The Butcher

by Jennifer Hillier

  PJ’s face was red, and he shook his head, wiping a drop of rain from his brow. “Okay, you know what, forget it. I tried, but this is bullshit.” He made to move past his boss toward the door, but Matt put a hand on his arm.

  “I didn’t dismiss you. We’re not done.”

  “Dismiss me?” PJ blinked, his small eyes widening in shock. “Did you really just say that?” He raised both hands. “This conversation is going totally sideways. I’m going back to work.”

  “I said, we’re not done.”

  “Please take your hand off me, Matt.”

  “Oh, this bothers you now?” Matt stepped even closer, getting into the other man’s face. “This bother you, too?” Before he could think about it, he poked his friend in the chest. Hard.

  Mouth opening slightly in surprise, PJ pushed back with his palm, with surprising force. Matt was propelled a step backward. Instantly, everything around him went hazy and quiet. All he could see were PJ’s beady eyes glaring up at him, and the anger that consumed him was so raw he could almost taste it. Matt’s fingers clenched into a fist, and before he could think about it, he punched PJ square on the jaw as hard as he could.

  The sound of his knuckles connecting with PJ’s round face was satisfying, almost ridiculously so. The smaller man went down instantly, his head slamming into the pavement with a dull thud.

  The haze cleared. Blinking, Matt looked down. Shit shit shit. PJ was out cold, not moving, and now Matt was going to jail, which was the last thing he fucking needed. Part of the agreement he’d made with the assistant district attorney when he’d been assigned community classes over jail time last year was that any further assault charges would result in a minimum one-year jail sentence. He’d gotten into a bar fight then and had beaten the other guy silly; his grandfather had smoothed things over.

  But there would be no smoothing things over this time. When PJ came to, he was going to be mad, he was going to sue, and Matt would be going to county.

  This was a fucking disaster.

  Cursing himself for his lack of control, Matt took a deep breath, trying to remember the relaxation techniques he’d learned. When PJ woke up, he would apologize. He would offer him money. He would do whatever he had to do to make this go away. Like his friend had just said, they went way back. Surely PJ would forgive him and they’d be able to move on.

  The rain was coming down a bit faster now, and he crouched down. “PJ. I’m sorry, dude. Wake up.”

  The man didn’t move.

  “PJ. Come on, man.”

  Matt put a hand on his friend’s shoulder and shook him. PJ’s head turned slightly on the pavement, and the next thing Matt knew, blood was seeping out. He recoiled, shocked.

  Oh no. No no no.

  Forcing himself to move in closer, Matt turned PJ over slightly, and that’s when he saw the large jagged rock under his friend’s head. PJ must have slammed into it when he’d hit the ground, and whatever injury this was, it was obviously more than just a concussion.

  Matt touched the smaller man’s shoulder gently. The blood continued to seep out from the side of PJ’s head in a steady, warm stream of bright red. “PJ? Wake up. Wake up, buddy. Please try and wake up.”

  PJ didn’t move, but his mouth finally opened and a small moan escaped his lips. Then his mouth closed and his whole body went slack.

  No. No no no. You’ve got to be kidding me. This cannot be happening.

  Heart racing, Matt felt for a pulse on the side of PJ’s neck. If there was one, he couldn’t find it. He checked PJ’s wrist. Nothing there, either. He shook PJ harder, and the man’s head lolled to the side.

  He was totally fucking dead.

  Shit shit shit fuck shit. How could this be possible? Matt had hit him, yes, but never in a million years had he meant to kill the guy. PJ was his friend. And now his friend was dead, and Matt would lose everything he worked for because of one lousy, out-of-control moment.

  Now what?

  Matt looked up and down the alleyway. They were completely alone, and nobody had seen what had just happened. Thank God. And although it was the afternoon, there wasn’t much daylight due to the rain that was coming down pretty steadily. The alley was just shadowy enough . . .

  He made his decision.

