Jack Daniels, my headache finally began to ease.
“So, what happened?” Williams sat on the stool next to me. “Who was stupid enough to attack you? I’d hate to see where he is now.”
“I have no idea who it was. I didn’t even get to see their face. I was attacked from behind last night, around midnight, just after I left the office.”
“Friday night? Could’ve been anyone. Although, I can’t imagine a drunk guy coming after someone your size. When you see drunken attacks, they usually go after a smaller guy. They usually pick out an easier target.”
“I was hit from behind, and there was nobody else on the street when I sprang back to my feet. I saw a shadow jump over a fence, and I’m sure that’s the person that hit me. It happened in my parking lot, so they had to be hiding in the shadows and watching me. I didn’t see anyone on the street as I walked to my truck, and I only heard them at the last second, just before they hit me.”
“What makes you think they targeted you?”
I reached into my pocket and placed the folded piece of paper on the counter. “They left this note on my truck.”
Williams raised his eyebrows in surprise. He signaled to the bartender and ordered a Miller Lite. The dive bar was quiet for lunchtime on a Saturday, although it would soon be full of the workers from across the road once they finished their day on the construction site.
Williams reached forward, unfolded the note and read it. “‘Keep digging into this case, and you’ll start digging your own grave?’ Is that it? Is that all they left?”
I nodded my response.
“What have you gotten yourself into, Jack?” He looked at me with concern. “What are you digging into?”
“I’m investigating a possible serial killer roaming the streets of Chicago.” I sipped my Jack Daniels. “And it appears I’ve gotten very close.”
Williams cautiously pulled back. We’d been school buddies, although we drifted apart over the years. He called me after I lost my wife in a school shooting, and kept calling to check on me. I appreciated that. When his wife died a year ago in a motor vehicle accident, I made sure I returned the goodwill. I was there for him, even when he said he was fine. I just sat and watched baseball with him, barely a word spoken between us. But we didn’t need words. They would come in time. And sure enough, after a few wordless games, Williams opened up about the pain of losing his wife. Emotions aren’t my strong point, but I knew that pain well.
After dealing with the initial, and overwhelming grief, Williams did the same as I did—he threw himself into work. It was the only way to deal with the throbbing agony. Over the past few months, we’d met at this bar many times for a drink, a chat, and a laugh. Helping him had helped me.
“A serial killer.” He whistled, and then paused and sipped his beer. “Why hasn’t it been picked up by the PD? Why are you the first person to identify this?”
“Because the deaths have been reported as suicides.” I turned to him. “The victims are all lawyers who defended accused rapists. And they got them off.”
“How many deaths?”
“At this point, we’ve identified three.”
“Anything else that connects them?”
“Every death has the same MO. One week after a lawyer walks an accused rapist out of prison, they shoot themselves in the neck. But here’s the kicker—every scene has a second bullet in the wall nearby. I’m sure you know the old mob trick—shoot the guy, put the gun in his dead hand, and fire a second shot to leave the gun residue on his fingers. That’s what we’ve got so far.”
Williams didn’t respond. He stared at his drink, rolling it around on the table, before he looked around the bar. Apart from a lonely drinker near the entrance, we were the only ones there.
“So far, it’s only three but it could be more.” I paused for a long moment. “The dead lawyers are Anthony Waltz, Jeffery Stone, and Clarke Hudson.”
“I know those names. I can’t say that anyone in the department was upset when they all killed themselves. These defense lawyers go after our cops. They tear apart every bit of work that we do. If we don’t dot an i, or cross a t, then the good defense lawyers can get a case thrown out. You won’t find a lot of cops with sympathy for how these guys died. And Anthony Waltz? He walked David Chesterfield out of that courtroom on a technicality. Are you kidding me? The whole city knew that Chesterfield was guilty, and he walked out untouched. That’s a disaster, not only for the victim, but it was a PR disaster for the whole criminal justice system. The cops who had Waltz’s case probably cheered after they identified the body. Even if they thought it was murder, I’m sure it would go unsolved.”
“There’s one guy that fits the profile to be the next victim, and I talked to him, but he didn’t seem too convinced. He needs protection.”
“Name?”
“Larry Fittler.”
“Oh.” Williams scoffed. “I know him. Lawyer who’s only in it for the money. He’s not a popular guy around the department either. He takes great joy in tearing police apart on the stand. He’s even tried to tear me apart once. You’ll struggle to find a cop who’d be willing to protect him.” Williams shook his head a number of times before taking another sip of his beer. We sat in silence for a few long moments before he conceded. “Alright, Jack. I’ll play your game. Who are your suspects?”
“I need you to do some digging around about Jonathon DiMarco and a small-town cop named Matthew Wilkerson.”
“Jonathon DiMarco?” He almost spat out his drink. “He’s connected, Jack. Big time. I won’t be able to dig around about him without setting off alarm bells. He’s still connected to a lot of people in the PD. He’s a former police captain, Jack. He’s possibly the last guy you want to go after.”
“Just because he’s connected, doesn’t mean he should get away with murder.”
