The Shooter

by Peter O'Mahoney

  Truth was, I hated hospitals. Always had. Ever since I watched cancer slowly eat away at my mother, I’ve hated any sort of medical center. The smell, the noise, the atmosphere—every time I walk into one, I’m taken back to those days as a five-year-old boy watching his beloved mother slowly have the life sucked from her. Despite her lack of strength, despite her frail arms, she always tried to hug me. The thought of those hugs still broke my heart, and those suppressed memories only ever appeared near a hospital.

  “How was she attacked?” As a career cop, a local detective, Derrick spent his life dedicated to serving his community. When retirement came, he didn’t know what to do with himself. But every time I talked about a case; I could still see the glint of excitement in his eyes.

  “She was attacked from behind in the parking lot. She left the office two hours before I did, and was hit from behind. When the person tried to grab her, she managed to turn and throw a left hook that connected, but then was hit in the face. That’s all she remembers before she passed out. There was a lot of blood in the parking lot and the cops are testing it to see if they can match the DNA to anyone other than Casey.”

  “My first questions would be whether you’re sure it’s connected to a case. Could it have been an attempted mugging, a random attack, or a sexual assault attempt against Casey?”

  I drew a long breath. “It’s definitely linked to a current investigation.”

  “No missing purse or money?”

  “Nope.”

  “Any sign that someone tried to take off her clothes?”

  “None of that.”

  “What does she remember?”

  “She was still out of it on drugs when I left the hospital. She couldn’t say much. The doctors don’t think that she’ll be coherent until this afternoon, so I can’t ask her any questions until then. She took a blow to the back of the head when she fell, and there was a lot of swelling. The doctors don’t think anything has been cracked, but she’s going to be in a lot of pain for a while. They talked about keeping her in the hospital for a few days to observe her, and make sure there’s no long-term effects.”

  Derrick nodded. He was used to the violence that this city had to offer. “So, what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. What can I do? There’s no surveillance footage at the parking lot, and there were no witnesses.” I grunted. “And if I can’t keep the people that work with me safe, what good am I? I’ve failed Casey. I should’ve been there to protect her. I shouldn’t have let her walk to the parking lot at night by herself. I should’ve been there.”

  “No, no, no.” Derrick’s throat wobbled as he shook his head. “You can’t think like that. You didn’t attack Casey. You didn’t assault her. From what you’ve told me about her, she’s a tough girl. She can handle herself. This could’ve happened to anyone. Nobody is ready to be attacked from behind at night. You can’t defend against that.” He rested a caring hand on my shoulder that said he knew my pain. “Your job isn’t to protect Casey. Your job, right now, is to find the guy that attacked her. You’ve got to think about what you can do to catch him. You’ve got to do that for Casey. That’s how you help her.”

  Derrick was still a cop at heart, and nobody could ever take that away from him. I guess I’d be the same at his age—once you’ve spent a life investigating, once you’ve spent a life solving crime, it’d be hard to let that passion go.

  “When I was a cop,” he continued, “one of my partners was attacked in his home, while his family slept upstairs. I wanted to tear Chicago apart looking for the attacker. So, I did. I went crazy and shook down all my contacts. I worked night and day for five nights straight, catching sleep in my car or in the office or catching a quick nap at home. That’s the only way I found the attacker. I didn’t give up and let the adrenaline fuel me. It ended up that the attacker was a man who’d been getting away with murder for five years. He’d killed five girls over that time, and we managed to nail him.” He looked at me. “That’s what you have to do, Jack. That’s the only option you have. Let the anger fuel you. Feel the rage. Let it all come out and don’t stop until you’ve found the answer.”

  Winston ran up to me, stick in his mouth, happily panting away. I took the stick, stood, and threw it into the distance. Winston looked so carefree, his golden hair highlighted by the soft morning sun. Sometimes I wish I could be that free. Free from all the pressures of trying to protect people. Free from all the stresses of being an investigator. Free from the pain of grief.

