Greg and I had gone out for beers a few times and liked to talk about our beloved Golden State Warriors, but he was recently engaged, and I didn’t see him as much anymore.
Jan was pleasant, and we got along great inside the office, but like a few of the others, I didn’t socialize with her much outside of it.
I knew Tom and Krissy Butler the best. I’d been to their house many times for work BBQs, and I’d brought a few girlfriends on double dates with them over the years. But they’d always tell me the women never stacked up to Cara. Like everyone else in my life, they didn’t understand why we weren’t together at all times.
I’d also have dinner with just Tom and Krissy about once a month. They were my bosses, but they were also good friends. The twenty-year age gap didn’t matter. We had a great back and forth.
Overall, it was a solid group of people, and I was lucky to work with them.
I found the Oakland paper. It was formerly the Oakland Tribune but now known as the East Bay Times. It had been a rough couple of years for the city of Oakland. The Warriors moved to San Francisco, and the Raiders moved to Las Vegas. And their most well-known paper no longer carried its name.
I scrolled through it, looking for any mention of what I’d seen yesterday. I couldn’t find anything, though I hadn’t really expected to. More likely I’d see an article the following day. The body would definitely be decaying at this point, and the smell would likely make its way out to the street. If someone saw a broken door jamb and smelled something funky, they’d probably call the cops.
Although in that area of Oakland, you never know. A lot of people liked to keep to themselves and not become involved with the police.
“Don’t read that paper, Quint! You’re going to get jealous of all the crimes being committed,” Trent Buckley said.
“Some cities have all the luck.”
Trent laughed.
And then, as if on cue, Tom Butler walked down the stairs. “Quint! We’ve got something for you.”
“Oh yeah, what is it?”
“A murder in Oakland.”
That got my attention. “Oakland? We don’t cover Oakland.”
“We do when the victim is from Walnut Creek. Come up and I’ll give you the info.”
Tom made his way back upstairs.
Trent just looked at me.
“Creepy timing,” he said.
It was creepy for more than just the timing.
I walked up to Tom’s office, half hoping it would be a different murder, one I wasn’t already slightly involved in. But no such luck.
Tom told me the deceased was a man named Griff Bauer. He’d been born in Walnut Creek and attended a local high school named De La Salle, famous nationwide for having the longest winning streak in high school football history.
He graduated in 2010 and was now twenty-eight years old. His last known job was as a truck driver for a company known as Rick’s Rigs.
Tom gave me the address. I remained stone-faced.
He sent me on my way, and I set out for a house I’d visited twenty-four hours earlier.
As I headed to Oakland, I told myself this was my last chance to come clean with the cops. But I knew I wasn’t going to exercise that option.
I would instantly lose my job and possibly land in jail. Nope, this was now mine to own.
I arrived in Oakland and parked on the street, twenty feet from where I’d been the day before. Trent Buckley’s “creepy” comment re-entered my mind.
It was indeed creepy, down to the fact that I walked the same steps. Yellow police tape surrounded the house, and some officers milled on the street, probably waiting on the medical examiner to finish.
As I approached, I got dirty looks from a few of the officers.
“Can we help you?” one asked.
“I’m with the media. Just trying to get information on the deceased.”
“What paper?”
This was always a tough selling point.
“The Walnut Creek Times,” I said.
“Never heard of it,” said the oldest and gruffest of the officers. He looked like he was nearing retirement. You didn’t see many graybeards on the force anymore.
I’d probably gotten his response a hundred times over the years when I mentioned the name of my paper. I had three rehearsed lines.
If I felt disrespected, I’d say, “It’s amazing we’ve managed to survive without your knowledge of us.”
If I were mildly offended, I’d go with, “Doesn’t mean we don’t exist.”
And if I couldn’t risk offending anyone, I’d say, “We’re a small paper with our own little niche.”
Which is what I decided upon. The Oakland Police Department had bigger fish to fry than me, and if I pissed them off, I’d surely get the cold shoulder.
“Well, unless your niche is murder, I’m not sure why you’re here,” the older officer said. It was apparent he ran the show.
“I’ve been informed that the deceased is from Walnut Creek, where our paper is based. And yes, in fact, I do write about crime.”
“Crime and murder are two different things, Walnut Creek. A head bashed in is different than writing about some burglary.”
“Oh, it’s never anything that big. Usually just stolen bikes,” I said.
His fellow officers laughed. I’d managed to kill them with kindness.
“You’re alright, Walnut Creek. Let me see what the M.E. says, and maybe I’ll give you a little information. A very little.”
“Thanks for your help,” I said, deciding gratitude was the best course of action.
I loitered around, keeping my eyes on the house, but occasionally glancing back toward the street. If the old man who’d seen me by the door had alerted the police to my presence, I’d have some difficult questions to answer.
A few people lingered across the street, and I wanted to ask if they had ever met Griff Bauer. With the police still around, and not wanting to step on toes this early, I decided to wait.