“You think there’s a former cop out there killing defense lawyers? Come on. And sure, he’s aggressive, but a killer? I don’t know. Even if you were right, you can’t go after someone like this unless you’ve got a mountain of evidence.”
“I know,” I pointed to my eye. “And that’s why I need you to do it quietly. I need to know if he’s connected to anyone that investigated the deaths of the lawyers.”
“I can’t do that, Jack.” He sipped his Miller Lite again. “As soon as I go near these deaths, people will start asking questions. And DiMarco? Hell, I’d be lucky to say his name without people turning around. He’s a hero to some of the force. He goes after these defense lawyers in the media; you know? These lawyers make our guys look like fools on the stand and DiMarco is seen as balancing the ledger for us.”
“DiMarco and the small-town cop were outside Anthony Waltz’s apartment only hours before he was found dead.”
“That could be a coincidence.” Williams sighed. “What angle are you taking?”
“I’m going to spend the next few days talking to lawyers, seeing if I can get the inside scoop on any connection to DiMarco.” I stretched my arms and legs wide. “But I need someone in the department to tell me if DiMarco could cover up these killings.”
“All you’ve got is a theory, Jack. That’s all it is. You haven’t given me any evidence. The department isn’t going to use resources to protect a defense lawyer based on a theory. I need evidence, Jack, not theories.”
“And you don’t think this is enough evidence?” I pointed to the note. “We’re close but I need your help.”
“I need more than that, Jack. We can’t go chasing ghosts. My case load is unmanageable already.”
The first of the construction workers began to walk into the bar. They were loud and boisterous, happy their work was finished for the week. The bartender turned up the Cubs game on the television, and the five men that walked in brought the bar to life.
“Do you need to make an official repo
rt about your attacker? Come down to the station and fill out a form. Maybe I can rustle up some of the younger guys to look into this for you.”
“No use,” I shook my head.
“I thought so.” Williams sighed. He knocked back the last of his beer and then leaned close to me. “Alright. I’ll sniff around DiMarco and see what I can find without raising suspicion. But be careful, Jack. I think the note is right—you’re digging into dangerous territory. And I would say that this attack is only just the start.”
Chapter 14
I hated this walk.
The grass was green, the sun was shining, and the air was fresh, but I’d rather be anywhere else. Walking the path through the cemetery put all the emotions—the love, the anguish, and the pain—into focus. For so long, I’d tried to bury them at the back of my mind. I had spent much of the past few years trying to squash those emotions, and avoid them at all costs, but here, in this cemetery, I couldn’t escape them.
The sweat built under my jacket, my legs felt weak, and my hands were shaking. It was hot in the sun but cool in the shade. The breeze blew gently. The smells of spring were beginning to shine through. Flowers were starting to bloom, the deciduous trees were beginning to regain their leaves after a long winter, and vines were spreading at a rapid rate.
I stopped at the end of a row of headstones. Lot E. Row twenty-five. Alicia was the first name, Melanie the second, Fredrick, at only fifteen years old, was next. I knew their headstones, but I didn’t know how they met their ends. I didn’t know their families, I didn’t know their past, and I didn’t know their work. But in death, I knew their headstones. They were remembered here.
There was a figure waiting at the end of the row, standing over my Claire’s headstone. I hadn’t seen him in a while, but I expected him to be here for his sister. I was never close with my wife’s family, as they thought I was too much of a thug for her. Claire’s mother told me as much on our wedding day.
Claire was taken from me much too soon. She was shot protecting the children in her classroom. When they found her, her body was sheltering the little ones from harm. One kid was only five years old, and they had already lived through such a traumatic event. This wasn’t wartime, this wasn’t a third world country, but that terror still happened to far too many children.
“Hello Ben,” I said as I approached Claire’s headstone. “Nice flowers. Purple was her favorite.”
“For her birthday.” Ben said and held out his hand. “She always loved the color purple. It’s good to see you, Jack.”
I shook his hand firmly and then turned to Claire’s grave. I said a quiet prayer, made the sign of the cross, and then blew her a kiss. I’d never been a religious man, but part of me, a big part of me, wished there to be an afterlife. I wanted there to be a chance that she was looking down from above, smiling as she watched me work through life. Occasionally, I felt her presence. I was sure of it. It was like a warm breath of air drifting through the atmosphere, a gentle touch filled with love.
A month ago, while I was driving to Minnesota for part of an investigation, I saw the most vivid sunset I’d ever laid my eyes on. The raging red sky was as dramatic as it was overwhelming. I pulled the truck over at a park, walked a few steps up a small grassy hill, and sat in silence. I watched that sunset in all its intense beauty, and it took my breath away. As I watched the sunset, I felt a presence next to me. It was warm, affectionate, and loving. I was sure it was Claire.
“How are you, Jack?” Ben broke the silence after a few minutes. “Another black eye?”
“I fell over,” I said. “How’s the family?”
“Good.”
“My niece, Alannah?”
“She’s good. Growing tall.”
“Mary?”
“She’s ok.”
“Your mother?”
“On her last legs. In hospital care. You should go and see her.”
“When I get the chance, I’ll go and say hello.”