  “Listen to me, Jack.” Derrick grunted when I didn’t respond. “Go after the guy that you think did it. Force him to make a mistake. Put the pressure on him. That’s your job. That’s what you have to do. Take this person down.”

  “I’ve got multiple suspects, and they all could be working together.” I shook my head. “I don’t even know where to start.”

  “If you’ve got multiple suspects,” Derrick grunted again, “then you have to start with the weakest link.”

  Chapter 23

  The police station in Buffalo Grove was an outpost, a quiet place for suburban officers to trudge through their daily routines. The suburb was forty-five minutes north of Chicago, and one of the most educated, and least violent, suburbs in the country. Perhaps those two things went hand in hand. The streets of Buffalo Grove were the All-American dream—established trees lined the sidewalks, front yards were perfectly trimmed, and the homes were all large enough to house a television family sitcom.

  Matthew Wilkerson was one of fifteen people who worked the night shift at the Buffalo Grove police station, and the others were close to retirement. Casey had managed to build a hefty file on Wilkerson before she was attacked and it made for interesting reading—he barely graduated high school, barely passed the police entrance exams, and barely managed to hold onto his job. He’d injured his left shoulder in a routine traffic stop when he slipped and fell, and had been assigned to night desk duties for the past year.

  I assumed he was the weakest link. He’d avoided Casey’s calls, dodged all face-to-face interaction with us, and sent his distraught fiancé to confront us. According to the police reports available online, we found that he’d only ever arrested five people in his five years on the force, and they were all over the age of sixty-five.

  His pictures on social media looked soft—despite being in his mid-twenties, he still had childish chubby cheeks, soft skin, and a tubby waist. His hair was blonde, and it looked like he’d cut the style himself. From what we found in our research, Wilkerson was a man of routine. He clocked off at 9am every morning after the night shift, and traveled to his local Starbucks, before driving back to the Carpenter’s house, where he lived with his fiancé and her parents.

  Confronting a cop was a risky play, but I was running out of options.

  The police parking lot had five cars in it, and I watched as the day shift came in. The officers who arrived for the day shift were the strong type, older cops who approached their jobs with vigor, perhaps sometimes too much vigor. They appeared fit, well-groomed, and held themselves with pride. Wilkerson’s car was parked at the furthest corner of the lot, reserved for the youngest and most inexperienced officer. Behind the station was a golf course, which I was sure was handy for the more senior staffers, and tall bushes surrounded the parking lot. I parked on the street behind the shrubs. Breathing fog, I waited outside my truck in the cold morning air, rubbing my hands together to stay warm.

  The entrance to the police station was fifty feet away from Wilkerson’s car, and the lot only had one camera pointed towards it. The video camera that covered the lot had a blind spot, that was obvious the second I saw it. The camera was tucked away at the back of the stairs, behind a police van. The van was tall enough to leave a small window of opportunity to conduct a conversation outside the view of surveillance. To get to his car, a fifteen-year old white Honda sedan, Wilkerson would have to pass the van. If there was nobody else in the parking lot, that would be my opportunity.


  I planned to talk to Wilkerson, quietly, and if I even had an inkling that he had some involvement with the attack on Casey, then I would break him. But plans aren’t my strong suit, especially when emotions are involved.

  Waiting behind the bushes, I kept an eye on the back door to the station. As soon as I saw Wilkerson step out of the back door to the small police station, the rage bubbled inside me. My fists gripped together, my jaw clenched, and my vision focused. I checked the parking lot for anyone else, stepped through the bushes, and waited near the van.

  Wilkerson stepped around the back corner of the van, only a foot away from me, car keys in hand, and then froze. He was a short man, the top of his head barely reached my shoulders.

  “Ah.” His mouth hung open. “Can I help you?”

  I couldn’t help it. The rage became too much. I slammed him against the van with my right arm, and used my left arm to hold onto his wrist, preventing him from reaching for his gun.