To kill some time, I took out my phone and googled both Griffin and Griff Bauer. It wasn’t too common a name, so I was able to find him pretty quickly. I clicked on his Facebook page. 121 friends. No posts from him in six months. And no posts grieving his death, obviously. The M.E. would have to confirm his identity before telling his immediate family. The only people who already knew he was dead were the killer (or killers), the police, the M.E., and me.
His bio said his hometown was Walnut Creek and that he currently lived in Oakland. It listed nothing else, and with very few posts, I wasn’t going to learn much about Griff Bauer from his Facebook page.
I couldn’t find an Instagram or a Twitter that belonged to him.
Something appeared in the corner of my eye. As I looked up, the door opened, and the M.E. wheeled a body bag out of the house on a gurney.
I remained stoic, but it hit me that this guy was alive thirty-six hours ago and sitting in a hospital bed about twenty feet from me.
What happened to you, Griff Bauer?
A few minutes later, the older officer headed in my direction. By his badge, I realized he was a detective. He stood about the same height as me, with the beginning of a potbelly, but still in good shape. Probably only in his mid-fifties, which wouldn’t be old for almost any other profession. But it was for a cop.
“Walnut Creek!”
“My name is Quint, let’s go with that,” I said.
He smiled, proving he wasn’t quite as gruff as I’d initially perceived. “You got it. We’ll be canvassing the house in a few minutes, but I’ve got some basic info for you.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Griffin Bauer, known as Griff, was born on August 19th, 1991, making him twenty-eight years old. He was born in Walnut Creek and attended De La Salle High School in neighboring Concord.”
“No offense, detective, but this is all stuff I could easily find out.”
He had a knowing smile on his face. “This is why I don’t like dealing with th
e media.”.
I felt a rush of pride. I’m not sure most people would consider the Walnut Creek Times a legitimate part of the media.
“Looks like I came out here for nothing,” I said.
I pretended to start walking away.
“Hold on,” he said.
I turned back.
“The M.E. thinks he was killed sometime late Saturday night or early Sunday morning. It was blunt force trauma, and the killer was also blunt in his savagery, if you catch my drift.”
I did. I’d seen what was left of Bauer’s face a full day earlier. And if the timeframe was right and he’d been killed on Sunday morning, I might have just missed his killer.
My mind went to the car that hovered at the stop sign, but I tried to stay focused.
“Could you name any suspects?” I said, intentionally overstepping my bounds.
“Nice try. I wouldn’t name any if we did, but obviously, we don’t have any this early on.”
The detective would never give me a suspect, but he’d answered a question of mine just by denying there were any suspects.
Something else could be helpful information to me. “Do you know of his whereabouts leading up to the murder?”
“Another question I wouldn’t answer even if I knew. But the answer is no. We literally got this call two hours ago.”
“How did you find out about the dead body?”
“I won’t comment on that.”
Did you know that I was within twenty feet of the deceased on both Saturday night and Sunday morning? Not that I was going to ask that question.
I knew there wasn’t much more I was going to get.
“Thanks for taking the time to talk to me.”
“You’re okay, Walnut Creek,” he said, ignoring my Quint suggestion.
“What was your name?” I asked.
He pointed at his badge. “Detective Ray Kintner. Is this your first murder case? No offense, but you seem a little green.”
I’d probably worked one murder every few years in Walnut Creek since joining our paper, so he wasn’t far off. But if he wanted to think this was my first, I was fine with that. He seemed to enjoy talking down to me, and it helped me get information.
“As I said, usually bike thefts. I’m a little out of my league here.”
I played the small-town fool to perfection. Not that Walnut Creek was all that small, but compared to Oakland, it sure felt like it.
He handed me a business card. “Call me tomorrow,” he said. “Maybe I’ll have some more info. But stop asking about suspects and motives. You’re never going to get those out of me, and it’s one sure way of losing my trust.”
“No suspects. No motives. I got it. Thanks again for your patience, Detective Kintner.”
“Call me Ray. See you around, Quint.”
“Ahh, you did hear me.”
“I’ll deny it under questioning.”
I laughed.
We left on good terms.
I walked back to my car and waited. And waited. Almost two hours later, the officers all left, and I made my way toward the house. Actually, to its neighbors. I decided to knock on some doors.
I would introduce myself as Quint Adler, reporter. Unless I encountered the man I’d seen the day before. Then I’d be Bob Smith.
The first door I knocked on went unanswered.
The second door was answered by a squirrelly young woman who didn’t want to respond to my questions. Said she “hadn’t never heard of no Walnut Creek Times.”
I didn’t get a chance to mention she’d accomplished the rare triple negative before she shut the door in my face.
My third house proved more beneficial. The door was answered by a black man who looked to be deep into his eighties. Despite his age, he was sharp as a tack. Not always the case when I dealt with the elderly.
“My name is Quint Adler, and I’m a reporter with the Walnut Creek Times.”
“I like Walnut Creek,” he said. “A lot safer than here in Oakland.”
It seemed to be a recurring theme.
“I’m Clarence, by the way,” he added.
“Nice to meet you, Clarence. Did you know your neighbor, Griffin Bauer?”
