The majority of serial killers would be categorized as introverts, but there were several exceptions, Bundy being the obvious one. Gacy as well.
With so much information to digest, I decided to focus on the only thing that was concrete. The letters. The killer had said clues lurked in the messages themselves. And I hoped to find them.
I decided to chat with the best puzzle solver I knew.
My girlfriend.
13.
“I notice a few things right away,” Cara said.
We met at the Lafayette Reservoir. Lafayette was a fun little town, contiguous to Walnut Creek, and we’d often walk or run the three-mile circumference of the reservoir. It became very steep at parts and you definitely got your money’s worth.
Today was different. We weren’t there to get a workout in. Instead, I’d packed a huge blanket plus a few BLTs, and we sat on the grass that overlooked the water, eating our sandwiches. It was peaceful and tranquil. A nice respite from this crazy world.
Which had become even crazier after the arrival of the Bay Area Butcher, now being adopted by every news agency. Anything referencing cookies just seemed too weird, so his first set of murders won out by default. The nickname of the Bay Area Butcher was here to stay.
The murders continued to dominate the airwaves and l tried to avoid listening when I could. It was all too much.
“Let’s hear it,” I said to Cara, trying to focus on the matter at hand.
“They’re probably obvious things that you or the police have already noticed.”
“That’s fine, just tell me everything you observed.”
We had the two letters spread out on the blanket in front of us. She grabbed the first one.
“He called the cops ‘fat asses.’ Would a heavyset man use that word? I doubt it.”
“I said the exact same thing the first day I read it.”
“There’s also the mentions of the cities. San Francisco. Walnut Creek. Oakland. San Jose. And Tiburon.”
“Yeah, Tiburon stuck out like a sore thumb from the beginning.”
“That’s not what I’m getting at, Quint.”
I looked over the cities one more time. She could see that I was struggling to understand.
“Look at the order,” she said.
And then it hit me!
“Oh my God,” I said.
“Yeah! The murders are going in reverse order of how they are listed. Tiburon was listed last. San Jose second to last.”
“That would mean Oakland would be the next murder, if this wasn’t just random.”
“I did the math,” Cara said. “If it was random, there’s a one in five chance Tiburon would be the first city and then a one in four chance San Jose would be next. Multiply them together, and there’s only a one in twenty chance that this was random. More than likely he’s knocking off these cities in reverse order.”
I literally had never been prouder to call Cara my girlfriend. Sure, when people noticed her beauty, I took pride in that. But this was something more powerful. She was an extremely intelligent and insightful woman.
Not that any of this surprised me. I’d known for a long time. But this moment stood out, because of just how important the circumstances were.
“I’m going to call Ray right now,” I said.
I stood up on the bright green grass and looked at the reservoir below us. A huge lighthouse sat near the front of the water. It was the defining characteristic of the Lafayette Reservoir. I admired it as I waited for Ray to answer.
At last, I heard his familiar voice. “Hello?”
“Hey, Ray. I was talking to Cara and she brought up something that I think you might find important.”
“I’d chastise you for talking to people about this investigation, but it’s Cara, so I won’t. Let’s hear it.”
“She noticed that the cities mentioned in the letter were being eliminated in reverse order. He’d listed Tiburon last and San Jose second to last. And as we know, the first murders occurred in Tiburon and then San Jose.”
I heard a groan from the other side.
“And Oakland falls next on the list,” Ray said.
“Yup,” I said, confirming the obvious.
“It could just be a coincidence, you know.”
“Cara did the math. It’s one in twenty that’s how the cities would shake out.”
“Have I told you you’ve got a keeper?”
“Only every time you see me,” I said.
“Listen, Quint, as you’ve probably gathered, I rarely like to mix my home life with my social life. However, my wife said she’s heard so much about you and Cara that she wants to put faces to the names. Would you guys like to come over for dinner tomorrow night?”
“I’ll run it by her, but I’m sure she’ll say yes.”
“Great. I’ll text you our address and a time.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“Yes, you will. Now I’ve got to get back to work. I’m sure Captain Lockett and Chief Ronson will be delighted to know that the investigative team of Quint and Cara are a step ahead of us again.”
I laughed. “If it saves you some grief, feel free to say you came up with it.”
“Sorry, I’ve got to play it by the book.”
“Do you have to tell them Cara is involved?”
“That I can probably fudge a little bit. I’ll say it was you.”
“That’s fine. Rather not have there be any mention of her in any of this.”
“I understand. See you tomorrow.”
“Bye, Ray.”
I hung up the phone and looked down at Cara.
“You letting Ray take the credit for me?” she asked.
I smiled. “He’s going to say it was me. But only because I don’t want anyone to hear your name.”
“I’m all for that. And what were you going to run by me?”
“Ray and his wife want to have us over for dinner tomorrow night.”
“I’m not even sure I knew he was married.”
“He’s very quiet about his private life. He must really like us if we’re being invited over.”
“What’s not to like?”
I leaned in and hugged her.
We stayed another thirty minutes on the grass, looking out at the water and lighthouse below us.
