The Shooter

hit a nerve for him.” He was talking aloud to himself, more than talking to me. “DiMarco was talking about Joan Islington and Jenny Carpenter. Jenny was Waltz’s last case before he… well, before his death. DiMarco had a picture of Jenny and Joan together. As I walked into the building, he asked me how I felt about letting those women down. But I laughed at him and told him that it was easy to feel good about myself sitting on the fiftieth floor of this building.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t punch you again.” I said.
“Too many witnesses this time, but he still went into a rage. He was yelling about the karma...” A look of realization washed over him. He turned and stared at me with his mouth hanging open. “He was yelling about how karma was delivered to Anthony Waltz.”

Chapter 8
 
 
 


Larry Fittler didn’t offer much more information. I left my card, told him to call me if he saw anything, and left his office. The arrogance that he had displayed when I walked in had disappeared by the time I walked out. I saw fear, real terror, in his eyes as the realization that Waltz could’ve been murdered hit him hard. As I was walking out of his office, I heard the pop of a whiskey bottle opening behind me. I guess he was going to try and drink his troubles away.
Casey had succeeded in making contact with Jenny Carpenter. She sweet talked the family on the phone, and they agreed to meet with us. I came along for the ride, but I was letting Casey’s softer touch take the lead on the discussion.
“Jenny and her fiancé, Matthew Wilkerson, live with her parents. She’s twenty-five, works part-time at the local supermarket, but doesn’t leave the house much. The fiancé is a local junior cop. Doesn’t see much action. From what I’ve gathered, their world was rocked by her rape after a night out twelve months ago. They’ve spent much of the past year preparing for the court case.” Casey explained as I drove to the suburb of Buffalo Grove, forty-five minutes north of Downtown Chicago. “And to watch Waltz get her attacker, Chesterfield, off the charges must’ve cut deep. I couldn’t imagine that pain. That’s a motive to kill a lawyer, right there.”
Buffalo Grove was a pleasant suburb. Pleasant streets, pleasant homes, pleasant gardens. Everything, and everyone, was agreeable. The streets were clean, the shop fronts were well-maintained, and neighbors waved to each other as they passed. Safety and comfort were some people’s ideal living conditions, but for me, it was too suffocating. If I lived in a place like this, I’d have too much time to think, too much time stuck in my own head. That was dangerous. I needed to be in the city, amongst the action, distracted by the constant chaos that was created by millions of people crammed together.
I parked on the street, took off my leather jacket, and leaned over the front seat of my truck. Hanging in front of the back window, I always kept a sports jacket, for moments when I tried to blend into the surroundings. Exactly for occasions like this.
The Carpenter’s home looked nice, almost the picture-perfect American dream house, if only a little small. They had a garage, a neat lawn, and a freshly painted fence. Clean roofing. A spotless driveway. A row of bulbs was beginning to shoot up the modest path that led to the plain front door, white and clean.
Casey pressed the doorbell, and we listened to the tune ring throughout the house. We waited patiently as we heard muffled sounds—voices, footsteps, slow movements—and then slowly the door was cracked open, and a sliver of a face appeared in the space.
“Yes?” The voice was soft, timid, searching for a reason to close the door and resume a life of hiding.
I took a small step back and let Casey take the lead, sensing that my imposing size was not going to work to our advantage here. Casey smiled softly, kindly, the way she would like to be smiled at if the safety of her world was rocked by seemingly untouchable forces and unthinkable terrors.
“Hello, my name is Casey May. I’m here with my business partner, Jack Valentine. We’re sorry to intrude but we spoke earlier on the phone and I was hoping to take up just a small bit of your time. It would really help us out,” she kept her voice low and friendly, and, after what seemed like a long pause, the door opened just wide enough to make out a small woman, dressed in a clean skirt and blouse—perhaps her Sunday best—hair neatly combed and makeup freshly applied, looking bewildered by Casey’s kindness and gentle approach.
“I’m Mary-Louise Carpenter. We were expecting you. Please, come in.”
The house was small, and the hallways were narrow, but the home was filled with love. The walls were covered with family portraits—Mary-Louise, a husband, and two girls—and what could be grandparents, aunties, old family dogs, birthday parties. A man stood at the back of the living room, dressed in slacks and a faded pin striped shirt, buttoned up to the collar.
They’ve dressed up for us, I thought, momentarily humbled.
“Andrew Carpenter.” The man’s voice was deep, and he held himself tall, shoulders back, and after he looked both Casey and I in the eye, he shook our hands, before his gaze fell quickly back to the floor.
There was still a lot of pain here.
“Please, sit. Jenny’s… Jenny’s not feeling well, she’s lying down in bed. I can go and see if she’s ready to come out yet.” Mary-Louise offered. Casey nodded.
The carpet was worn—there was not a lot of money here—but it was immaculately kept. I noticed there was not a speck of dust on any of the old sports trophies that lined