“I know they took him out of here on a stretcher a few hours ago. And not the stretcher you get up from.”
“You’re right about that. They are saying it was blunt force trauma,” I said, hoping to elicit a response.
“Can’t say I’m surprised,” he said. “This area has just gotten worse over the years. When I bought this house in the 1970s, this was a nice place to live. Raised four kids here. Married fifty-one years to the same woman until she passed away a few years back.”
“Sorry about your wife. But fifty-one years is a long, long time,” I said. I meant it. I was forty and single, while this guy had been married fifty-one years. I wanted to ask his secret, but this wasn’t the time.
“Lots of ups and downs, but I wouldn’t change a thing,” he continued.
“Life’s a roller coaster,” I said. “So, did you have any interactions with Mr. Bauer?”
“He’s two doors down, so yeah, I’ve had some interactions with him. Probably be better if I hadn’t.”
“How’s that?” I asked.
“The young man was a jerk. No one liked him on this block. He’d yell at people if they were talking outside of his house. He’d have people over at all hours of the night, being loud.”
“Sounds like a black eye for the neighborhood.”. The irony hit me as I said it. Describing a white guy using a derogatory term that had “black” in it. Talk about unfair.
Black market. Blackballed. Black hat. Blacklist. Blackball. Black cat. Blackmail. Black eye. And the list doesn’t end there.
Clarence didn’t remark on my faux pas.
“You can say that again. It’s funny; this neighborhood started going downhill when some of these poorer white punks moved in and started selling meth or pills or whatever it is they sell these days. But because it’s majority black, we get the blame. I’m not saying we don’t have to do better, we do. Men need to stay with their women. It’s killing our families. I’m just pointing out that when things go bad, black people are always accused of causing it. But don’t worry, I’m not blaming you. You seem like a very nice young man.”
“I just turned forty, not sure I still pass as young.”
“Forty sounds mighty young to me, sonny boy.”
I laughed. “I think saying ‘sonny boy’ gave away your age.”
It was his turn to laugh.
“Not to get all sentimental,” he said. “But this is how it should be. An old black guy and a young white guy getting along just fine. Too much hate in this world.”
“No doubt about that,” I said.
We both soaked in the moment.
“Listen, I’ll let you be, Clarence, but I had one more question.”
“Sure.”
“Did you see anyone go into his house on Saturday night?”
“What time you talking about?”
I did some math in my head and reasoned he left the hospital around 12:30. “12:30 a.m. or later.”
“You’ve got me confused with someone who stays up past 8:30.”
I smiled. “How about Sunday morning?”
I had to ask, even with the chance he might have seen me.
“I was at church.”
“Okay. Thanks, Clarence. It was a pleasure talking to you,” I said.
“The pleasure was mine. Drop in if you’re around this neighborhood again.”
“I will.”
We shook hands, and I left. This world could be a tough place, so I tried to soak in the moments that made for nice memories. My brief interaction with Clarence was one of those.
4.
“Quint, you’ve got a letter!” Krissy Butler shouted from the second floor of the office.
Sometimes when she or Tom were busy, they wouldn’t walk down the stairs. They’d just give us a yell. Today was
one of those times.
Krissy was an attractive woman in her late fifties. She had blonde, spiked hair and probably could have passed for her mid-forties. Tom had been a senior in high school and she a sophomore when they started dating. I’d accuse him of robbing the cradle from time to time. Krissy always enjoyed that.
I made the walk of shame upstairs and Krissy handed me an envelope. On the front, large typed letters read QUINT ADLER. There was no return address, and as I turned it over, I noticed the back of the envelope wasn’t sealed.
Krissy read my mind. “It wasn’t mailed. I found it under the mail slot this morning when I arrived.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“You’ve got a secret admirer,” she said.
“Secret? I thought that Playboy Playmate had made it public.”
Krissy shook her head. “Bye, Quint.”
I walked back downstairs and sat at my desk. Getting personal mail wasn’t all that uncommon at the Walnut Creek Times. Usually it was something that would benefit the sender. Can you do a write-up on my brand new business? Or, You just included me in your latest crime beat, I’d like to tell my side. Things of that nature.
This one had a different feel. Maybe it was the lack of a return address. I’m not sure exactly why, I just knew.
I leaned back in my executive chair and removed the sheet of paper from the envelope. I unfolded it and turned the written side toward me.
I read it once. And then a second time. And finally, a third time.
Mr. Adler, if your dream is to remain at the Walnut Creek Times for life, you can stop reading right now. If you aspire to something more, I have some information that might help you get there. One caveat. If you tell anyone about this, these letters will cease. And believe me, I will know. I’m a man who knows things. And one of those things I know is who killed Griff Bauer. You should start investigating a man named Dennis McCarthy. But be subtle. He will not take kindly to being investigated. That’s it for now. If you keep this to yourself, you can expect another letter in a week or so.
I looked around the office unnecessarily. It’s not as if Trent, Crystal, and Greg could read my mind. Or a piece of paper from across the room.
Revenge at Sea: (Quint Adler Book 1) Page 3
