It was an Instagram photo before there was Instagram, perfectly square in shape, worn at the edges, and slightly yellowed from age. Sam had multiple copies of it on her laptop, home desktop computer, and iPhone. She didn’t remember that day, but the image filled her with warmth nonetheless.
In contrast, the pictures spread out in front of her now on the coffee table were not nearly as pleasant. Unlike Instagram, crime scene photos had no filters to blur out the details, and every spatter, speck, and wound was clearly visible on the victims’ bodies. There were fourteen dead women in total—all young, like Sam’s mother had been—ranging in ages from fourteen to nineteen. Each one had been brutally raped vaginally and anally, sometimes with a blunt object, and then strangled to death. Each one had been missing a left hand that was thought to be chopped off with a cleaver just below the wrist bone (thus earning the Butcher his moniker). Each one had been burned with a cigar and found in a wooded area, buried in a shallow grave loosely covered with leaves. The bodies were found all over the Northwest, from as far south as Eugene, Oregon, right through Washington State, all the way up to Langley, British Columbia.
The Butcher’s kill zone.
And Sam was determined—not obsessed, thank you very much—to prove that her mother was one of the Butcher’s victims. There were several similarities. Sarah Marquez had also been raped vaginally and anally, both with and without a blunt object, and strangled to death. She’d been found in the woods a few minutes outside Olympia, Washington, buried in a shallow grave covered with leaves. In Sam’s professional—yet determined—opinion, this was more than enough to explore the Butcher as Sarah’s murderer.
Unfortunately, Seattle PD disagreed with Sam, and for two good reasons. The first was that Sarah, unlike the other Butcher victims, still had both hands intact. And the second reason was even stronger: Rufus Wedge was shot and killed by Edward Shank’s team in 1985. Sarah Marquez’s murder didn’t happen until 1987.
While Sarah’s case was still technically unsolved, the last theory was that she had been killed by a homeless person, as she’d been seen interacting with a homeless man outside her workplace a few hours before she was murdered. However, the cops never made an arrest, citing lack of evidence. And since the Butcher case had been so sensational, anyone could have copied the Butcher’s tactics.
The thing that had always bothered Sam, though, was why? Why copycat an MO from a dead serial killer? What was the point of that, when everybody would know it couldn’t possibly be him? The fun of being a copycat killer was to capitalize on the publicity, to create further panic and mayhem in a city that was already scared. Or so Sam thought.
Unless, of course, it was really him. Sam didn’t believe that Rufus Wedge was the Butcher, and this theory was the basis of her current book, Butcherville.
Her intention was not to criticize Seattle PD and their investigation. All she wanted was to open up the possibility that maybe someone else could have committed the murders. After all, the cases had never gone to trial. Rufus Wedge had never had the opportunity to defend himself. And nobody, not even the Chief, could deny that the charges against Wedge were based on strong circumstantial evidence only. There were no fingerprints, no DNA, and no trace evidence that definitively put Wedge at any of the crime scenes.
But neither was Sam intending to sanctify Rufus Wedge. The man was certainly no angel. He’d had a long criminal history that included sexual assault, larceny, drugs, and statutory rape long before he’d ever been accused of murder. Sam was fascinated by criminal profiling, and Wedge certainly fit the textbook definition of a serial murderer. He was a white male, loner, early forties, with a history of violence. He’d had no family and no friends, and so there’d been nobody to stand up for him after his death and insist that it couldn’t have been him. It had been easy to accept Rufus Wedge as the Butcher.
Sam wanted Butcherville to document the mass hysteria that had taken over Seattle during the height of the investigation. From what she’d read and from what Edward had told her, women under the age of thirty were instructed not to go anywhere alone after dark, and many businesses were allowing their female employees to leave work early so they could be home by sundown. The city had been on the verge of imposing a curfew. Sam wanted to explore the extreme pressure on the Seattle Police Department to hunt the Butcher down. But she also wanted to point out that the main reason everybody believed Rufus Wedge to be the Beacon Hill Butcher was that the murders stopped after Wedge’s death.
Or had they? Sam had theories on that, too. If the real Butcher had never been caught because some other guy had been nailed for his crimes, wouldn’t it make sense to change his MO after Wedge was killed?
She had, of course, discussed all this with former police chief Edward Shank, who’d generously answered all of her questions. The Chief wasn’t buying her theory, of course, but neither did he disapprove of Sam’s current work in progress. In fact, her boyfriend’s grandfather seemed to be very interested in what she came up with, and often called to ask how the research was going. He’d even bought her a textbook for Christmas called Practical Homicide Investigation: Tactics, Procedures, and Forensic Techniques, which was the same textbook police officers used to study homicide before taking the detective’s exam. It was complete with graphic color photos of actual crime scenes and the methods used to investigate. Sam had been ecstatic. Edward had also offered to write a foreword for her book, which she believed had ultimately been the reason she’d been able to sell the book to a publisher.
Matt, on the other hand, had thought the homicide textbook to be an extremely disturbing Christmas gift, but her boyfriend had resigned himself to her “strange hobby” a long time ago. Mind you, Sam wasn’t crazy about the word hobby, either, but she vastly preferred it over the word obsession.
