The Shooter

replied. “To make sure that I don’t screw this up.”
The trip to the top floor was quick, just enough time to sip my coffee for a hit of caffeine. As soon as the elevator doors opened, I dumped the empty cup in the trash can next to the elevator and then proceeded along the carpeted hallway. Our client was waiting next to the door to penthouse number five.
“Jack Valentine?” The dark-haired skinny man was well-dressed for 6:05 am—sharp suit, hair slicked back, freshly shaven.
“I am.” I offered my hand. “And this is my partner, Casey May.”
“Pleased to meet you. Kenneth Daley.” His handshake was firm. “Thank you for coming up. They only took the police tape down late last night. I thought it would be best if you guys have a look around as soon as you could. They called to tell me the apartment was no longer a crime scene, and that’s when I called you. The crime scene cleaning crew are due to come through this morning, but like you said on the phone, it’s best to have a look before then.”
Kenneth Daley called my office at 4:55pm yesterday, only five minutes before I was going to walk out the door. He talked for the next hour, and five minutes after our call ended, I had an extra fifteen thousand dollars in my business account. Daley wasn’t messing around, and he wanted us to move fast.
“So, nothing’s been cleaned since the cops left?” I asked, nodding towards the door.
“The PD took the body and the forensic team removed some chunks of dried blood, but wow, the smell is still hanging in the air. They gave the preliminary police report to me as well. Anthony Waltz shot himself in the carotid artery. He had no family, and I’m listed as his closest contact,” Daley handed the police file to Casey. “The detectives have already written it up as a suicide, but I don’t believe it. I just don’t see Waltz doing that. He wasn’t the type of guy to give up.”
“And you want us to make sure there’s nothing suspicious about it?”
“That’s right.” Daley leaned against the doorframe, staying out of the apartment. “I just couldn’t imagine Waltz doing that. He wasn’t the sort of guy to get depressed. He was a fighter. He never gave up. Once I heard the news, I knew it was suspicious. I talked to a guy in my law firm, and he recommended your names. I’d like you to look around. Talk to people. See if there’s anything that might show that he didn’t do this himself. Whatever you need, you tell me. If you need more cash, let me know. I guess it’s… well, maybe I just don’t want to believe that he could’ve done it, but something doesn’t feel right to me.”
“High profile life. No wife. No kids. Seventy-five-hour weeks in the office.” I said as I stepped towards the door. “That’s got to take a toll on a person.”
“I don’t see him doing this to himself.” He shook his head. “Not Waltz.”
“Did he have any enemies?” Casey asked.
“We all do. That’s part of the job of being a criminal defense attorney. Some of our actions are going to make some people unhappy. We can’t avoid that.” He drew a breath and ran his hand over his hair. “He was working on a sexual assault case. It was getting a bit of coverage in the media, but that was nothing that he couldn’t handle. Jonathon DiMarco was on his case all the time.”
“Jonathon DiMarco? The media guy?” Casey asked.
“That’s him. Former police captain and now pain in every defense attorney’s rear. He hates us with a passion. If there’s a story to be drummed up about the failings of the justice system, you can bet that DiMarco is behind it. He has a thirst for revamping the criminal justice system. Always on television, yelling about how bad a job defense lawyers do.” Daley unlocked the apartment door and swung it open. “Waltz was a tough guy. And he wasn’t just a colleague; he was a friend of mine. And now… he’s gone.” Daley stayed by the door. “It’s two days since he shot himself, but the smell is still there. I’ve got the air-conditioner and fans going, but it’s not making a difference. I can’t go back in there. Once was enough for me.”
Daley stepped aside, allowing us to enter the apartment.
And there was the smell, hitting us like a heavy wall of thick and humid air. I recognized it the second I stepped into the room, and I had to stop myself from gagging.
“Wow,” Casey whispered. “What a mess. Looks like he bled out.”
As Daley closed the door behind us, I took a deep breath and stood still, surveying the scene. The blood was still there—a massive splatter against the white wall, and a large, dried pool on the grey carpet. The open plan living room and entertaining area were once spotless and clean, everything soulless and sterile, but now, the blandness only served as a contrast to the horror. I treaded carefully into the room, choosing my footing in between the stains on the carpet.
There was the futility of it all that sat in the pit of my stomach—no matter who you were and the life you’d lived, no matter how you’d spent your money, wealth or time, death removed it all; years of love, regret and wasted moments, poor decisions, happiness and heart break swept clean, leaving nothing more than a body laid bare for the world to judge.
Casey placed the police file on the kitchen counter and began flicking through the pages.
“Who found the body?” I called out to her as I stared at the place where Anthony Waltz lost his life.
“The security guard.” Casey read from the report. “Robbie McAdams. Apparently, two gunshots