The Bay Area Butcher: (Quint Adler Book 2)

by Brian O'Sullivan

  “You’re right. You are being way too pragmatic.”

  She smiled.

  “You didn’t say no,” she said.

  “We’re both crazy, you know that? We are going to be investigating the worst serial killer this area has seen since the Zodiac.”

  “If we’re going by body count, he’s already much worse.”

  “You’re always a step ahead.”

  “Then let’s be a step ahead of this asshole!” Cara said vehemently.

  I couldn’t argue with that and didn’t want to.

  “Alright, I’m in,” I said.

  “Where do we start?” Cara said.

  “Once the police leave, we’ll make my apartment our investigative headquarters. I’ll make a storyboard, just like I did with Zane.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “There’s one disclaimer, however.”

  “Anything,” Cara said.

  “You have to move in with me. At least until this is over. I can’t trust that you’d be safe out there on your own. He’s found me, he could find you. At least if you’re at my apartment, I can try and protect you. And as I said earlier, I don’t think he’ll be coming back to Avalon.”

  “You know I’ve always wanted to move in together. I can safely say this wasn’t how I thought I’d finally finagle it, though.”

  We laughed together.

  “You know what,” she said, “I do want to take that walk. Let’s go.”

  I grabbed her hand and we stood up from the park bench. The police were going to be in my apartment a while longer. I’d spend that time walking the Iron Horse Trail with my new roommate.

  22.

  The police left soon after we got back from our walk. Before they did, I asked Freddie if they had found anything useful, and despite saying he couldn’t discuss it with me, he gave me a slight shake of the head. Which told me all I needed to know. And what I’d expected, anyway. The Bay Area Butcher was way too smart to get caught that easily.

  Once they left, Cara got started.

  We spent the evening decorating my bedroom wall. And by decorating, I meant putting up letters, timeframes, and murder locations of this killer.

  I knew it was going to cause me some sleepless nights. But I did it anyway. For Ray. For the Langleys. For the victims in San Jose. Which still was hard to fathom. Dead because you ate some laced cookies. Just horrible.

  And most of all, for the chance that we wouldn’t have to add another family of victims to the collage.

  Its location, directly in my line of sight if I sat up in bed, wasn’t very subtle. Which is how I wanted it.

  If Cara and I were truly going to do everything we could to stop the next murders, it should be on our minds at all times. Not hidden in some corner of my apartment. And so there it was, taking up an entire wall of my bedroom.

  “Should I hang the map of the Bay Area above all the evidence?” Cara asked.

  “Actually, let’s put it below. I like having the evidence right at eye level,” I said.

  Cara approached this the right way. She wasn’t excited or pretending this was some great adventure we were going on. She knew the risks. And there would likely be some more heartbreak to come, although nothing could be as bad as losing Ray. At least, I hoped not.

  We added a picture of Ray in the corner of the collage, along with the other victims. They served both an extremely sad reminder and a message to keep pushing. To prevent the next Ray.

  “How about some of the headlines from the newspapers?” Cara asked.

  We’d gone to the library, asked to look at the old newspapers, and made photocopies of them. My favorite elderly librarian had been nowhere to be seen. Luckily.

  “We can include them, but they don’t add much, so put them out on the edges.”

  “Alright. And how about putting up individual maps of Walnut Creek and San Francisco? Since those are the last two cites of the five he originally mentioned.”

  “Yeah, I like that idea. He’s now mentioned other cities, but I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that SF and Walnut Creek are still his preferred targets.”

  “I’ll print them out,” she said.

  My printer was getting more usage than it had in months.

  “It’s really starting to take shape,” I said.

  Cara came and put her arms on my shoulders as I looked over the collage. My eyes instinctively kept going to the picture of Ray, and I think she could sense this.

  “He would be proud of you,” Cara said.

  I thought about our last conversation. “I’m going to start taking those steps to becoming a private investigator.”

  “Good. I’m not sure how long the process takes, but maybe we’ll earn some advantages.”

  “I almost definitely won’t become certified before this thing plays out, but it can only help us if I’m taking classes or in the process of legally becoming one.”

  Cara swiveled me around and I knew she had something important to say.

  “After our walk today, I called my sister.”

  “And?”

  “And I told her I was going to cancel our trip to Austin.”

  “There’s always a chance the guy is caught before then. It’s June 10th, we’ve still got two weeks.”

  “Do you think we are going to be good company after looking at this collage every day? Diving deep into the mind of the most famous serial killer in the world?”

  “Okay, I get your point.”

  “We can reschedule for later this summer if we want to.”

  I paused, making sure that part of the conversation was over. Once I felt sure it was, I shifted to a new topic, asking, “Cara, from what we know, do you think this guy is a recluse or an outgoing, normal guy? Obviously, he could be something in between, but if he was one of those extremes, which one would it be?”

  She pondered the question for a good thirty seconds, her eyes flickering over the collage and past it.

