But in the vein of the Zodiac, I will converse with you.
Mock you. Ridicule you. Rub your noses in the murders.
I’ll even keep you in the game. Give you guys a fighting chance.
So I will periodically give you hints.
And here are the first two:
One, I’ve been mentioned in an article by Quint Adler, that annoying fuck who can’t get enough of the camera.
Second, the first murder will occur this Friday, May 12th.
And yes, there are hints within the letters themselves.
But those you will have to figure out on your own.
By the time your police departments receive this letter, you’ll have about three days.
Use them wisely.
The game is on.
Should be an exciting summer.
Happy Hunting!
The unusually cool May air grew colder and colder as goosebumps lifted on my skin. I had finished reading the letter a second time when the waitress arrived with my Gilroy garlic bacon mac and cheese.
I pushed it aside.
I was no longer hungry.
2.
Several minutes and only a few bites later, Ray and I left the restaurant. It felt like everything had changed. Sure, the clouds still hovered above us. And the wind remained brisk.
But intuition told me that my eight-month vacation was over. The man (and I was sure it was a male) could have been some crackpot we’d never hear from again, but I didn’t think so. Something about the intensity of his letter told me this wasn’t something to be taken lightly.
Maybe we’d get lucky. Maybe the police would catch him in the next few days before his purported first murder. Maybe I’d save the day and make my way back out on the interview scene.
But maybe not.
“Quint, why don’t you come back to the precinct with me?”
“Your bosses going to like that?” I asked.
“Probably not. But you’re mentioned in the letter and we’re going to need your help looking through old articles. So they’ll allow it.”
I followed Ray back to the Oakland Police Department’s headquarters on 7th Street. It was much sleeker than the multiple other locations I’d been to, with a huge blue and gray OPD shield blazoned above the front door.
It was technically their headquarters and Ray’s base. However, he’d been with the force so long, he could walk into any precinct of the OPD and be met with smiling faces.
Which, ironically, I didn’t see many of as I followed him past the officers guarding the front entrance.
“He’s okay,” Ray said, allowing me to bypass the huge metal detector.
We walked by the humorless officers and made our way to the elevator.
I believed there was a little jealousy when it came to yours truly. I’d gone out on my own and helped take down one of the most dangerous men in the Bay Area, one who’d ordered countless murders over the last few decades. And to top it off, I’d become a media darling. I’d praised the Oakland Police Department, and Ray specifically, every chance I got, but I guess that wasn’t enough for them. Hopefully upper management felt a little more gracious than the officers stuck watching the door.
“What the hell is he doing here?”
I guess not.
The question came from a bear of a man right as we walked off the elevator onto the third floor.
“He’s mentioned in the letter, Captain.”
Even the captain didn’t like me. Great.
“And we’re going to have to work with him to go through all of his articles,” Ray continued.
“Fine,” the captain said, although it was a different four-letter F-word that his voice conveyed.
I peeked at his badge. Miles Lockett. Captain Lockett was probably 6’5”, definitely yoked, and seemed a no-nonsense type of guy. At least toward me. He looked to be in his mid-forties with salt and pepper hair. For the moment, pepper was winning, but we all lose that battle in the end.
Ray opened a door and led me into a rather large conference room. Approximately ten chairs surrounded a long, charmless gray table. But we wouldn’t be filling them all.
There were myself, Ray, Captain Lockett, and three other OPD officers who likely sided with Lockett on their opinions of me. Although I did get a slight nod from one of the younger ones.
Hey, I’d take what I could get.
We all took a seat except for Captain Lockett, who remained standing. He looked out at the rest of us.
“So,” the captain began. “We’ve now all read this crazy fucker’s letter. Because we’re going to be needing Quint Adler’s help, Officer Kintner decided to include him in this meeting. Welcome.”
It was a start.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m here to help in any way you need. And call me Quint.”
The officers nodded at me, and I seemed to have put a small dent in their impenetrable wall.
“Okay, Quint. And I hope you don’t take offense, but I think we’ll only include you for the part of the conversation that involves your articles. Let’s leave the investigative work to the professionals.”
“I’m fine with that,” I said.
Despite my reputation for rocking the boat, I was on my best behavior. For the moment.
“Detective Kintner, do you want to say a few words?”
“Sure. Thank you, Captain Lockett.”
Ray rose from his seat and positioned himself at the head of the expansive table. Lockett sat down.
“So, time is of the essence, gentlemen. The wannabe killer has said that he will commit his first murder on May 12th, which is just two days away. Our only other lead is that his name was mentioned in one of Quint’s articles. Quint, do you have any sort of rough estimate as to how many articles you’ve written over the years?”
I cleared my throat. “I worked full time at the Walnut Creek Times for nine years. And I probably averaged an article a day or so. So there’s probably a few thousand.”
An audible groan came from one of the officers.
I continued, “There’s good news, though. A lot of what I wrote were generic articles, talking about bike thefts or crime in general, without mentioning names. If we’re just looking for articles in which I mentioned someone’s name, we’re looking at something more in the hundreds. A few hundred, if I had to guess.”
