It was time for the other detective to chime in. “And you just messaged random people on Facebook?”
“Not exactly. I messaged people who had left heartfelt messages about the deceased. There were scores of likes and comments, but I wanted to talk to someone who knew them well, so I focused on the longer, more in-depth posts.”
The detectives looked at each other, confirming they thought it was a smart idea. Not that they’d acknowledge it directly. More likely, they thought I was stepping on their toes and doing work meant for the police.
“How many people did you message total?” Detective Marks asked.
“Maybe eight or nine.”
“And how many responded?
“Four or five. But only two agreed to meet with me.”
They looked surprised.
“You met with someone else?”
“Yeah. Some guy named Teddy Raye. Claimed he was James Neil’s uncle, but turned out he was just a distant cousin. He kept asking if he could get his name in the paper. He didn’t know anything. And then I went to see Tricia. Who obviously did.”
“Tell us everything that Tricia told you.” Ray had retaken the lead.
“We met at a Peet’s Coffee down by Lake Merritt. Immediately, I could tell she was nervous and didn’t want to talk with people around her. So we left the coffee shop and made our way to a park bench, where it was just us. I asked her about Aubrey and she obviously knew something. Apparently, they were best friends, and Aubrey had called her before she was murdered, saying she and James had seen something outside of their house. Tricia said it involved one of their neighbors.”
The detectives looked at each other and nodded. It confirmed that Tricia had told them the same thing.
“Anything else?”
“That’s when it occurred to me that Tricia might be in danger and I thought it was best to call you. I asked her if she’d walked or driven to the coffee shop. She said she’d walked, so I offered to drive her here. Which I did. After I dropped her off, I went to work and didn’t think anything more of it until I got your terrible call this morning.”
“And we appreciate you coming in, Mr. Adler. We just wanted to confirm that she told you the same things she’d told us. There’s now been quite a few murders over the last week, so we preferred to get it on record here at the station.”
“I understand. Anything I can do to help.”
“You can tell us when you talk to potential witnesses,” Marks told me.
Ray shooed him off. “We’re not here to prevent you from doing some investigating. Just make sure you keep us abreast of any news you might hear.”
“That’s all I was saying,” the buff, rebuffed detective said.
“Of course,” I said.
“Is there anything you can add about Ms. Knox?”
“Just that I’m very sad. She was a nice young woman. I’m crushed.”
“We all are. The Oakland PD did all we could to protect her and it wasn’t enough.”
“Did you ask her about her whereabouts the last few days?” I asked.
“Why?” Ray asked.
“It’s just that whoever this killer or killers are, they seem pretty ruthless. If they tortured Aubrey Durban to find out information, and she gave up Tricia Knox, why did they allow her to live for a few more days?”
“It’s a fair question.”
“I didn’t have time to ask her, but it wouldn’t shock me if she was staying somewhere else the last several days.”
“It’s information we’ll be looking into,” the younger detective said, but what he meant was: Don’t tell us how to do our jobs.
“Just trying to help,” I said.
“Thanks for coming in, Mr. Adler,” Ray Kintner said. “If you remember anything else, please be sure to call me.”
“Of course.”
I walked out of the Oakland Police Department and started thinking back to my birthday. I’d hoped the next forty years were going to be more exciting than the first forty. Mission accomplished, in the worst way possible.
But whether I’d make it another forty years, or even forty days, was very much in the air.
“I’ve got enough to write a basic article on the murders,” I said to Tom Butler once I arrived back at work.
I’d explained all that had happened since meeting Tricia Knox the day before. He expressed his remorse.
“I figured you were getting close. I’ve been weighing our options. Do we post an article every few days with minor updates? Or do we wait until this all plays out and publish a 10,000-word report, summarizing everything?”
It’s something I had been wrestling with myself. “It’s a tough call, Tom. I can write a Who, What, When, Where, How article today. Obviously, I’m hoping to eventually find out the Why. But that could be weeks, or even months away. Our readers would probably like to read about the case in the meantime. I’d recommend we publish something.”
I could feel him weighing his options.
“Alright, I’ll let you write an article today. But I want it to be in the passive voice. I don’t want you mentioning your having met Tricia Knox or how you’ve become immersed in this case. That can wait until we’re ready to publish a longform article.”
“Sounds good, Tom. I can have something for you by the end of the day.”
“Good work, Quint.” He peered up at me. “And those stitches are starting to look better.”
“Thanks,” I said.
Just then, Krissy Butler walked out of her office. “Oh hey, Quint, I didn’t know you were here. I’ve got another letter for you.”
She returned to her office and emerged with a letter. I put it in the backpack that I brought to work every day.
“Secret admirer?” Tom asked.
I wasn’t ready to tell them what the first letter had said. “Of course. Can I bring her to you guys’ next barbecue?”
“No, we like Cara,” Krissy said.
“You and everyone else in my life,” I said.
They smiled, knowing not to press it.
“If you must know, we have been getting along really well lately,” I said.
“I like hearing that,” Krissy said.
