The Shooter

us now. In fact, I have a feeling that talking about defense lawyers, especially dead ones, may be one of Mr. DiMarco’s favorite topics.” There was no warmth to my voice, no jokes or sarcasm, just pure exasperation.
At the other end there was a loud thump and then a squeal of metal before a deep male voice interrupted through the intercom. “Please wait one moment.”
I moved back to the top step with Casey, turning around and surveying the garden. With a loud crack, the door was thrown open and Jonathon DiMarco stepped out, as though onto a stage, throwing his arms wide.
He was in his mid-sixties but looked like he had the energy of someone in their twenties. He was impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, without a tie, clean shaven, and his salt and pepper hair was neatly combed back. He was a former police captain in the Chicago Police Department, and he held himself with strength and excellence. He had broad shoulders that looked like he spent his weekends chopping firewood with an axe, and skin that looked like he’d spent one too many holidays in the Florida sun.
“What a day it is to receive a visit from Chicago’s Finest. Welcome. I always open my home to my brothers and sisters who protect our city from the evils of the world.” He leaned forward and paused for dramatic effect, before straightening himself and continuing. “I don’t think we’ve met before, so please show me your identification. You can never be too careful these days.”
The theatrics of his greeting didn’t shift my focus for an instant.
“I didn’t say we were police. My name is Jack Valentine, and this is Casey May. We’re private investigators looking into the death of Anthony Waltz. I believe you knew him.”
DiMarco stopped, dropped his arms and raised his eyebrows at me. “You’ve caught my interest. I heard about Waltz this morning. He offed himself, right?” DiMarco glanced briefly at me, unperturbed by the serious nature of the introduction, and then moved his eyes to Casey, taking his time to appraise her fully. She tried to hide her disgust directed at the man twice her age and crossed her arms across her body.
“Oh sweetheart, there’s absolutely nothing you should be hiding. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable, but you look so much like my ex-wife. I forget how many wives ago, in fact. Maybe she was number two. Stunning woman, she was, but nasty. She was as mean as a rattlesnake. It made for a great combination until she tried to stab me with a fire poker. I guess we’ve all been there.” He laughed at himself, one hand on his chest, the other held wide. “Now, come in and tell me why you’re investigating this death.”
He turned and led us into the house. Inside there was a cozy warmth, beautifully renovated rooms that had depth and vibrancy with hand selected furnishings in woods and leather. The walls were covered in rich wood paneling and the floorboards gleamed with polish. Prints in seasonal colors added a feeling of comfort without dominating the scene.
“Nice place,” Casey complimented DiMarco, choosing to move past the awkwardness of their first encounter. If she held a grudge with every suspect that treated her like a Barbie doll, she’d never get anywhere.
“Come through to the living room. I love to chat about dead lawyers, but first you must answer a question—who hired you and why?”
His good manners and elevated mood were forced. There was something just beneath the surface that was cold and menacing and it lodged a sense of wariness in my chest.
“A friend of Anthony’s asked us to look into his death. We’re just covering all the bases,” Casey said as we entered a cavernous room, one side completely lined with book shelves. DiMarco indicated to a brown couch in front of an old fireplace, lit and radiating heat into the large space.
“A friend? I doubt that. Anthony Waltz didn’t have any friends. I’d suggest the person who’s paying you is doing so out of self-interest. Perhaps they’re looking to cover their own tracks?”
“Do you know anyone that would do that?” I sat down.
“Could be any one of those scumbag lawyers. And there’s absolutely no point in us pretending that I don’t have an issue with the legal system in our city. Of course, I do, I make no bones about how I feel. And yes, I do believe that defense lawyers are at the very guts of the issue.” As we sat down, his wife appeared in the doorway. “This is my wife, Daisy.”
“Coffee?” She asked.
“Of course.” DiMarco smiled. His wife turned and walked away, leaving her husband to business.
“What is it exactly that you find so corrupt in our legal system?” I humored him, eyes honing in on DiMarco.
“In my day, when I was a police captain, a criminal was brought to justice in the proper way. A fair trial. Every time. Money was not an issue; time was not an issue. The only thing that actually mattered was justice. These days it comes down to whoever is the cleverest in the courtroom, and that means whoever is paying the most. The system is broken and it’s the defense lawyers that are to blame. They’re greedy money-makers, not defenders of the system. It’s like a race, who can have the thickest resume, the biggest bank accounts, and the fastest cars. And the worst part is that they’re getting away with it. The State’s Attorney’s office seems only too happy to fly through this crime and that crime and make ludicrous decisions about saving the taxpayers money without really consulting those that are paying the taxes. But that’s a dishonest foundation to build any legal system upon.” For a moment his sunshine and smile facade slipped and there was an anger to his words.
His wife