  “You’re assaulting a police officer.” He mumbled as my forearm pressed onto his throat. He was struggling to speak. “You’re under… arrest.”

  “You think I care about that?” I snarled. “Where were you last night?”

  “I was…” He huffed. I could smell the fear on him. “I was on desk duty here.”

  “All night?”

  “Who are you?” he questioned. He tried to move his hand towards his weapon, but I held his wrist tight and pressed it against the van. I was much stronger, taller, and heavier than him, not that he provided much resistance. He tried to push against my hand, but it was no more than a slight shove.

  “If you call for help, I’ll break every bone in your body,” I growled. “Were you here all night?”

  “I’ve only just finished the shift.” He drew a deep breath, and looked to his right, but there was nobody to save him. “You can check the videos or reports. I was here from five o’clock last night, and I’ve only just finished my double-shift. Don’t kill me. Whatever it is, I didn’t do it.”

  I held my glare on him, but it was clear he was telling the truth. Then I smelled it. It was urine. I looked down. The kid had wet himself.

  “Man.” I let go of his collar. “Really? You’re a cop.”

  “I’m on desk duty.” He pleaded. “I don’t do the streets.”

  I stepped back from him. “Come on, kid. Do better than that.”

  “I’m going to report you.” He whispered, looking at the ground. “You’re going to prison for this.”

  “You report our interaction, and then I report that.” I pointed to the small wet patch on his blue trousers. “I’m sure you don’t want that going around the department. You’ll be forever remembered for that.”

  His mouth hung open as he tried to think of a response.

  “What’s your association with Jonathon DiMarco?” I said.

  He didn’t answer. I stepped closer to him again, and he drew a sharp breath.

  “What’s your association with Jonathon DiMarco?” I repeated. “I’m not going to ask you again.”

  “He… my fiancé, Jenny, loves his posts. She adores him. I know him, but I’m not associated with him. He tries to make me do stuff with his lawyer page, but I don’t like to do anything with it.” He tried to look angry. “You can’t intimidate me. I’m a cop, you know?”

  “Are you?” I grunted. “Because your friend Jonathon DiMarco is killing people and you’re doing nothing about it.”

  He bit his bottom lip before clenching his fists. “Why should I talk to you? Who are you?”

  I took out my phone and quickly snapped a picture of him and his wet trousers. “I can send this to whoever you want.”

  His hand twitched and he went to reach for his gun, but I shook my head, opening my coat to show that I was packing heat as well. His hand relaxed.

  “Talk.” I stated. “Tell me about DiMarco.”

  He swallowed. “DiMarco is… well, he’s getting justice when the system lets people down.”

  “What does that mean? He’s killing the lawyers?”

  “No, he’s not killing them. Nothing like that.” He shook his head, but looked like he was about to cry. “He’s just pressuring them. They choose their own fate. If they want to defend dirty rapists, then they have to deal with the pressure that comes with that. It’s no one’s fault but their own.”

  “Because they let the system down?” I baited him.

  “Those lawyers forgot their commitment to the constitution.” There was a small amount of fire in him, but it wasn’t intimidating. It was the same way a five-year-old kid looked angry. “They forgot who they’re supposed to be defending. Karma came to Waltz and Fittler. That’s all it was. Karma. DiMarco had nothing to do with their deaths.”

  I groaned. He was brainwashed by DiMarco’s posts, but he looked easily influenced. “You forget that we chatted, and I forget that I took this photo.” I waved my phone in the air.

  He nodded meekly.

  I shook my head, drew a breath, and stepped back through the hole in the bushes. I didn’t look back. Wilkerson didn’t kill anyone. And he certainly didn’t attack Casey. I don’t think he could hit anyone without hurting his own wrist.

  He was off my list, and that didn’t leave many options.

  Chapter 24

  “You assaulted a police officer?” Detective Williams looked at me in surprise. “Are you serious? What are you doing, Jack?”