“She’d appreciate that, even if she’ll tell you the opposite.”
“And how are you?”
“Getting better.” He shrugged. “I’m seeing a shrink now. He’s helping me through some issues that I need to work through. Maybe you should see one as well?”
“Nobody deserves to listen to these problems.” I smiled. “I’d break the poor soul that tried to listen to that.”
“That’s true,” Ben said. “I heard a story once that there was a man found brutally beaten and robbed on the street. He was barely alive. The person that found him was a psychologist and the first thing he said was, ‘Oh no, whoever attacked this man really needs help!’”
I laughed heartily. “Well, do you know how many psychologists it takes to change a light bulb? It’s just one. All he has to do is hold it in place while the world revolves around him.
We both laughed and then a pause lingered between us.
“I heard that Hugh Guthrie got out of prison.” Ben brought down the good mood. “I heard that he paid a lot of money for one of the top lawyers in the country and brought him in to overturn the guilty verdict. That’s not right, Jack. You shouldn’t be able to buy your way out of prison.”
Hugh Guthrie had been responsible for giving the gun to the school shooter, Alexander Logan. Guthrie encouraged the boy to go on a rampage, so that he could film the result for a documentary. The documentary won awards for Guthrie, but when it was revealed that he provided the gun, those awards were taken away, along with ruining Guthrie’s reputation. He later murdered a fellow newscaster in a rage, but Guthrie hired a powerful defense attorney and walked out of prison after only a few months.
“Slimy scumbag,” I mumbled through a clenched jaw. “He killed Brian Gates. He said it straight to my face. I testified in court. He deserved to die in prison.”
“They’ll get another chance to take him out,” Ben said. “Arrogant guys like that don’t stay clean for long. He’ll make another mistake, and they’ll nail him for it.” Ben patted me on the shoulder, and then turned and kissed the top of the headstone. He paused for a moment, before he turned back to me. “I’ve got to get to work, Jack, but it’s good to see you. You should come around for a beer some time. Watch some football.”
I nodded in response to the token offer. I wasn’t going to take him up on it, and he knew that, but it was part of the routine that we had. I waited until Ben had walked down the pathway before I turned back to my Claire.
Then, we talked. I told Claire about my latest investigation, about my apartment, about how I knew she was there for the sunset. I told her about the songs I’d been listening to, about the current news, about the latest political dramas. I told her the Cubs had a winning record, about how the Bears had a chance next season, and how the Bulls were shaping up. I loved talking to Claire, imagining that she was there, still with that cheeky grin on her face. We talked about Casey, and how much help she’d been to my current case. Claire would’ve liked Casey. I was sure of that.
After an hour of talking, I quietly sung her happy birthday, wiped the tears from my eyes, and said goodbye. Goodbyes were the worst. I was always terrible at them.
Walking back to my truck, my thoughts drifted to the memories I had of my wife. As time ticked by, now almost five years, the memories were fading. I hated that. I hated that I was forgetting about the small moments. I hated that I was forgetting the smell of her perfume. I hated that I was forgetting about how she moved.
Forgetting about her, not having her fill my head every moment of every day, felt like I was betraying her memory.
But the thing I hated most of all, the thing that really got under my skin, was that I’d lost the chance to make new memories with her.
Chapter 15
It took two days for the black eye to go down. There was still a blue mark under the eye, but nothing that a touch of Casey’s make-up couldn’t fix. We’d spent a number of days gathering information on our suspects, but we couldn’t really build a bigger profile than t
he one we already had. We knew everything there was to know about DiMarco and Wilkerson—their daily habits, their favorite restaurants, their favorite bars, who their friends were, who they worked with, and who they hated. We knew their favorite colors, their favorite sweaters, and their daily movements. But none of that brought us closer to proving that Anthony Waltz was murdered.
The previous day, Casey had placed a tracker on DiMarco’s car. It was illegal, and I didn’t like it, but Casey didn’t mind bending the rules when it came to surveillance. The data showed that he hadn’t been near Fittler’s place.
Our next step was to talk to the people who knew the world that Waltz was involved in. The plan was for Casey to mingle with lawyers in the Gold Coast, heading to the bars where his associates were known to frequent, and I was going to work my way through his local haunts in the Downtown area. These weren’t the little dive bars that I was used to, these were classy bars for classy people. The types of bars where the drinks were expensive, the service was seamless, and where rich old men found themselves talking to pretty girls barely old enough to buy a drink.
I dressed in my best suit, the one that almost choked my neck, and did my best to blend in. If we were going to find the killer before he struck again, then I needed more information. Somebody, somewhere had to know something.
There were bars throughout the city known to be frequented by the best defense lawyers in town. I started in the best bars, ordered half-strength drinks, and targeted those sitting alone. Everyone was happy to chat once I told them I was a criminal defense attorney in town from New York, working a case for an Illinois based client. Talking to the disenfranchised men in the bars, I heard many stories of people on the edge. They all had their own stories of turmoil, of how close they’d come to pulling the trigger. No one questioned the bullet taken by Waltz, Hudson, or Stone. They’d all thought about it. Seventy-five-hour work weeks could do that to a person.
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