“So do I,” Tom confirmed.
“Before this deteriorates to a talk on my love life, I’m going to head downstairs and start writing that article.”
They both laughed.
“But your love life is so intriguing,” Krissy said.
“Not lately,” I said. “I’ve been a monk the last several months.”
They didn’t respond.
“Well, this is awkward,” I said, although we were all enjoying ourselves.
“Get writing, Quint the Monk.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, and headed back downstairs.
I spent the next hour writing the article.
Oakland Murders Have a Walnut Creek Link
by Quint Adler
One of the four tragic murders in Oakland over the last week has a sad connection to our fine city. Griffin Bauer, born and raised in Walnut Creek, was found murdered on Sunday morning on 7th Avenue in Oakland. Bauer was born in 1991 and spent his childhood in Walnut Creek, although he attended high school in Concord, going to De La Salle.
His death came a day after the as-yet unsolved murders of Aubrey Durban and her boyfriend James Neil on Oakland Avenue. Although their bodies weren’t found until a day after Bauer’s, the police and the medical examiner have determined the deaths of Durban and Neil occurred on Saturday, before the death of Bauer.
A source in the Oakland Police Department has said that it appears the two murder locations might be related.
Adding to the devastation, Tricia Knox, a friend of Aubrey Durban’s, was tragically killed on Thursday night. Authorities are tight lipped, but they aren’t denying that the Bauer murder may be related to the other three.
Mr. Bauer had attended Diablo Valley College after De La Salle, but there is no record of him having graduated with a higher
education degree. His last known job was at Rick’s Rigs, a trucking company based out of Oakland.
Bauer is survived by his parents, Betsy and Terence, who still live in Walnut Creek. Funeral arrangements have not been announced.
The four murders have brought Oakland’s total to fifty-seven this year. After years of a declining murder rate, 2020 has proved to be particularly violent. In both 2018 and 2019, exactly seventy-four people were killed in Oakland. We are currently on pace for more than a hundred in 2020.
These murders have Oaklanders on edge as it’s been the deadliest week in the city since January. Anyone who has any leads on the above cases is asked to reach out to the Oakland Police Department. Their phone number is 510-555-5920.
It was short and to the point, just what Tom was looking for.
“Good work, Quint. I imagine it was tough not throwing in some personal details of the case.”
“If I’m going to get help from the OPD going forward, I better keep my articles pretty vanilla.”
“Don’t worry, down the line I’ll let you add chocolate, strawberry, or any other flavor you want.”
“Thanks, Tom. It will be a Neapolitan ice cream sandwich by time I’m finished.”
Tom laughed, then confirmed the article would be in the weekend edition.
I felt guilty. Here I was, making a silly ice cream joke, while Tricia Knox was dead. A young life taken for no reason. Something was going on and it was not a laughing matter. People were systematically being killed.
I somberly headed home.
8.
I woke up on Saturday, a week removed from my birthday.
So much had happened and yet I didn’t know exactly what my next move should be. The mystery’s solution lay in finding out what Aubrey Durban and James Neil saw, something that was going to be next to impossible.
My initial fear of being a marked man was starting to wear off. When Detective Kintner told me I might be in harm’s way, I didn’t know what I was going to do. Move? Buy a gun? So many options, none of which I looked forward to, flooded my head.
But as I thought more about it, I came to the conclusion I’d be safe. After torturing Tricia, they’d have realized she didn’t know what Aubrey and James had seen. So she couldn’t have given me any crucial information. Furthermore, she had gone to the police. There was no need to kill me when the information had already been passed on to the authorities.
So I felt better about that. But my mindset was a different story. I was trying to be clinical and rational, which belied all the violence occurring around me.
I used Tricia being tortured as a justification for why I’d be safe. The utterly inhumane nature of her death should have told me that anything was possible with these people. Or person.
I spent a few more minutes mourning for Tricia Knox. A young woman whose life was taken in the most vicious way possible. What a tragic, unnecessary loss.
I knew I’d done the right thing by taking her to the police. But that didn’t mean that I wouldn’t be riddled with moments of guilt. I said another prayer for her.
Murder. Prayers. Crying.
That seemed to sum up the week since my birthday.
And then it hit me: I hadn’t opened the second letter that Krissy Butler had given me.
I fished it out of my backpack, trying to touch as little of the envelope as possible, just in case we needed it checked for fingerprints down the line.
I pulled out the letter itself and started to read.
I should have known you were a small timer. I point you in the direction of Dennis McCarthy and you don’t do shit with that knowledge. No mention of him in your pathetic article. So this will be your last letter unless I see you actually doing something. And trust me, I will see. Investigate Paddy Roark. He manages a grocery store on Geary Street in San Francisco called Boyle’s. But it’s just a front. He’s McCarthy’s henchman and if a murder was necessary, it would have been Paddy. Get to work or our communication is over.
I set the piece of paper down.
This was all becoming too much.
I got back in bed and tried to go back to sleep. To no avail.