  “Normal,” she said at last. “In the sense of outgoing. Maybe even more outgoing than normal. The way he writes the letters, with seemingly no fear of the police or the public, makes me think he’s got a high opinion of himself. He doesn’t strike me as a virgin living in his parents’ basement.”

  I nodded.

  “Does that mean you agree?” she asked.

  “I do. I’ve thought about it a great deal, but I think you’re right. This guy likes a show. I almost think he wants to be found out. Not caught, but have his name up in lights. He’s a showman, and that’s much more characteristic of an outgoing guy than a recluse.”

  “I’m glad we agree. But how does that help us?”

  “I’m not sure yet. But every little tidbit helps us form an overall view of the guy.”

  Cara approached the collage. It was sure to get bigger, but it already stretched about eight feet wide and four feet tall.

  She moved closer to the copies of killer’s letters, which we’d enlarged before printing out.

  “The secret lies in these messages. They read almost like a puzzle. And he mentioned in the first letter that he would leave clues in each of them. I’m not talking about the obvious ones like leaving the date. Or mentioning he’s in one of your articles.”

  “You’re right. But I’ve read each of them so many times. Maybe, as we gain more information, something will jump out.”

  I leaned in next to Cara and started reading the letters one more time. Nothing took.

  “What should we do with all of your articles? Obviously, there’s way too many to pin all of them to the wall.”

  “Let’s build a little drop basket and we can put my articles in there. So we can have them close and read through them whenever we want to.”

  “Sounds good. That should be easy enough,” Cara said.

  She walked to the front of my apartment and returned a minute later with a basket.

  “Sorry, you’re going to have to find another place to store your mail. This thing is going up on the wall.”


  “This is fun,” I said. “Not a fun subject, obviously, but I’m enjoying doing this with you.”

  Cara hugged me with one arm, still holding the basket in the other. “So am I. We’re doing this for Ray.”

  I looked at the picture of him on my wall. He was a good man gone way too soon.

  “We’re going to avenge your death, Ray,” I promised out loud. “We’re coming for this asshole.”

  23.

  THE KILLER

  Ali had Frazier. Palmer had Nicklaus. Evert had Navratilova.

  Where was my rival?

  I felt like Michael Jordan in a world of Karl Malones.

  Quint certainly wasn’t shaping up as one. He hadn’t done a single thing to prove he was on my level.

  Of course, I was an exceptionally talented rival. One who’d prepared for this for years. Maybe I asked too much in hoping he could rise to meet me. Or at least something approaching my level.

  Maybe Cara would be my rival. I watched her entering Avalon Walnut Creek with some pads, papers, and printouts. Was she trying to join the investigation and help Quint out? Boy, how I hoped that was true.

  Ray had been the only murder I’d planned to personally affect Quint. And with only two sets of murders left until I vanished for a while, I couldn’t be sure killing the beautiful Cara would fit in the cards.

  But fuck, I sure would love to.

  Maybe I could make a few alterations to my final murder. The coup de grâce that would have the world talking.

  Not the Bay Area. Not California. Not the United States. The world!

  Of course, I was still in final planning stages for the second to last murder. And that wasn’t going to be anything to wince at.

  It would be a Picasso in its own right.

  24.

  Not all investigative work was sexy. Both in the journalistic field and now, in my prospective new field as a private investigator.

  I’d gotten the really boring stuff out of the way early in the day, when I went online and researched getting my license. It seemed like it would be a laborious process, and I most certainly wouldn’t obtain it while the Bay Area Butcher remained at large.

  But there would be more cases down the line, and I had to lay the groundwork by doing the paperwork. Oh, fun.

  The start of our investigation into the Bay Area Butcher didn’t prove much more exciting.

  We started looking at every single person I’d ever mentioned in print while working for the Walnut Creek Times. We would do follow-ups and try to find either the person themself or a relative to verify that they weren’t out massacring people.

  We started at the beginning. While my articles had never been uniformly fascinating reads, the early articles were particularly boring.

  My first two articles reported on a set of T.V.s stolen from a parked flatbed truck and a recap of a junior varsity basketball game.

  “Yeah, but the way you described that game-winning free throw was spectacular.”

  I was happy to have Cara with me, even with her sly comments.

  “It’s the sign of a talented writer,” I said. “They teach you in journalism classes that if you can make a free throw exciting, you can do anything.”

  “Even a JV free throw?”

  “Low blow,” I said, but her snicker turned out to be contagious. I hadn’t expected that we’d enjoy ourselves this much.

  “And this stolen T.V.s piece. They should have rewarded you a lifetime Pulitzer if there’s such a thing.”

  “Yeah, laugh it up. Wait till we get to my stolen bike articles. Those were my forte.”

  “You’d be the Hemingway of stolen bike free throw shooters.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh some more.

  “I’m sorry. I had to,” Cara said.

  “I’m a big man. I can take it.”

  “You mention the man who makes the winning free throw by name. Are we going to follow up with him?”

  “Yes,” I said. “He never said the article had to be about him committing a crime. The guy was in high school nine years ago and probably still has local ties. He should be easy to find. What’s his name again?”

