The Shooter

his dominance.
“What can you tell us about the Clarke Hudson death investigation?” I didn’t mess around with small talk. I went straight to the point with McMillian, mostly because I felt if we waited any longer, I doubted he would be sober enough to tell us his own name.
He shrugged, and then opened the briefcase next to him on the seat. He removed a manila file, perhaps fifteen pages thick, and placed it on the table.
“Clarke Hudson. That was a sad one, if you can be sad about dead lawyers.” He slid the file across the table. “Yeah, he had a wife and a kid on the way. She was a mighty fine-looking woman. Real toned. I looked her up—she’s a former swimsuit model. But she was crying all the time I was there, so I gave her a hug. I held on tight too, if you catch my drift.” He smirked and then caught Casey glaring at him. His face instantly changed. “It was sad. That’s what I was saying. Nothing suspicious about it though. Just another rich guy who did himself in.”
I could smell the nicotine gum that McMillian had been chewing loudly and noticed he automatically began turning his wedding ring around at the mention of Clarke Hudson’s wife. The gum squelched and popped between his teeth. How could anyone stand this guy’s presence long enough to stay married to him? My guess was that McMillian didn’t see his wife much, and when he did, she would most likely be shouting at him.
Casey opened the file on Clarke Hudson. There was that phenomenon again—opened straight to the photos. Not nice photos either. The guy barely had a neck left. Even I had to look away.
“Not a nice scene for the wife to find,” McMillian continued. “She heard the gunshot and then walked into the pool at the exercise club and found him like that. I’d say that scene is going to be burned into her head for the rest of her life. Not even sure if a lobotomy would clear those memories.”
Casey passed the file across to me. I flipped to the pages on the death report, scanning my eyes over the information.
“How long was Clarke Hudson alone in the pool?” Casey questioned.
“He was there an hour. The wife was working out in the gym next door. She couldn’t see the entrance, but said there was nobody else in the gym. The pool also had an outdoor entrance, but there wasn’t much need for an investigation. It was a pretty clear-cut case.”
“Why does a fit, healthy forty-five year-old shoot himself in a pool at an exercise club?” I looked at Casey and could tell the sound of him chewing the gum was working on her nerves as much as mine. “Why not do it at home? Or in the office? The pool sounds like a very strange place to do this, especially with his pregnant wife in the gym next door.”
“It just got too much for him.” McMillian answered. “I investigated this one. He was alone and shot himself. It happens to those arrogant defense lawyers. And if you ask me, I wish it happened to more of them.”
“But who takes a gun to a private swimming pool?”
“Listen, the wife said he was crazy stressed over some big cases and wasn’t sleeping well. And this was late, nearly midnight. We figured everything just caught up with him. He might’ve walked out to the car, removed his weapon, and then walked back into the pool. Perhaps he took it with him in the first place. Who knows? The only thing we know was that he shot himself.”
“No witnesses? No cameras?” Casey asked.
“Nothing in the pool, but we had video of the wife in the gym. You could clearly see the moment she heard the gunshots. Two of them. She was freaked out. I guess she thought it was outside the gym because it was late at night. Just before midnight. The gun was in Clarke Hudson’s hand, and there was gun residue on his fingers. Really there was nothing to suggest anyone else had anything to do with it.” McMillian’s hand went back to spinning his wedding ring around. “I saw she had the baby, about five months later. A little boy. Hopefully, the boy doesn’t grow up to be a lawyer like his father. But some of the defense lawyers are ok, I suppose. The ones that don’t chase the money are alright in my books.”
“And Clarke Hudson had no enemies that you thought might’ve helped him with the gun?” I continued pressuring McMillian, hoping he could answer all my questions before he passed out.
McMillian snorted and shrugged his shoulders, showing contempt towards us across the table. “Are you kidding me? The man had enemies galore. He wasn’t in the cake decorating business, buddy, he was a criminal defense attorney. What do you think? Of course, he had enemies. But we didn’t pursue it as there hadn’t been any real threats and, like I said, there was zero evidence of a struggle.”
“And Jeffery Stone’s case?”
He reached into his briefcase and removed another folder. He placed it on the table and slid it across. This file was bigger. “Jeffery Stone. Much the same sort of scenario. Nothing the cops could do. And they got it right. Completely. These guys shot themselves. Not worth a second investigation, I can tell you that.” He narrowed his eyes at us, trying to appear threatening, but he was only succeeding at looking more drunk. “Got it? Or should I spell it out more clearly for you?”
“Your name is on one of these files,” I read the name at the top of the report. “You’re saying that there’s no chance that you made a mistake?”
“None.” McMillian finished another pint of Goose Island Pale Ale and lifted the glass, indicating that I should