The Shooter

then leaned close to me. “Alright. I’ll sniff around DiMarco and see what I can find without raising suspicion. But be careful, Jack. I think the note is right—you’re digging into dangerous territory. And I would say that this attack is only just the start.”

Chapter 14


I hated this walk.
The grass was green, the sun was shining, and the air was fresh, but I’d rather be anywhere else. Walking the path through the cemetery put all the emotions—the love, the anguish, and the pain—into focus. For so long, I’d tried to bury them at the back of my mind. I had spent much of the past few years trying to squash those emotions, and avoid them at all costs, but here, in this cemetery, I couldn’t escape them.
The sweat built under my jacket, my legs felt weak, and my hands were shaking. It was hot in the sun but cool in the shade. The breeze blew gently. The smells of spring were beginning to shine through. Flowers were starting to bloom, the deciduous trees were beginning to regain their leaves after a long winter, and vines were spreading at a rapid rate.
I stopped at the end of a row of headstones. Lot E. Row twenty-five. Alicia was the first name, Melanie the second, Fredrick, at only fifteen years old, was next. I knew their headstones, but I didn’t know how they met their ends. I didn’t know their families, I didn’t know their past, and I didn’t know their work. But in death, I knew their headstones. They were remembered here.
There was a figure waiting at the end of the row, standing over my Claire’s headstone. I hadn’t seen him in a while, but I expected him to be here for his sister. I was never close with my wife’s family, as they thought I was too much of a thug for her. Claire’s mother told me as much on our wedding day.
Claire was taken from me much too soon. She was shot protecting the children in her classroom. When they found her, her body was sheltering the little ones from harm. One kid was only five years old, and they had already lived through such a traumatic event. This wasn’t wartime, this wasn’t a third world country, but that terror still happened to far too many children.
“Hello Ben,” I said as I approached Claire’s headstone. “Nice flowers. Purple was her favorite.”
“For her birthday.” Ben said and held out his hand. “She always loved the color purple. It’s good to see you, Jack.”
I shook his hand firmly and then turned to Claire’s grave. I said a quiet prayer, made the sign of the cross, and then blew her a kiss. I’d never been a religious man, but part of me, a big part of me, wished there to be an afterlife. I wanted there to be a chance that she was looking down from above, smiling as she watched me work through life. Occasionally, I felt her presence. I was sure of it. It was like a warm breath of air drifting through the atmosphere, a gentle touch filled with love.
A month ago, while I was driving to Minnesota for part of an investigation, I saw the most vivid sunset I’d ever laid my eyes on. The raging red sky was as dramatic as it was overwhelming. I pulled the truck over at a park, walked a few steps up a small grassy hill, and sat in silence. I watched that sunset in all its intense beauty, and it took my breath away. As I watched the sunset, I felt a presence next to me. It was warm, affectionate, and loving. I was sure it was Claire.
“How are you, Jack?” Ben broke the silence after a few minutes. “Another black eye?”
“I fell over,” I said. “How’s the family?”
“Good.”
“My niece, Alannah?”
“She’s good. Growing tall.”
“Mary?”
“She’s ok.”
“Your mother?”
“On her last legs. In hospital care. You should go and see her.”
“When I get the chance, I’ll go and say hello.”
“She’d appreciate that, even if she’ll tell you the opposite.”
“And how are you?”
“Getting better.” He shrugged. “I’m seeing a shrink now. He’s helping me through some issues that I need to work through. Maybe you should see one as well?”
“Nobody deserves to listen to these problems.” I smiled. “I’d break the poor soul that tried to listen to that.”
“That’s true,” Ben said. “I heard a story once that there was a man found brutally beaten and robbed on the street. He was barely alive. The person that found him was a psychologist and the first thing he said was, ‘Oh no, whoever attacked this man really needs help!’”
I laughed heartily. “Well, do you know how many psychologists it takes to change a light bulb? It’s just one. All he has to do is hold it in place while the world revolves around him.
We both laughed and then a pause lingered between us.
“I heard that Hugh Guthrie got out of prison.” Ben brought down the good mood. “I heard that he paid a lot of money for one of the top lawyers in the country and brought him in to overturn the guilty verdict. That’s not right, Jack. You shouldn’t be able to buy your way out of prison.”
Hugh Guthrie had been responsible for giving the gun to the school shooter, Alexander Logan. Guthrie encouraged the boy to go on a rampage, so that he could film the result for a documentary. The documentary won awards for Guthrie, but when it was revealed that he provided the gun, those awards were taken away, along with ruining Guthrie’s reputation. He later murdered a fellow newscaster in a rage, but Guthrie hired a powerful defense attorney and walked out of prison after only a few months.
“Slimy scumbag,” I mumbled through a clenched jaw.