Ray gave me a slight smile. Having become a good friend, he’d been hoping I’d pass my first test in front of his fellow officers. His reaction confirmed I’d done just that.
“You no longer work there, though, correct?” Lockett asked.
“Not full time. But I still write the occasional article and I’m allowed in the building.”
Lockett nodded, confirming I’d answered his real question—whether we’d have access.
“Tom and Krissy Butler will help us out?” Ray asked.
He knew the answer was yes, being friendly with the owners of the Walnut Creek Times himself. The question was for the other officers’ benefit.
“Yeah, I have no doubt they will. We’ve got a great database where you can pull up any article in seconds. We might be able to narrow it down to articles in which I’ve mentioned someone by name.”
“That would be very helpful,” Lockett said. It wasn’t exactly cordial, but it wasn’t gruff either. We were trending in the right direction.
“Captain, since time is of the essence, I think someone should head back with Quint to his office and start looking at these articles.”
“Since you are friendly with him, you’ll go. And take Detective Fields with you as well.”
“Yes, sir.”
A younger Black man, who I assumed must be Detective Fields, nodded in the captain’s direction.
Lockett stood back up. “Quint, why don’t you head back to Walnut Creek and get prepped for my officers? We’ll be done here in thirty minutes, and then I’ll send them over.”
He was subtly telling me it was time for the big boys to talk amo
ngst themselves.
I’d checked myself for long enough. I had something to say. “Of course. Before I go, could I give you my initial impression of the letter?”
Lockett’s disgust returned. He was offended that I thought I could add anything to their investigation. But they needed me. So I was extended an olive branch.
“Alright, give us what you got.”
I felt all the eyes in the room turn to me.
“He’s a male and he’s in good shape,” I said.
Ray chimed in. “We assumed he was a male, but what makes you say he’s in good shape?”
“Because he said ‘fat asses’. Someone who is fat likely wouldn’t call other people fat asses.”
Lockett looked on. He didn’t appear all that impressed. “Anything else?”
“The guy is young,” I said.
“How would you know that?”
“Can I see his letter, Detective Kintner?” I tried not to call him Ray too often in front of his fellow officers.
He removed the copy from his pocket and handed it to me. I walked over to where Lockett was standing and set the piece of paper down.
The other officers’ eyes made their way toward me. Surely they thought I’d gone crazy, trying to upstage their captain.
“Look at the breaks between sentences. What do you see?” I asked.
“I see spaces! What the hell am I supposed to see?”
His tone was combative.
I saw a one-sheet memo pinned to a wall. I walked over and looked at it, making sure it was what I expected.
I removed it from the wall and set it next to the other sheet.
“Do you see a difference between the sentence breaks?” I asked.
He held up the paper I’d grabbed from the wall and compared the two.
“There’s a larger space at the end of sentences on this memo. But what the hell does that mean?”
I took the other memo and pinned it back to the wall, then returned to the table. I had their attention.
“Since the beginning of typewriters, and on to word processors and then computers, we were always taught to use two spaces at the end of sentences. I’m forty years old and my generation was certainly raised on two spaces. But things changed about ten years ago, and they started teaching the next generation to only use one space. I’m guessing our guy is young. Could be thirty-two or he could be twenty-two. Or anywhere in between. But I highly doubt this is some fifty-two-year-old guy using single spaces between sentences.”
Lockett looked up at me in admiration, bordering on awe. If I was doing a stand-up routine, this is where I’d drop the mic.
“Pretty impressive work,” Lockett said and shook his head. “That could be some valuable information. Thank you, Quint.”
“Just here to support you guys,” I said, deciding to downplay my help. “It’s something you would notice as a writer.”
Lockett looked me over and I half expected to be invited to stay for the rest of the meeting. It wasn’t in the cards, however.
“Thanks for your help. And I’ll soon be sending Detectives Kintner and Fields to the Walnut Creek Times. I’m sure you’ll have to talk to your bosses, but don’t let anyone else know what we’re doing there. I don’t want this getting out. Is that understood?”
“Yes. I’ll only talk to Tom and Krissy.”
“Thanks. And Quint, if you have any more nuggets, be sure to let us know. As you may have realized, I’m not the biggest fan of reporters.” He smiled and then continued. “But I hate the idea of a potential serial killer much, much more. I’ll do anything to catch this bastard. So don’t be afraid to share your opinion.”
“I won’t,” I said. “Thanks, Captain.”
I turned to go.
As I left the office, I heard Lockett mutter to the other officers, “I hate to say it, but he’s a really smart guy.”
Who was I to argue?
3.
I drove back to Walnut Creek with a smile on my face. There was the looming dread of what might be to come, but in the moment I enjoyed what I’d accomplished in the OPD conference room.
I’d turned a hostile crowd in my favor. And gave them a possible clue on the wannabe killer. The likelihood he was young wasn’t going to solve the case, but a bunch of small factors could contribute to a better profile.