The next twenty-four hours solidified the terror around the Bay Area. Sure, the case had gone national (and likely international), but the fear resided locally. We were the people in harm’s way, after all.
No new letter appeared and that made it worse. No clues to the killer’s thought process. Without any word, it’s like a psycho walked invisibly amongst us. Which one did.
The nickname “Bay Area Butcher” had become ubiquitous, even monotonous. Every newscast used it several times. It was a predictable and disgusting name, but sadly, catchy as well. The media probably loved it.
Everyone had an opinion. Rinky-dink blogs were alleging they’d seen the killer. With zero evidence. And zero pictures. The police established a website for leads and every crackpot in the Bay Area was probably blaming it on a neighbor they didn’t like.
The funerals for Paul, Nadia, and Mia Langley had taken place in San Francisco with a reception in Tiburon. The service had been reported on by all the local media. It had truly become a frenzy.
It affected everyone. I was on edge. In fact, I had more reason to worry than most people. He had repeatedly mentioned me, and more than that, he’d attached a listening device on my back. He’d been close to me.
And with no idea what he looked like, he could get close to me again.
I tried to not think about it, but it was nearly impossible.
The killer was definitely living rent-free in the minds of people in the Bay Area.
Including my own.
That night, the victims of the cookie killings were announced. Roger and Celia Tiller, both aged 55. Harry Shaw, aged 62. Emily Atwater, aged 14. Bruce Pocklington, aged 39. And Ariana Pocklington, aged 15.
They flashed pictures of each victim on the screen. Each face delivered a gut punch, but especially the pictures of the two young girls. They had names, Ava and Ariana. They no longer had a future.
It left me both heartbroken and disgusted.
I found it hard to even view the killer as a human any longer. Who randomly killed like this? And putting people who had just started their lives in harm’s way...
I cried that night as I watched the T.V.
14.
THE KILLER
I was so tempted to let everyone in on the secret to come.
I knew that Quint would be shocked. In the best way possible. From my point of view at least.
I watched from afar as he talked to Cara at the Lafayette Reservoir. I didn’t linger for long, but my blood boiled as I watched him enjoying his time with her.
It was the same feeling I’d had when I watched the Langleys walk across the street in Tiburon.
Rage. Fury. Madness.
Quint didn’t deserve to be with a woman of her beauty.
I wondered if maybe I should have left him and Cara some cookies as well. It would have been so easy.
No, I enjoyed the game more with Quint around.
I preferred to kill him by a thousand paper cuts. I’d allow Quint to stay alive. For now.
I decided it was time to start writing another letter. All while planning my most personal murder to date.
Well, not personal to me, but to Quint. Which, in turn, made it personal to me.
15.
“Welcome! I’m Glenda Kintner. I’ve heard so much about you two.”
Her red hair matched her bright red lipstick. Her smile was wide. She wore jeans and a lightweight pink sweater. She was probably in her fifties and still an attractive woman. The nice aura surrounding her stood out to me immediately.
“It’s great to meet you.” I extended my hand.
“You must be Cara,” she said, and we all laughed.
Safe to say, we liked Ray’s wife from the start.
“Come here, the real Cara,” she said and gave my girlfriend a huge bear hug.
They lived in Rockridge, a residential neighborhood in Oakland. It was most famous for having a BART station and lots of cafes and restaurants lining its streets. A quiet area, it ran in slow motion compared to the rest of Oakland. I’m sure it was a nice change of pace for Ray.
The house itself was small and quaint. It had been painted gray, but every perimeter, be it windows or the front door, stood outlined in white. It was a clean, attractive home.
Ray and I shook hands and followed the women inside.
In the dining room, adjacent to the kitchen, we were seated by Ray.
“Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes,” Glenda said. “Can I get you some wine to start with?”
“We’d love some,” Cara said.
“We’ve got sauvignon blanc or a cab.”
“Whatever you think pairs well with dinner.”
“Cabernet it is.”
I looked at the slats of the dining room table and could tell they’d shrunk it to make it more cozy for the four of us. The room itself was bright and inviting, with some artwork adorning the walls that I’m sure Glenda had picked out.
Ray was a great guy, but art enthusiasm was unlikely to be one of his hobbies.
“I really like your home,” Cara said.
“Thanks, Cara! Sorry it’s taken so long to have you over.”
Glenda emerged from the kitchen with a bottle of wine. “This is a 1957 Rroja Reserva from a small village in Spain.”
Cara and I looked at each other. And then Glenda started laughing.
“I’m kidding! It’s some twenty-dollar bottle that I bought from Trader Joe’s.”
Glenda was a character. No doubt about that.
“Good,” I said. “You would have been wasting it on some wine novices.”
“Speak for yourself,” Cara said. “That 1957 sounded pretty good.”
The ambience was off the charts. Always important for a dinner party.
Glenda brought over a goat cheese and apple salad several minutes later. It was delicious and we told her so.
“If you can make a salad this tasty, I can’t wait for the entree,” Cara said.