  I lifted my eyes from my coffee. It was just before midday and the lunchtime crowd hadn’t made their way in. The café only had five customers in it, and they all were too obsessed with their phones to notice what Detective Williams said. It was my fifth coffee this morning. I still hadn’t slept after the attack on Casey, and I was relying on bursts of caffeine and adrenaline to keep me going.

  “I don’t think the kid will report it.” I said as Williams sat down across from me on the brown stool. “He wet himself he was so scared.”

  I called Williams after my encounter with Wilkerson, and he agreed to meet and discuss the case. We were meeting in a café in the neighborhood of Bucktown, just off the Kennedy Expressway. It was a small café, but it had an authentic charm. Wooden tables were crammed together, the counter was just big enough to hold the coffee machine, bean grinder, and the till, and the ceiling was too low. The pictures on the walls were of famous places in Italy, and I couldn’t help but admire the beauty. Run by two Italian men, the café served some of the best coffee I’d ever tasted. They’d told me that coffee tasted like that in Rome, but I said it was a little far to go for my morning hit of Joe.

  Williams groaned as he sat down. I was silent as the server came over and took Williams’ order. A cappuccino with one sugar and a muffin. Williams was as predictable as he was boring.

  “The cameras could’ve seen you.” He kept his voice down as he leaned forward on the table. “Someone in the station might’ve seen you harassing Wilkerson. What were you thinking? It wasn’t worth the risk. And what if he does report it? You’ll go to prison. That was a stupid move, Jack.”

  “Nobody would’ve seen anything,” I responded. “There was a blind spot in the parking lot, behind a police van. I scoped the parking lot out before I confronted him.”

  “But what were you even doing? Physically assaulting a police officer? Wilkerson could’ve arrested you on the spot.”

  “I’m fine with investigating a case, I’m fine going after a killer, but if someone comes after one of my own, I’m going to rip them apart. You know that.”

  “Jack.” Williams shook his head. “Confronting a police officer in a parking lot is a big risk. He might still come after you.”

  “It’s time for big risks. I can’t sit around and let this killer go after Casey. I’m going to hunt him down before he gets another chance.” I took a sip of my coffee. “Attack is the best form of defense.”

  Williams threw his hands up in defeat, and leaned back in his chair. He knew I didn’t operate with the same rules he di
d. He knew I didn’t care about his laws. It frustrated him, but he also knew that was why I was very effective at what I did. Rules were the reason I could never be a cop. I never liked being constrained in a box. I much preferred to operate with my own guidelines.

  “So, you don’t think it was Wilkerson?” He asked.

  “I’ve ruled him out from attacking Casey, and the murders as well. Wilkerson is too weak and soft. I pushed him against a van, and he wet himself. I took a photo of his wet trousers, just in case he ever wants to report me. That photo will make the rounds in the department pretty quickly.” I sipped the coffee again. It was like a party in my mouth. I savored the taste for a moment before I continued. “I couldn’t even imagine Wilkerson shooting a duck at a shooting alley, let alone a lawyer. He’s lucky he works out in Buffalo Grove. He wouldn’t last a week as a cop on the South Side.”

  Williams nodded. “So, what does that mean? Where does that leave you?”

  “It means we have two options left—Jonathon DiMarco or Jenny Carpenter.”

  “‘Your’ two options, not ‘ours.’” Williams used his fingers to indicate the quotation marks. “I’m not involved in this.” The server delivered the coffee to the table, and Williams paused. He sipped his coffee and then nodded his approval. “There’s no active investigation, Jack. You’re on your own. I’m no active part of this investigation at all.”

  “Casey was attacked. That’s a crime. That makes this the police department’s case as well as mine.” I pressed my finger into the table. “We’re in this together.”

  “Nothing will come of Casey’s attack and you know it. They’ll take her statement, look at any surrounding footage and then forget about the case. You know that’s procedure. If there’s nothing found within the first forty-eight hours, the chances of solving Casey’s attack are just about zero.”