My smile began to fade when I remembered the killer knew about my articles, and felt inclined to mention me in the letter.
Why had he chosen me? Was it just because he was mentioned in one of the articles? I hoped that’s all it was. But the fact that he’d called me “that annoying fuck who can’t get enough of the camera” made it more personal.
For now, I vowed not to focus on it.
I parked my car a block from the office. They only had a select amount of parking spaces, and being that I was no longer a full-time employee, I could park on the street. I grabbed my navy blue backpack, which held my trusty laptop. I took it everywhere.
I approached the red stucco building that had been my work home for almost a decade. It was funny. Despite only being there a few days a month, I was now by far the most famous writer at the Walnut Creek Times.
Downtown Walnut Creek bustled with restaurants, bars, and high-end shopping. Our bright red building had always stood out, and according to our neighbors, not in the best way.
Walking in the front door, I loved seeing the familiar faces. Staff writers Trent Buckley, Greg Alm, and Crystal Howell had set up a memorable happy hour last year. Weirdly, that party now felt like five years ago. I said hi to them individually.
Our editor, Jan, walked down from the upstairs of the two-tiered office. She was followed by the owners of the paper, the husband and wife team of Tom and Krissy Butler. They were around sixty years old, but must have discovered the fountain of youth at some point. Both looked great.
“What are you doing here, stranger?” Tom asked. “You have a deadline I forgot about?”
“I’d like to go on T.V. shows and only have one deadline a month,” Greg said.
A few people laughed.
“Newsroom humor certainly hasn’t improved,” I said.
Everyone smiled. It had been a great place to work and nothing had changed. I still considered all of them my friends.
“Actually, Tom, I’m here to talk to you and Krissy. Can we do it upstairs?”
“Quint is now too cool for his fellow reporters.”
I couldn’t give anything away, so I had to remain mum. “Nothing personal, guys. I’ll come back down and shoot the shit before I go.”
That got them off my back.
I followed Tom and Krissy up the stairs. We had an elevator in office, but my forty-year-old knees weren’t shot just yet.
Krissy, usually the most outgoing member of the paper, hadn’t said a word.
“Krissy, you’re quiet,” I said.
“Just soaking in seeing you, Quint. The office isn’t the same when you aren’t here.”
“I appreciate it, but everyone seems to be their old selves.”
“We miss your ugly mug.”
Tom laughed. His wife always joked around with me. Some might see it as playful flirting, but that wasn’t the case. Tom and Krissy had been married for decades and were one of the happiest couples I knew.
“You mispronounced handsome,” I said.
She shook her head, but wouldn’t commit to a smile.
We arrived upstairs and walked directly into the conference room, my second one in less than an hour.
“So, what is it?” Tom asked, getting right to the point.
“Is our database of articles still a finely oiled machine?”
“It sure is. Want to dive into some of your greatest hits?”
“Yeah, but not for the reason you think,” I said.
Krissy could tell from my tone of voice that it was something serious. “What is it, Quint?” she asked.
“I was just at the Oakland Police Department. They received a letter from
some nutcase, threatening to kill a bunch of people this summer.”
“That’s terrible. Not to be insensitive, but what’s that have to do with us?” Tom asked.
“He said he was mentioned in one of my articles.”
Tom and Krissy became deathly serious.
“Like, you had reported on one of his crimes?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “He wasn’t exactly specific.” I tried to remember the exact wording. “It was something like, ‘I’ve been featured in one of Quint Adler articles’ and then he called me an annoying fuck.”
“Jeez,” Tom said. “Why get personal with you?”
“I don’t know. But the OPD now want to go through all of my old articles.”
“Understandable. Why aren’t they here with you?”
“They’re coming soon. I was sent beforehand to set everything up.”
“Is Ray coming?” Krissy asked.
“He is,” I said.
Tom and Krissy had a lot of connections in the Bay Area and many of them were law enforcement. They’d known Ray Kintner for years and had sent me in his direction when the Charles Zane case started a year earlier.
“The officers can work in here. I’ll email you the link to the database, and they can use the printer if they want specific articles printed out. You remember how the database works, right?”
“It’s been awhile, but I should be fine.”
“You can search by author, date, keyword. It’s pretty easy. Did you bring your laptop?”
I patted my backpack. “What’s that American Express ad? Don’t leave home without it!”
“You’re too young to remember that commercial,” Krissy said.
“Forty is the new fifty,” I replied.
She laughed. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s how the saying goes.”
“I hate doing this, but the OPD wants you to keep this between yourselves. I know everyone else will see the officers here, but you can’t tell them what I told you. At least not yet. If they release a statement, then obviously it’s fair game.”
“Our lips are sealed, Quint,” Tom said. “We rely on a lot of connections and have learned how to keep our mouths shut.”
“Makes me wonder what’s been kept from me over the years,” I said.
The Bay Area Butcher: (Quint Adler Book 2) Page 2