  PJ wasn’t a big guy, about five foot eight, and he was very lean, maybe around 155 or so. Matt was in pretty good shape thanks to regular weight training and running, but none of that made it any easier when he hefted his friend’s limp body up off the ground. There really was such a thing as dead weight—it felt like PJ weighed three hundred pounds.

  Placing his wrists under PJ’s armpits, he dragged the smaller man over to the dumpster. Heart pounding and scared as hell that somebody would come into the alley, Matt bent his knees and heaved. The adrenaline coursing through his veins helped; PJ was up and into the dumpster in a few seconds, his body landing on the bags of garbage inside with a soft thud.

  Panting, Matt’s knees buckled, and he fell back against the dirty metal of the dumpster, catching his breath. The rain was coming down harder now, and he lifted his face up to let the downpour cool him off. Okay. All right. Step one complete.

  Step two was moving the body someplace new. PJ couldn’t stay inside the dumpster for too long, as garbage pickup was tomorrow morning. And there was no way the boys from Waste Management would not notice a dead body falling into the back of their dump truck. Matt had no choice but to come back for PJ after the restaurant closed. No way around it.

  How the hell did you get rid of a dead body?

  Fuck fuck fuck.

  The back door to Adobo opened then, and one of the prep cooks appeared with a Hefty bag stuffed to the gills. Matt straightened up with a start, his lower back screaming out in pain. Dammit, he’d strained his SI joint, which was the absolute last thing he needed.

  “I got that, Wayne,” he said to the employee, stepping forward. He worked at keeping his posture erect so nothing would seem out of the ordinary. Risking a glance downward at himself, he was relieved to be reminded that he was wearing all black. If there was any blood on him, it didn’t show. Another glance toward the spot where PJ had fallen confirmed that the rain had washed away most of the blood from the head wound. “I can toss it in, I’m already wet. If there’s any more inside, go and grab it for me.”

  More garbage bags would cover up the body until Matt could figure out what to do with it.

  Wayne seemed surprised. “Thanks, Matt, appreciate it.” He looked around. “Where’s PJ?”

  “Sent him home,” Matt said, sounding every bit like the boss, his tone leaving no room for argument. “He wasn’t in the mood to work after our conversation.”

  The prep cook raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t ask questions. Nodding, Wayne left for a moment, then returned with a few more bags of garbage. Then he closed the back door, leaving Matt alone in the alley once again.

  Matt heaved the garbage bags into the dumpster one by one, back throbbing, hoping that PJ was totally buried. Then he pulled out his iPhone. Hesitating a moment—did he really want to make this call?—he found the number he was looking for.

  His call was answered after two rings.

  “Chief?” Matt said, his voice breaking. “I fucked up. I need your help.”

  12

  Jason’s black Range Rover was sitting in her driveway when Sam pulled up, and she couldn’t help but smile. He was waiting for her on the porch, dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt, dark blond hair comfortably mussed. She got out of her car and gave him a tired hug.

  “Tacos?” Jason held up a brown paper bag covered in grease spots. “I also have a burrito and an enchilada if you can’t make up your mind.”

  Tacos from Taco Time weren’t quite in the same league as Matt’s empanadas, but Sam had to admit they smelled damn good.

  “I also brought wine,” Jason said. “Tempranillo. I’m hoping it will make the food taste more expensive.”

  Sam raised an eyebrow. “Fancy. Hey, I thou
ght you were going to call first.”

  “I did. Twice. When you didn’t pick up I had visions of you lying beaten and bludgeoned to death on your kitchen floor, so I raced right over.”

  “And stopped for fast food and alcohol along the way?”

  “Well, yeah. If you weren’t dead, I assumed you’d be hungry.”

  Sam unlocked the front door. “As a matter of fact, I’m starving.”

  * * *

  They sat cross-legged on the living room floor, the television tuned to the college football game in the corner. The Puget Sound State University Steelheads were playing against the Washington State Cougars, and of course both Sam and Jason were rooting for PSSU since it was their alma mater. They enjoyed the Tempranillo with the Mexican takeout and promised each other they wouldn’t say anything to Matt, a food snob who would have been horrified at the beautiful Spanish red wine being paired with cheap fast food.