Sam picked up a picture of Rufus Wedge and stared at it for what seemed like the thousandth time. It was taken right after he’d been shot outside his apartment, and he was covered in bullet holes and blood. He certainly made for an interesting villain, as far as criminals went. So far, there hadn’t been a definitive book about the man believed to be the Beacon Hill Butcher, and Sam could only assume this was because there was so little information about him other than his arrest record. From his birth to his death, Wedge had lived life mostly off the grid. He’d never had a driver’s license (not in his real name, anyway), had never filed a tax return, and had never voted. He’d never had a bank account. He’d never had a steady job that lasted longer than three months. What Wedge did have was a conviction for third-degree sexual assault (for which he’d served three years), a series of arrests for petty drug possession and larceny (for which he’d cut deals), and a charge for the rape of a sixteen-year-old, which never went to trial because the girl refused to testify. It was Sam’s theory that had Wedge not been shot and killed, and had the case gone to trial as it should have, the prosecution may not have won a conviction. Yes, underwear and other personal items belonging to the victims had been found in Wedge’s apartment. Yes, Wedge had been in every single city at the time one of the Butcher’s victims was killed. But that was really all they had. Police hadn’t even been able to find the cleaver that had been used to chop off the victims’ hands.
Moving the photos aside, Sam traced a finger over the photocopy of the front page of the Seattle Times from April 26, 1985. BUTCHER DEAD! screamed out in thick, black letters, and underneath was a close-up of Rufus Wedge’s face. It was his old mug shot from the sexual assault arrest, and of course he looked every bit like a serial killer should, with his greasy hair, doughy face, and dead eyes.
So easy to believe that he was the one.
And then, of course, the murders had stopped.
A ping from her laptop broke her thoughts, and Sam turned her attention to her computer. She was currently logged into a website called TheSerialKillerFiles.com, and okay, she could agree that the amount of time she spent on this particular site might potentially be considered a little obsess
ive. But where else could she chat with other site members about murder, serial killers, weapons, victims, and forensics? The website was originally owned by a teenager named Jeremiah Blake, who blogged about serial killers, and it was now owned and operated by someone else who’d purchased the domain name and turned it into an active forum for people who liked to discuss all things murder. And that was a lot of people.
The ping meant she had an instant message. When Sam clicked on it, she wasn’t surprised to see it was from someone she’d been chatting online with a lot recently, someone who went by the username “KillerRed.” She knew nothing personal about KillerRed, just as KillerRed knew nothing personal about Sam. You didn’t ever want to give people you’d only ever chatted with online (about serial killers, no less) your personal information. All Sam had ever let on was that she was doing research for a book she was writing. No specifics.
However, Sam had been enjoying her conversations with KillerRed, someone who seemed a little more levelheaded than the other conspiracy theorists she’d run into on the site. They’d had several discussions about different Northwest serial killers, and of course they’d talked about the Butcher quite a bit. Sam had been delighted when KillerRed agreed with her theory that Rufus Wedge was the wrong man. Anonymous or not, it was finally nice to talk to someone who didn’t think she was full of shit.
KILLERRED:
Are you still doing research for ur book?
SAM_SPADE:
Yes, I am. It’s coming along slowly. Any new theories for me? :)
KILLERRED:
No, but I was thinking it was time we met IRL. Maybe go for coffee?
Sam blinked. Great, she wasn’t expecting that. “IRL” was online speak for “in real life.” She frowned at her computer screen and contemplated how to respond. She’d been hit on a few times online—that was how it was with the Internet and social media. She sighed. So KillerRed was a guy, then. And coffee with a guy she’d never met before, who was a serial killer aficionado? Hell, no.
SAM_SPADE:
Appreciate the invite, but probably not a good idea. Anyway, aren’t you in Sacramento?
KILLERRED:
Will be in Seattle this week for a job. Ur interested in the Butcher, right? I think we should meet, I have info for u that will help ur book.
SAM_SPADE:
I appreciate that, but can you send it to me some other way?
KILLERRED:
U don’t want to meet?
SAM_SPADE:
I have a boyfriend.
KILLERRED:
LOL! That’s ok! I’m female!
SAM_SPADE:
Oh sorry, haha! I just assumed you were a guy. Still, I’m not sure it’s a good idea.
KILLERRED:
Because ur worried I’m some kind of crazy person, LOL?
SAM_SPADE:
Pretty much, haha.
KILLERRED:
We could meet in a public place. Bring a friend if u want. I made a decision. I need to reveal what I know. I promise u I’m not a psycho.
Yeah, right. Sure, you’re not. And I’m not obsessed with the Butcher, either.
SAM_SPADE:
What do you know?
KILLERRED:
I know the Butcher’s real identity.
Sam snorted. She certainly hadn’t been expecting that. Maybe KillerRed was a freak, after all.
SAM_SPADE:
Tell me.
KILLERRED:
Not online. IRL only.
SAM_SPADE:
Sorry, wish I could.