“The secret is the goat cheese. Cheese can always cover up a few flaws.”
“Amen to that.”
Ray and I looked at each other and smiled. You just never know if everyone will get along. But Glenda and Cara behaved like friends of twenty years. And the age gap was irrelevant, like I knew it would be. Cara could get along with an eighty-year-old grandmother just as easily as one of her fifteen-year-old students.
“The guys are quiet,” my girlfriend said.
“Just enjoying watching you guys hit it off,” I said.
“You didn’t tell me Glenda was so funny, Quint.”
“Babe, this is the first time I’ve met her also.”
“Well, I thought maybe Ray had told you.”
“I’ve heard cop humor. I probably wouldn’t have trusted him.”
Glenda laughed. “A lot of locker room humor with that group.”
“I prefer your elevated version, Glenda,” Cara said.
And Glenda patted Cara’s hand in appreciation.
Ray finally spoke. “You, know Quint, I think they might be getting along too well.”
“That’s for sure,” I said. “We might have to separate them before they become conjoined at the hip.”
“Cara better like shopping, then,” he said.
“Is it my fault if I want to look good for my husband?” Glenda asked.
Ray blew her a kiss. “Of course not. But you’d be beautiful in high heels or Crocs.”
Cara smiled in my direction. They had a similar playfulness in their relationship as we did, and I guessed that’s what her smile was referencing.
The lighthearted banter continued as we finished our salads. The entree followed. And more importantly, Glenda could finally join the table for longer than just a few minutes. I always felt guilty when the host of a dinner party was too busy doing the cooking.
We were served beef short ribs over mashed potatoes. The plate looked like something out of Iron Chef. The potatoes filled the middle of the plate with the short ribs sitting on top. The sauce had been ladled around the perimeter of the potatoes in a savory moat. Some green onions added color on top, and a few carrots nestled to the side of the plate added even more.
I think I’d been watching a little too much Food Network lately. My inner monologue sounded like a judge commenting on the beauty of the plate. My stomach just growled.
“It looks delicious, Glenda,” I said.
We all took and savored our first bites.
“It’s remarkable,” Cara said. “How do you get the short ribs so tender?”
“Low and slow, as they say. It’s been braising in red wine and beef broth for hours.”
“Aren’t they great, Quint?” Cara asked me.
I took another bite as they waited for me to speak. Once it melted in my mouth, I announced, “It’s perfection.”
“Hear, hear,” Ray said. “It’s delicious, honey.”
He leaned over and kissed his wife. Cara looked at me, eyes shining, and I nodded back. I could tell she loved the couple next to us.
“How long have you guys been married?”
“Twenty-six years,” Ray said. “No, wait, twenty-seven.”
“Just like a guy not to remember,” Glenda said. “Twenty-eight years.”
“Hey, I was trending in the right direction.”
Everyone laughed.
“That’s amazing,” Cara said. “And how old are your kids?”
I knew Ray had a son and a daughter, but we hadn’t talked about them very often. A nice family photo hung just outside of the dining room.
“Mark is twenty-six and Kelly is twenty-three. Mark lives in Los Angeles and works on film sets. He loves it. Kelly will be a s
enior at the University of Washington next year. She took a year off after high school, so she’ll be a little older than most other graduates.”
“Oh, to be in my mid-twenties again,” Cara said, and we all looked at her.
“Says the youngest person here,” Glenda said, echoing everyone’s sentiments.
“I’m almost thirty-three.”
“Try being fifty-six, honey.”
“I thought you were in your forties.”
“Cara, you are invited over for dinner whenever you want. Compliments like that will get you everywhere!”
The conversation remained lightweight and breezy for the rest of dinner. We talked and ate for forty-five minutes, but the time sailed by. Always a good sign.
Glenda brought out dessert. Homemade creme brûlée.
“How do you get the top so golden brown?” Cara asked.
“You leave it under the broiler for a few extra seconds to crystallize those sugars.”
“It’s as good as the entree. Your cooking is phenomenal.”
We ate in delicious silence for a minute longer.
“So, we’re all adults here. Can we talk about the elephant in the room?” Glenda said.
“Here we go,” Ray said, but his tone sounded comical despite the tragedy we all knew Glenda referred to.
“What’s the latest with the Bay Area Butcher? It’s all my friends are talking about. I think it’s taking over the Bay Area. And the country, judging by the national news.”
I looked at Ray and nodded. He was the police detective, after all.
He said, “We haven’t received a letter since the second set of killings, so that’s probably the next step. Obviously, we’re studying the forensics and following up on any leads in the meantime. I hate to say it, but we don’t have that much to go on.”
“What are your thoughts, Quint?” Glenda asked.
“On what exactly?”
“On the killer himself.”
“Young, smart, Bay Area native. I’m pretty sure of those.”
“Is he going to be caught?”
“They’ve got the entirety of the Bay Area police forces going after him, including Ray and the Oakland PD. I think he’s on borrowed time.”
I said it, but wasn’t sure I believed it.
The Bay Area Butcher: (Quint Adler Book 2) Page 7