I pondered if it was time to go to the police. Undoubtedly, yes, but was I willing to? If I admitted to everything, I’d almost certainly be fired from the Walnut Creek Times. Scratch almost. I’d undoubtedly be fired.
You couldn’t have a reporter admitting to appearing at crime scenes before the police. And to withholding evidence. Tom and Krissy would have no choice but to let me go.
And then what? I’d be persona non grata in the journalism field.
You hear about that guy from the Walnut Creek Times? He withheld information from the police and tried to become a part of his own news story. What happened to journalism in this country? I hope he never gets another job.
And then there’d be the police themselves. They could charge me with a host of crimes.
I hated my decision, but I couldn’t find any way around it. I wasn’t going to the police. I would continue going rogue.
For better or worse.
And in all likelihood, it would be for the worst.
“The funeral for Tricia Knox is this coming Friday. But it’s just going to be friends and family.” Ray Kintner said.
I’d been walking in downtown Walnut Creek, heading to get some lunch, when he called.
“Probably for the best,” I said.
“I’m sure they know it’s not the police or the media’s fault, but I don’t blame them for not wanting us there.”
“I think about her a lot,” I said.
“Me too. Oh, and you were right about something.”
“What’s that?”
“Tricia had been out of town. She visited a sick grandfather in Portland. It’s probably why she wasn’t killed immediately after Aubrey Durban was tortured.”
“Thanks.”
“You’ve got a pretty good eye for detective work, Quint.”
“Thanks again. I’ve always thought there were similarities between our two fields.”
“Without question.”
I wondered why he was buttering me up, and my answer came soon thereafter.
“If you have any other ideas about the case, I’d love to hear them,” he said. “I feel like I might be missing something obvious.”
My mind immediately focused on the possibility of a way out for me. If I could tell Ray I had some “inside information,” maybe he’d be willing to let me off the hook for my transgressions. And work out something with Tom Butler. I valued my job and couldn’t afford to lose it.
“Of course,” I said. “Let’s talk soon.”
“Sounds good.”
The rest of Saturday was relaxing. I’d decided I needed a Quint day. It had been a high stress week, to say the least. I soaked in the peace while I could. I took my first bath in months, listening to some Frank Sinatra and trying to forget about everything, despite knowing it wouldn’t last long.
Turned out the calm lasted less than a day. I woke up early on Sunday morning and decided to give the letters I’d received some attention.
I didn’t know where they were coming from or who’d written them. It could have been some crackpot for all I knew. But I couldn’t just ignore them. For my inquiring mind, that was impossible.
I called Boyle’s Grocery Store on Geary Street.
“Is Paddy Roark going to be in today?”
“Yeah, Paddy is here. Would you like to talk to him?”
“No, I’ll surprise him. Thanks.”
I set off for San Francisco.
Boyle’s Grocery Store was on Geary Street, six blocks from the ocean. If this had been the ‘50s or ‘60s when Dennis McCarthy grew up, this area would have been 90% Irish. It was technically the Richmond District and not the Sunset, but back then, the Irish monopolized both parts, being that they were contiguous.
I noticed a few Irish pubs as I got closer to Boyle’s, but there were also several Chinese and Russian
restaurants. The area was no longer a stronghold of the Irish. Funny how the bars were always Irish and the restaurants some other nationality. I don’t know if that’s a judgement on their proclivity for drinking or their poor reputation for gourmet food.
Not wanting to bring attention to myself, I picked up a cart at the front door with the intention of buying a few things. Boyle’s had three aisles that went back about thirty feet each. You could get your basics, but this wasn’t a Whole Foods or even a Trader Joe’s.
The inside was painted green and orange, a nod to its Irish roots, and there was an aisle dedicated solely to foods from Ireland. No question as to who this grocery store catered to.
I looked around, but didn’t see any sign of Paddy Roark. No, I had no idea what he looked like, but if he’d really been Dennis McCarthy’s longtime henchman, I knew he wasn’t going to be a young man. And I only saw a few checkers in their twenties and a woman in her forties.
There weren’t many customers. I hoped to blend in, but instead I was standing out.
I picked up a loaf of Irish soda bread. It was huge, but I could massacre that thing in two sittings. I picked up some eggs and slid them into my cart.
Just then, a man in his mid-fifties started walking down the aisle toward me. His face was a weathered mess. It looked like leather. His intense stare almost caused me to look away, but instead I offered a quick “Hello.”
“Can I help you find something?”
I hadn’t been expecting that.
“I was thinking about making a corned beef dinner.” It’s what popped in my mind, being the only Irish dish I could think of. Maybe that’s why they didn’t have many restaurants.
“Follow me,” he said.
He took me down a different aisle and pointed in the direction of some corned beef briskets. They looked delicious, I had to say.
“Thanks,” I said.
“You from around here?” he asked.
“No, why?”
I was already on the defensive. How had this happened so quickly?
“We’re a store of regulars. Always happy to see a new face, though,” he said, but his own face belied that statement.
Revenge at Sea: (Quint Adler Book 1) Page 7