KILLERRED:
U don’t believe I know who the real Butcher is?
SAM_SPADE:
I believe that you believe it. :)
KILLERRED:
I know of a victim that the police don’t know about. They don’t know she was killed by the Butcher.
That makes two of us, Sam thought.
KILLERRED:
I have a picture. It’s me with the victim. Do u want to see it?
SAM_SPADE:
Sure.
KILLERRED:
Gimme a sec and I’ll upload it.
Rolling her eyes, Sam waited, though she couldn’t deny that she was a little curious to see whatever it was KillerRed wanted to show her. She hoped it wasn’t a picture of himself, or worse, his penis. That happened sometimes with guys online, too, and it was always gross and unwelcome.
After a moment, a square thumbnail—a mini picture—appeared in the chat exchange. Sam could make out two faces in the photo. Definitely not a nudie shot. More curious now, Sam clicked on it.
And almost choked.
One of the faces was her dead mother. There was no mistaking that the young woman on the left was Sarah Marquez. Wearing a bright smile, her dark eyes lit up Sam’s computer screen. In one hand was a strawberry ice-cream cone that was just beginning to melt. The other face belonged to a young woman Sam didn’t recognize, someone with green eyes and red hair.
KILLERRED:
That’s me on the right. With the red hair. This was a long time ago, I was only 16.
SAM_SPADE:
Who’s the woman on the left?
KILLERRED:
Her name was Sarah. She was killed in 1987 by the Butcher.
Sam suddenly found it hard to type. Her fingers were shaking too badly.
SAM_SPADE:
How do you know?
KILLERRED:
Because the Butcher tried to kill me too. I got away. She didn’t. The police think a homeless guy did it because Sarah was killed after Rufus Wedge was shot. I want them to reopen the case. Maybe they will if I tell u what I know, and u write about it. U said u were published before, right?
SAM_SPADE:
Yes.
KILLERRED:
Then maybe they’ll listen.
SAM_SPADE:
How did you even know Sarah?
KILLERRED:
She was my best friend. She lived with me for a while. Her and her daughter.
Sam didn’t know what to say. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might burst. At this point, she almost didn’t care that the woman had information about the Butcher. KillerRed had known her mother. Sam had been put in foster care at the age of two. She had never met anyone who’d known her mother. Ever.
SAM_SPADE:
Where do you want to meet?
KILLERRED:
I’ll message u when I’m in Seattle in a few days.
SAM_SPADE:
Ok. I look forward to meeting you.
KILLERRED:
I hope UR not a psycho, LOL!
SAM_SPADE:
Ha, touché. Talk soon.
KillerRed logged off and Sam finally exhaled. She felt light-headed, slightly unable to process what had just happened. What an incredible coincidence, some random person online knowing her mom, and believing that her mother had been murdered by the real Butcher.
Or, maybe it wasn’t? Maybe this random person wasn’t so random, and had somehow figured out Sam’s IP address and knew exactly who she was. Maybe this random person was an actual serial killer who used the site to lure his victims into meeting him, so he could perform unspeakable acts of violence.
Goddammit, it was totally crazy. Beyond crazy. It was insane.
Nevertheless, she was still totally going.
Sam picked up her iPhone and called Jason.
6
Edward Shank didn’t like candy asses, and Jay Leno was a total candy ass.
He changed the channel to David Letterman, settling back into his recliner in room 214 of the Sweetbay Village Retirement Residence. He enjoyed Letterman. Unlike Leno, the man wasn’t afraid to make his guests squirm. And Edward enjoyed it when people squirmed, because they didn’t do it like other creatures in the animal kingdom. Human beings didn’t wriggle or try to get away. They shifted uncomfortably in their chairs, they averted their eyes, they sweated, they stammered. And it was fun as hell to watch. Interrogations had always been Edward’s specia
lty.
He missed making people squirm. He missed working. Doctors liked to say that stress killed, but Edward had decided that boredom was the real killer. The only visitor he’d had since he’d moved here had been Matthew’s girlfriend, Samantha, and she’d visited twice. His grandson seemed to be too busy to stop by, but that was all right. Edward understood. The kid was working hard, as he should be.
Edward’s room was small, but it had everything he needed, including a kitchenette and small washer and dryer. He didn’t mind it. He really didn’t mind much about the place at all, except for the fact that it could get a little noisy. During the day there was always a lot going on, what with all the card tournaments, bingo, lawn bowling, and movies playing endlessly in the recreation room.
And the chatter. Oh, the chatter. It never stopped.
But after 10 p.m., the retirement home quieted down. By midnight, Edward’s favorite time, it was a ghost village. Hell, of course it was, since they started serving breakfast at seven, which meant the place was up and at ’em by six. The food really wasn’t half bad, if you liked gourmet omelets made with egg whites and low-fat turkey bacon (which wasn’t bacon—if it didn’t come from a pig, it wasn’t bacon), and Edward was mostly fine with it, as it wasn’t any different than what Marisol used to make him eat. His late wife had been more concerned about his cholesterol than he was.
The Butcher Page 4
