The Shooter

“And there’s something that we need to follow up on. It’s not as clean-cut as the police report would have you believe.”
“Is there anything else that you can tell us that might help our investigation?” Casey pressed. “Perhaps someone else had a key to his apartment, perhaps a close friend, or he was dating someone?”
“Waltz didn’t have many friends, and he never dated. He preferred to pay for company.” Daley said as the elevator doors opened. “He said that if he paid them, then they had to do as he pleased. He liked it that way. Got the girls to do some really weird stuff too. After he had a few drinks, he’d often talk about all the kinky things he did. And some of the things he did made my skin crawl. In the end, nothing shocked me about that man. He did some very strange things to the girls he paid.”
Definitely not my idea of a good man.
“Do you think one of them had enough?” Casey continued. “Perhaps he had a girl over the other night, and she found his behavior to be too much?”
“I don’t know.” Daley shook his head. “That’s why I’m paying you guys. I want you to investigate every avenue, every chance, and every hint. I need to make sure that he did this himself. I just… I don’t think the PD looked into it enough. I think there’s a chance that he didn’t do this.”
We walked through the dim underground parking lot and across to a small grey metal door, near the ramp entrance, that had the words ‘Security Office’ plastered across the door in bright yellow. I knocked on the door twice before it swung open, and a guard stood in front of us, with an eager look on his face like a small dog.
“Hi. I’m Robbie McAdams.” He panted, before looking at Daley. “Are these the private investigators?”
“The very ones.” Daley stepped forward. “They’d like to ask you a few questions about what you found in Mr. Waltz’s apartment.”
“Ok, ok, ok.” Robbie’s voice was high pitched and nervous. “Come in, come in. I want to help any way I can. I’ve always wanted to work on an investigation. I think you guys have the most awesome job.”
Robbie stepped back, holding the door, allowing us to enter.
In his mid-twenties, Robbie McAdams had broad shoulders and thick arms, but the rest of his body was overweight and flabby. He looked like he hadn’t been on a run in the last five years and spent most of his time playing online computer games. His face was puffy, and those tall enough to see the top of his head could see his brown hair was already thinning. His skin was pasty white, and freckles covered his face.
“Jack Valentine.” I extended my hand. “And this is Casey May. We’ve been told that you can help us. We’re hoping you can give us a few moments of your time.”
“Absolutely. Definitely. Yes. I can give you as much time as you need. Anything I can do to help.” He shook both our hands. His palms were sweaty. I didn’t like that. “I’ve been going over everything in my mind and jotted down some notes. I didn’t want to miss any detail. I know that even the tiniest bit of information can help this sort of investigation.”
Casey let out a small sigh, indicating the limited patience she had for overly helpful and well-meaning witnesses that often proved to be nothing more than huge time wasters. Everyone wanted their fifteen minutes of fame next to the gore and shock of tragedy. It seemed to make them feel like they had meaning and purpose that reached beyond their quiet, ordinary lives.
The security office was small, tucked away at the corner of the parking lot, with just enough room for a white Formica table stuck in the corner, a couple of well-used office chairs, and five small CCTV monitors. There was no natural light, little ventilation, and no air-conditioning. The smell from old pizza boxes was thick in the air, and the trash can looked like it hadn’t been emptied in weeks.
Robbie sat down on the old chair, the only chair in the office, his navy-blue uniform standing out from the beige and white interior. I could tell that he was full of eager energy. The logo emblazoned in white on the left side of his chest said SafeA and underneath: We Secure Your Apartment.
“Bit of a superhero fan, Robbie?” I asked, indicating to the wall of the office, artfully arranged with pencil comic sketches stuck to the wall with tape. “These are some cool pictures.”
“Yes, sir. Most of my drawings are at home, including some really big items, but I like to make my workplace nice too. You know, I spend a lot of time around here.”
“Ok, great, that means you know a lot about what goes on around the place and can help us out.” Casey interrupted before we got off track. “Can you tell us about what happened two nights ago? A resident complained about a gunshot and you investigated?”
Robbie seemed to swell with pride before launching into his story. “Well yes, it was Mrs. Fryer in penthouse one. She likes her coffee from a little café around the block, Professor Coffee. She gets it early. Anyway, she said that she heard two gunshots, but she didn’t seem too concerned. That was at 5am, she thought. She’d ignored it and just mentioned it in passing as we saw each other in the foyer.” He consulted a small notebook as he listed the times for us.  “She said it had woken her up and it was unusual to hear from the top floor, but she thought it was outside on the street.” Robbie flipped to the next page of his notepad. His writing was small and strained. “I made a