The Shooter

towards my truck, and saw a folded piece of paper tucked under my windshield wiper.
I checked over my shoulder again. There was no one else in the lot.
I reached across and picked up the piece of paper. It was a note.
“Keep digging into this case, and you’ll start digging your own grave.”

Chapter 13


The Angry Friar was my local dive bar. It was where I felt most comfortable. The bathrooms were vandalized, the music was from the eighties, and the food tasted like it was bad for my health. It was the type of place where fights often broke out, where games of pool became swearing matches, and where Bears games were celebrated or commiserated. The door was always shut to prevent any hint of daylight coming through, the blinds were always drawn closed, and at least one light was always broken. In short, it was the type of place where a person could disappear for a few hours and forget about the world.
Down the bottom of a short flight of stairs from an overpass, the dive bar was hidden from the travelers, the drifters, and the suits. If you didn’t know The Angry Friar was there, you’d never notice it. Just how I liked it.
“How’s life, Jack?” I felt a hand rest on my shoulder.
It was Detective Dwayne Williams. Even though he was a cop, Williams easily fit into the rough surroundings of the bar. An African American man, he was tall, broad, and tattooed. He had a scar on his cheek where a bullet once kissed him, and he had knuckles that looked like they enforced the law more than he abided by it.
“I’m good,” I turned around to face my friend. “You?”
“Whoa.” Williams jolted back. “Is that a black eye?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
When I hit the pavement the previous night, my cheekbone took the brunt of the force, leaving my face swollen and blackening the area just under my eye. I went home, cleaned it up, and used enough ice to numb the pain. Half a bottle of Jack Daniels helped as well.
I woke the next morning with a pounding headache. It was the sort of headache that a person feels in their soul. Nothing seemed to ease it. Aspirin, paracetamol, ibuprofen. Nothing worked. I laid on the couch with an icepack on the back of my neck for most of the morning before deciding I wasn’t going to waste a day of the investigation. I spoke to Casey, explained what happened, and told her to be safe. She insisted that I could have a concussion and that I needed to see a doctor, but I argued that a day away from the office would fix any problems. I was used to black eyes, they didn’t worry me, but the pounding headache at the base of my skull hurt the most.
Doctors couldn’t help me, but an old friend sure could. I called Williams, and he agreed to meet at the bar just after lunch. After a burger and two Jack Daniels, my headache finally began to ease.
“So, what happened?” Williams sat on the stool next to me. “Who was stupid enough to attack you? I’d hate to see where he is now.”
“I have no idea who it was. I didn’t even get to see their face. I was attacked from behind last night, around midnight, just after I left the office.”
“Friday night? Could’ve been anyone. Although, I can’t imagine a drunk guy coming after someone your size. When you see drunken attacks, they usually go after a smaller guy. They usually pick out an easier target.”
“I was hit from behind, and there was nobody else on the street when I sprang back to my feet. I saw a shadow jump over a fence, and I’m sure that’s the person that hit me. It happened in my parking lot, so they had to be hiding in the shadows and watching me. I didn’t see anyone on the street as I walked to my truck, and I only heard them at the last second, just before they hit me.”
“What makes you think they targeted you?”
I reached into my pocket and placed the folded piece of paper on the counter. “They left this note on my truck.”
Williams raised his eyebrows in surprise. He signaled to the bartender and ordered a Miller Lite. The dive bar was quiet for lunchtime on a Saturday, although it would soon be full of the workers from across the road once they finished their day on the construction site.
Williams reached forward, unfolded the note and read it. “‘Keep digging into this case, and you’ll start digging your own grave?’ Is that it? Is that all they left?”
I nodded my response.
“What have you gotten yourself into, Jack?” He looked at me with concern. “What are you digging into?”
“I’m investigating a possible serial killer roaming the streets of Chicago.” I sipped my Jack Daniels. “And it appears I’ve gotten very close.”
Williams cautiously pulled back. We’d been school buddies, although we drifted apart over the years. He called me after I lost my wife in a school shooting, and kept calling to check on me. I appreciated that. When his wife died a year ago in a motor vehicle accident, I made sure I returned the goodwill. I was there for him, even when he said he was fine. I just sat and watched baseball with him, barely a word spoken between us. But we didn’t need words. They would come in time. And sure enough, after a few wordless games, Williams opened up about the pain of losing his wife. Emotions aren’t my strong point, but I knew that pain well.
After dealing with the initial, and overwhelming grief, Williams did the same as I did—he threw himself into work. It was