  “How’d it go tonight?” Jason asked, taking a bite of his taco. “Did Bonnie tell you a lot?”

  “At first, yeah. But she stopped short of telling me the Butcher’s real name.” Sam gave him the rundown of everything she and Bonnie talked about. “I was so close. It’s frustrating.”

  Jason raised an eyebrow. “So she came all the way from Sacramento to Seattle to not give you the most important bit of information? How does that make sense?”

  “After we talked, she said she changed her mind.” Sam sighed. The wine helped, but it wasn’t enough. She was still aggravated. “Wish I knew why.”

  “You think she’s on the up-and-up?”

  Sam gave her friend a look. “Of course I do. She knew my mom, knew all about the night she died. She even remembers Detective Sanchez.”

  “Maybe you should call him, have her checked out, just in case.”

  “Not a bad idea.”

  “I think it’s important that you find out what’s in it for her.” Jason finished his taco. “Something about it seems fishy.”

  Sam paused. “I wouldn’t say fishy. It’s more like she panicked. I get the feeling the Butcher is someone with some notoriety, someone who might be recognized. She mentioned seeing him on TV. She’s scared, Jase.”

  “Of what? Did you ask her?”

  “Of course I asked her,” she snapped. “She wouldn’t say. She’s being incredibly selfish.” Her voice was getting loud, and she slapped the coffee table with her palm. It stung.

  “Okay, okay.” Jason softened his tone. “I’m not trying to upset you. I just want you to be careful. You met her online, remember. She has a picture of herself with your mom. She believes your mom was murdered by a serial killer that everyone else thinks is dead. It’s just . . . weird, you know?”

  Sam rubbed her eyes. “I can’t disagree with you there. It’s fucked-up. I fully accept that.”

  “Just remember that everyone—and I mean everyone—has an agenda. Including you. You want information about your mom, and you want to know who really killed her. What’s Bonnie’s agenda?”

  “Justice? For Sarah? And herself?”

  Jason smiled. “If it’s that simple, and noble, then great. All I’m saying is, keep your eyes open. Be careful. Everybody wants something.”

  “I will.” Sam sighed. She knew Jason was right. She couldn’t deny that she’d been a bit blinded by her own awe in meeting someone who’d known her mother, but if she tried to look at the whole thing objectively, it was weird. Seriously, what were the chances of Bonnie finding her?

  Or of her finding Bonnie?

  Suddenly it didn’t feel right at all. She made up her mind to call the Sixth Avenue Inn first thing in the morning. Sam needed answers, goddammit, and the woman was going to give them to her, whether she liked it or not.

  “So how’s Butcherville coming along?” Jason said, referring to her current work in progress.

  “Right now, I’m stuck. I’m trying to illustrate the intense pressure Seattle PD was under to catch the Butcher, and how they might have wanted Rufus Wedge to be the killer a little too much. The evidence they had against him was purely circumstantial, and had Wedge not been killed, and had the case gone to trial, I can’t imagine how they would have convicted him.” Sam sighed again. “But how I do present that as a theory without making the entire police department, including the Chief, look bad?”

  “It’s just your opinion, right? It’s not like they’re going to sue you for publishing it?”

  “No. At least I don’t think so. I’m not accusing them of corruption. It’s more like . . . incompetence.” Sam grimaced. “God, even that sounds ugly.”

  “Pretty sure Edward Shank would agree with you. Never known a man who hates to be wrong more than he does.”

  “Except Matt.”

  They shared a laugh.

  “Maybe you should talk to the Chief about it,” Jason said, sipping his wine. “Tell him what Bonnie told you. See what he thinks.”

  “Can’t. I promised her I wouldn’t say anything. She knows who the Chief is, knows I’m dating his grandson. She doesn’t want me to reveal anything about the Butcher until she’s ready to talk. I’m hoping she’ll call Sanchez soon.”

