The Shooter

dishonesty around us. I could feel the sleaze the second we stepped in. We were in the heart of capitalism, in the heart of the money-machine, deep amongst the drive to make more and more and more money for the sake of making money. I never understood that. I always thought that people should just make what they need and not accumulate excessive wealth. Casey talked to the receptionist, who provided us with coffee, before she guided us to Daley’s office five minutes later.
I didn’t like this building at all. It was a place full of suits fulfilling the needs of the corporate world, wheeling and dealing, bargaining and haggling.
“Jack. Casey.” Daley stood behind his desk as we entered his office. “Good to see you. What have you got for me?”
As I expected, Daley’s office was enormous. There was enough space to play half-court basketball, but the space was filled with a long couch, an enormous Oakwood table, and a treadmill tucked to the side of the room. The carpet was white but spotless, the walls were light blue, and the natural light was flooding in the large window to the side of the room. The lawyers’ world of excess was becoming clearer for me to see by the day. It was a competition to them—who had the best office, the best view, and the best-looking secretary.
Casey and I sat on the two comfortable office chairs in front of Daley’s desk, and only after Casey had sat down, Daley lowered himself into his large leather office chair. He rocked back and forth a little, clasping his hands in his lap.
“We wanted to come by and give you an update on what we have. We’ve got some interesting leads.” I said. “There are three defense lawyers who took their lives in the same distinct way, all in the last fifteen months, and Anthony Waltz was the latest one to do it. We’re working on finding a link between them.”
“Who are the others?”
“Jeffery Stone and Clarke Hudson,” Casey said.
“Coincidence?” Daley raised his eyebrows. “We’re under a lot of stress in the job and they say this sort of thing can be contagious. One guy takes this way out, and then other people start seeing it as a viable option. It’s quite the phenomenon. You see clusters of suicides in places like schools and small communities.”
“I don’t think so.” I responded. “The three lawyers were working on similar cases—sexual assault cases where the accused escaped any charges. All these cases were thrown out on legal technicalities, and then a few weeks later, the lawyer is dead with a bullet in his neck.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense.” Daley crossed one leg over the other. “Why would a killer go after the lawyers and not the accused? Surely if someone had something against rapists, they’d take it out on the accused, not the lawyer. Why would they kill the lawyer?”
“Serial killers do weird things,” Casey added. “A person like this can harbor great pain from their past—perhaps the same thing happened to them. Perhaps they were the victim of sexual assault and saw the lawyer get their rapist off the charges and that’s what motivates them to even the balance.”
“Interesting,” Daley said. He barely reacted to the news of a killer, not even asking further about Stone or Hudson, almost like he was expecting it. “Who else have you got on this serial killer hit-list? Does anyone else fit the profile?”
“We’ve talked with our contacts and a recent case fits the profile,” Casey continued. “And we think the next candidate could be Larry Fittler.”
“Fittler? Good. The man’s an arrogant prick.” Daley paused for a long moment, staring at nothing. “Any evidence that could prove this theory?”
“Nothing yet,” I said. “But we’re getting closer.”
“Suspects?”
“We have one.”
“And that is?”
“As you can understand,” Casey explained. “We’re playing this close to our chest. We don’t want the person to catch wind of what we’re investigating. We’re not saying that you’d release any information, however, the fewer people that know about our suspect, the better. It’s the way we always work.”
Daley paused for a few moments, before tapping his finger on the desk. He didn’t like to be told no. He was used to being the most powerful man in the room, and he was used to people doing exactly as he said. He looked at me, testing me with a stare. I didn’t flinch, holding his eye contact until he stopped.
“Ok. I understand. If that’s your process, then that’s your process.” He sat forward, pulling a sticky note from the side of his desk. He scribbled a name and number on it. “Talk to this guy. He’s a cop, but not a strict cop. Some might even say he has some dirt on his hands. He works for various people, so to speak, and he owes me a number of favors. Tell him that I’ve asked you to talk to him. He can get you any inside knowledge on the previous cases. He might even be able to point you in the right direction.”
I took the sticky note and looked at the name. Stan McMillian. I knew him. Most people on the street did. He was one of the most corrupt, ruthless, and cunning people I’d ever had the displeasure of meeting.
Daley leaned back in his chair again. “The security guard from the building, Robbie McAdams, has been calling me every day, wanting an update and seeing if he can help. Talk to him as well. Give him your number and get him off my back. I don’t want to deal with those sorts of people. My assistant is talking to him now. He keeps calling here saying he’s got new information, but it turns out to be nothing.”
“We don’t give out our direct numbers.” Casey said.
Daley paused for a moment, then scoffed.