Tiedemann needed this job done – badly. His voice seemed very distraught over the phone, almost as if he was being watched and every word he said would be used against him. He was offering 15 grand for the kill, no evidence included. The man’s name was Michael Soderquist. Tiedemann did not give me much, and downtown Chicago was not a small place.
For several days, I stalked 9347 West Madison Street, which I found through some investigation at work. It was a bitterly cold week, as are most in the middle of November. Soderquist seemed like an odd fellow, always darting in and out of his apartment, like a mouse avoiding human recognition. He was short with jet black hair, always slicked back, and wore the newest designer suits and glasses. I felt no sympathy for these kinds of men living the single, lavish lifestyle and did not feel one ounce of guilt after the deed was done. After all, I needed some extra money too, right? This was an ideal job, as Mr. Soderquist had no wife, kids, roommate, or any other interfering being. The task was simple, and I would complete it later tonight.
The next day was Thursday. I had trouble sleeping but my morning routine was not altered. Work was stressful at times, but I enjoyed its investigative duties. The drive to 2111 West Roosevelt Road was not by any means an enjoyable one. Start. Stop. Start. Stop. Start. Stop. Even though the office was only about 10 miles from my place, it took about half an hour to arrive to the 26-story building. I pulled into my usual parking space, just under the large sign on the building that read:
Federal Bureau of Investigation
Chicago

I stumbled out of my 2007 Ford Focus and up into the west wing of the building dedicated to homicide investigation. My desk sat on the 19th floor, cozied away in the corner. As soon as I started my computer, opened my briefcase, and got my belongings together, a loud bellowing voice called from across the room, “Mazzone, Woodard, get yourselves together. Head over to Madison Street – we’ve got a homicide.”

The voice belonged to Mr. Robert Whitfield, the Special Agent in Charge. Mr. Whitfield was a rather robust man in charge of all operations in our wing. With a big bald head and large round face, Whitfield knew every case and assignment of every agent in the department. The man knew what he was doing. Woodard and I took the west elevator down to the lobby and continued through the door. I volunteered to drive while Woodard briefed us on the case. Kevin Woodard was somewhat new to the FBI, and this was his first year in the homicide department. He was young, only 26, and fresh out of graduate school. Woodard was what most of my colleagues would consider a mediocre partner, mostly following my lead.

“Michael Soderquist, age 34. Found dead this morning in his bed. Cause of death: lethal injection. No trace of evidence anywhere,” Woodard announced as we passed the Walgreens at the corner of Washington and Randolph.

“So this guy knew what he was doing,” I replied as I pressed down on the gas to get through a changing light.

As we arrived to West Madison Street, three police cars and an ambulance idled along the curb, waiting for us to arrive. I parked across the street in a small strip mall, and Woodard and I ventured across the street and into the dark apartment. The feeling was unusually surreal. Everything lay just as it had been the previous night. Woodard led the way into the bedroom as I nodded to a departing police officer. Soderquist’s motionless body laid upon the bed, cold and stiff. We slipped on our latex gloves and began examining the body. Woodard took note of the pin-sized entry point of the needle that lay just over the jugular in Soderquist’s neck.

We continued to scan the apartment for the next hour or so, but no evidence could be found anywhere. The place was swept for fingerprints, but the only ones found belonged to Soderquist. There was no possible way for anyone to find Soderquist’s murderer. Disgusted and disappointed, Woodard suggested that we throw the case out. No lead could possibly be found. Of course I “reluctantly” agreed, and we began our trip back to the office. Woodard and I piled our findings, notes, and final conclusion on Whitfield’s desk when we returned. A week or so later, after mindless office work and filings, Whitfield informed me that the case would be terminated. He trusted my investigative skills and asked no more questions. I was $15,000 richer, and life could not have been better.

I returned home late that night after collecting my money from Tiedemann. Whatever caused Tiedemann to want Soderquist killed must have been urgent, because Tiedemann seemed ever so grateful. After I finished gobbling down my turkey grinder from Lucchesi’s Deli on 27th, I laid down to get some rest. As soon as my head hit the pillow, however, the telephone rang. Groggily, I shuffled through my apartment and answered the phone with a hazy “Hello?” The voice on the opposing end was very deep and muffled, as if it were talking into a shallow cup. “Hey Doug, I have a favor to ask,” uttered the voice.

“What? Who is this? It’s almost one A.M,” I replied, switching the phone between hands.

The muffled voice returned, “That’s not important, I need a couple dead. Thirty-five grand for the whole job. They live at 82 North Wooleridge Avenue, south side of town – big house.”

“What? I don’t—,? but the opposing lined clicked before I could continue.

Very confused, I shuffled back into my room and climbed into bed. Who had that been? How did he know my name? Thirty-five thousand dollars was a lot of money, but I did not know how much longer I could continue this lifestyle. Killing other human beings was not what bothered me; I had become hardened over the years. I was a professional, but was this really who I wanted to become? I was in it for the money and nothing else. I did not care about my clients or the people I killed. How much longer could I lie to my co-workers and Whitfield? What kind of monster was I becoming?

I did not sleep well; too much was on my mind. I climbed out of bed, dressed, and headed out the door. It was Saturday and I figured I would go scope out North Wooleridge Avenue. The house was very easy to find. Big beautiful oaks and small, delicate gardens decorated the estate. Two cars were parked in the driveway, so I could not get too close to the acreage. The kills would be no trouble at all, but did I really want to? I spent the next few days visiting the house and decided I was going to go for it. I felt no guilt killing anymore, plus I was making a large sum of money. What did I have to lose?

The next night was absolutely frigid with the temperature well below freezing. I carefully locked my apartment door and crept down the small flight of stairs and into my Focus. My silenced Colt M1911 hid tucked away in my inside coat pocket. I needed different means of execution for each of my targets. Use the same method twice and the Chicago Police Department and FBI would be on me in no time at all. The drive took about twenty minutes, and I found myself parked three blocks from the house. If I was going to do this, I needed to be quick. The bedroom sat on the second floor and was the second room on the left after the ascension of the staircase. Trying to act as poised as possible, I nonchalantly strolled along the sidewalk, passing only an elder man.

Finally, I had arrived at the house. Not one soul was in sight, so I decided to make my move. Moving briskly now, I headed straight for the front door. I reached the door and pulled out my false key that opened the lock with ease. The house was dark – so dark that I could not see my hand in front of my own face. I reached the staircase and cautiously began to climb. Step by step, I had finally reached the top. My head was spinning. Why did I not feel as calm as I had before? Suddenly, the front door doorknob turned and the crack I had left in the door disappeared. Frantically, I spun around and dropped to the floor. Lights from every direction poured onto me as if I were the halftime show at the Super Bowl. “Get on him! Get on him!” I heard a voice cry out from behind. I rolled over and crouched in a kneeling position on the floor. Adrenaline rushed throughout my body. All of a sudden, I was hit hard from behind, knocking the pistol out of my reach.
I was pinned; this was it. I heard a familiar voice call out for assistance. Just before it was slammed back into the floor, I picked my head up and saw Woodard standing tall with his handgun aimed at me. Whitfield stood just behind him.
I had been set-up; there was no denying it. The police officer who had tackled me stood me up on my feet and roughly handcuffed me. As we walked down the staircase and out onto the frozen front doorstep, I realized my life was over. They would take me in and interrogate me, and a well-prepared lawyer would prove the other killings were my work. It was my last job, and I had failed. This is exactly who I did not want to become. Just minutes ago I was living life to the fullest, and now I was a criminal. My life – gone in just seconds.