  “Let me ask you this.” Jason paused, and it was clear he was choosing his words carefully. “Say the two of you are right and it turns out that Seattle PD got the wrong guy, and that some other dude is the real Butcher. Have you thought about what would happen?”

  “They’d put the real Butcher away. Assuming he’s still alive. Bonnie seemed sure he was.”

  “And then what?”

  “What do you mean?” Sam said, confused.

  Jason sat up straighter. “Think about it, Sam. If some other guy turns out to be the real Butcher, then that task force from Seattle PD shot and killed the wrong man. An innocent man. The task force that Edward Shank headed up.”

  “Right,” Sam said with a shrug. “Of course it’s going to be a shitstorm. It will be all over the news. But if that’s the truth, then that’s the truth, and the truth is all that matters. At least justice will be done.”

  “Justice for who?” Jason asked. “For you and your mom, yes. For Bonnie. For all the other Butcher victims. But what about the Chief? He’s a hero in this city. What would it do to him if it turned out he got the wrong guy?”

  Sam shook her head. “I’ve already talked about this with Edward. It was a good shooting that night. Wedge was reaching for his pocket and they had no choice but to shoot him. The Chief doesn’t seem worried.”

  “Come on, be realistic. You and I both know it would tarnish his reputation. No hero kills an innocent man. He’d go down in flames like Lance Armstrong. Didn’t you once tell me that there were citizens groups that were outraged that Wedge was killed before he had a chance to go to trial? They’d be screaming murder, and they’d be right.”

  “The Chief will have to deal with it, Jase. That can’t be my problem. And besides, Rufus Wedge wasn’t exactly a fine, upstanding citizen. He was a recluse with a long criminal history, even without being the Butcher.”

  “Still, Wedge’s family could sue for wrongful death or something.”

  “Wedge had no family. He had no friends. Wedge had nobody.”

  “Okay,” Jason said, changing gears. “What about how this affects Matt?”

  “Why would it affect Matt?” Sam was losing her patience. “Matt has zero to do with any of this.”

  “Think about it for a minute.” Jason’s tone was earnest. “He’s a local celebrity of sorts. Mostly that’s because he runs a damn good restaurant and is a damn good chef, but let’s be honest here. In almost every interview he’s given, it’s mentioned that he’s the former chief of police of Seattle’s grandson. He’s never made that a secret, and you and I both know Matt plays up on that all the time because it’s good publicity. He gets asked all the time why he didn’t follow in his legendary grandfather’s footsteps and go into law enforcement. And you know how he always responds to that question.”

  Sam thought for a momen
t. “He says that he followed in his grandmother’s footsteps instead. Because she was an amazing cook, and so his cooking is a tribute to her.”

  “Right. But who Edward Shank is has only helped Matt’s celebrity, Sam. And if it turns out that the Chief fucked up, and the whole thing turns into—like you just said—a shitstorm, how would that impact Matt? It would be awful publicity that his grandfather killed an innocent man. Our boy is about to become the biggest thing since Emeril.”

  “So you’re saying I shouldn’t tell the truth so I can protect Matt?” Sam looked at her friend, aghast. “What about my truth?”

  “I just want to make sure you know exactly what will happen here. It’s one thing to discover that Edward Shank killed an innocent man. You’re right, the Chief can handle it, and besides that, he’s long retired anyway. But it’s a whole other thing how that information—which will be made very public—will affect Matt.”

  “So what are you telling me to do?”

  “I’m not telling you to do or not do anything,” Jason said. “I’m just trying to give you a dose of reality. I’ve known Matt for a long time. If you do anything—anything at all—that ends up affecting the success of his business, he’ll never forgive you.”

  “I thought you were on my side.” Sam’s voice was tense.

  Jason moved forward, close enough to reach out and touch Sam’s leg. “I am always on your side, okay? And I always will be. That’s why I want you to look at the whole picture. I know how much you love Matt. I know you want a life with him. But if you do anything that hurts him, I really don’t see how you’d have a future together.”