  Cara looked down at the article.

  “Mason Weatherly.”

  “Alright, let’s start making a list. Write down the person’s name, what he was mentioned for, and the date the article was published. This can build a master list over the next few days. Then we’ll search the internet or make some phone calls and try to find out what’s happened to these people.”

  “I think we should do it a little differently,” Cara said.

  “Alright, what do you got?”

  “Time is of the essence with this killer. No, we don’t know when he’s going to strike again, but we know he’s out there, probably doing prep work for his next set of murders. Why wait until we finish a master list to start finding out what happened to these people?”

  “Point taken. How do you propose we do it?”

  “You can start amassing the names, dates, etc. And I’ll start doing research and find their phone numbers, and as soon as I find one, I’ll call it”

  “Smart,” I said. “In fact, it’s probably better we have you calling anyway. People would rather give up some information to your sweet voice than mine.”

  “Your gravelly voice?”

  “My voice is not gravelly.”

  “Okay, Quint. It’s a pristine configuration of perfect harmonies.”

  “You should have been the writer.”

  “I don’t do free throws.”

  I started laughing some more. Considering all that was going on, it was a welcome if unexpected reaction.

  For our lunch break, we went down to a local bar/restaurant called Hops and Scotch. With a name like that, you’d think it was all booze, but they had some above-average bar food.

  The little outdoor patio was perfect when the weather was nice. And in Walnut Creek, that was almost always the case. Especially in mid-June.

  We waited to be seated and the waiter showed us to our table of two. I ordered for both of us, having eaten at Hops and Scotch fifty times: first, a Burrata plate that had sun-dried tomatoes, arugula, and a rosemary sourdough baguette. We'd follow up with a chicken quesadilla that had become my go-to dish.

  After I ordered, I told Cara I had to make a phone call. I walked out on the sidewalk running parallel to Treat Boulevard. Cars went sailing by me as I dialed and listened to the ring tone.

  “Oakland Police Department.”

  “Yes, this is Quint Adler. I’ve called three times for Captain Lockett.”

  “I’m sorry, the captain isn’t in right now.”

  “Alright. Will you please have him call me?”

  “Sure. But I can’t guarantee when. He’s busy trying to catch the man who killed Ray.”

  I hung up the phone before I said something I’d regret. The officer who answered had obviously added his last line to twist the knife in me. Fury killed my appetite, but I walked back into Hops and Scotch, where they’d just set the burrata plate down in front of Cara.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked at the look on my face.

  “The OPD is still giving me the cold shoulder.”

  “We’ll have to bring something to them that they can’t ignore.”

  “I’d rather do it myself,” I said, still pissed.

  “They can do a lot of things we can’t, Quint. Arrests. Warrants. Need I mention them all?”

  “No,” I said succinctly.

  “I know you were a one man tour de force when it came to taking down Charles Zane. But let’s be honest, we’re probably going to need the OPD or if not them, any other Bay Area PD to take down the Butcher.”

  I looked around. Luckily we had enough space between us and the closest group of people. This wasn’t a conversation I wanted others to be privy to.

  “I’ve got no problem with that, Cara. But it’s hard to work with them if they keep ignoring my calls.”

  “I unders
tand. So let’s find something concrete on this psycho. Then they’ll have to take our calls.”

  “You’re very convinced that we’re going to. I just feel like we’re trying to find the proverbial needle in a haystack. If we get ahold of Free Throw Guy’s parents, are they going to tell us they have suspicions that their twenty-something son is actually the most famous killer in the world right now?”

  “We’ll never know unless we follow up on each case.”

  I looked across the table at Cara and realized she was being much more professional then me.

  “As usual, you’re right. Sorry for being a stick in the mud.”

  “Don’t worry about it. When I’m down, make sure you prop me up.”

  “Of course. How’s the burrata?”

  “Delicious. Like every other cheese in the world.”

  “Amen to that. Never met one I didn’t like.”

  “Put a sun-dried tomato on top and then put it on the baguette. Delicious.”

  “Oh, is that how this is supposed to work? I thought we ate them all separately.”

  She laughed at my joke and my anger with the OPD evaporated. Kind of like the burrata plate, which was finished in seconds.

  The quesadilla arrived next and we started going to town on that.

  “We can order in next time,” I said.

  “No, I like this,” Cara said. “If we’re going to be shacked up for awhile, it would be nice to get out and enjoy some fresh air. Let’s eat outside when possible.”

  “I’m fine with that.”

  And I grabbed a slice of the quesadilla, for a moment thinking of nothing but how delicious the chicken and melted cheese would be in my mouth.

  I finally got a return call from Captain Lockett later that afternoon.

  “Hello?”

  “Quint, this is Captain Lockett. You called.”

  He sounded gruff, but I wasn’t sure if it was because of me or everything else going on.

  “I feel like the OPD is pushing me away. I called three times.”

  “It’s because they are, Quint. You heard the chief last time you were at headquarters. He doesn’t want anything to do with you.”

  “Even after the Butcher left a letter on my door?”