The Bay Area Butcher: (Quint Adler Book 2)

by Brian O'Sullivan

  “We dusted for fingerprints. Looked for DNA. We did all we could.”

  “So you’re telling me nothing came of it?”

  “You can draw your own conclusions.”

  “Can I get updates on any evidence you might find?”

  “You’re not a cop, Quint. That’s not going to happen.”

  “Is that your opinion or the chief’s?”

  “I could lose my job if he knew I kept interacting with you. I can’t risk it.”

  I felt for Lockett and knew he was in a tough spot. It made me a little less frustrated with him in particular, whatever my feelings about the entire situation.

  “I thought we got along pretty well while Ray was alive. I wouldn’t want to lose that.”

  “My hands are tied, Quint. I like you, but unless you come up with something concrete on the killer, it’s probably best if we don’t talk anymore.”

  It would be useless to continue pleading my case. Lockett had made his mind up. He’d had to.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Take care of yourself, Quint.”

  And with that, he hung up the phone.

  25.

  “I’m going to be honest, Quint, I was expecting you sooner.”

  Tom Butler had the look of a disappointed father.

  I’d walked into The Walnut Creek Times a week after Ray’s death.

  “I should have come earlier,” I said. “But I was pissed off I wasn’t invited to Ray’s funeral. And I went into a cocoon for a few days.”

  “That’s no excuse. Krissy and I had known Ray for over ten years and we weren’t invited. We didn’t go hibernate.”

  Everything he said was true. But it didn’t mean I had to like hearing it.

  “I’m sorry, Tom. I don’t know what else to say.”

  “You’re forgiven, Quint. Now let’s hug it out and talk about Ray.”

  I’d cried myself out in the days immediately following Ray’s death, but I still felt emotional giving Tom a hug. He was the one who had introduced me to Ray in a roundabout way, having him approach me at a crime scene.

  Ray had often mentioned how much he liked the Butlers, and I know the feeling was mutual. The police must have really limited the funeral to mostly cops.

  “Where’s Krissy?”

  I’d walked up to the second floor, where I saw Tom and the paper’s editor, Jan. But no Krissy.

  “She’s having lunch with Ray’s wife.”

  “That’s nice,” I said. “I called Glenda a few days ago. Cara and I are going to take her out too.”

  “The less downtime she has, the better. Being left alone with her feelings right now is probably not the best idea.”

  “That was my thinking as well.”

  “So, I have to ask,” Tom said. “How involved are you on this case? You know I’ll give you any manpower you need. Any and all of the reporters downstairs are at your disposal if you think they’d help.”

  “The OPD has cut all ties with me. So officially, I’m not helping at all. But unofficially, Cara and I have made it our pet project.”

  I didn’t like calling it that, even though the term had quickly jumped to mind. It was too cute sounding. And didn’t do Ray’s death, or any of the other victims’, enough justice.

  “I kind of figured that might be so. Without a nine to five and no deadline due here, I was imagining you mired in this case.”

  “Well, you were right. And ‘mired’ is certainly the word for it. It’s disturbing investigating a serial killer. It’s making me miss some of the fluff articles I wrote here.”

  Tom laughed. He knew our paper wasn’t The New Yorker. He embraced that, and we did as good a job as possible for a small, local newspaper.

  At the same time, neither of us had fluff on the mind as he asked earnestly, “What can we do? Give me anything. I’ll have each reporter spend fifteen or thirty minutes a day on it. Maybe we’ll find something.”

  “I guess you could look back over my articles. See if one stands out. I’ve read them fifty times each, but some new eyes couldn’t hurt. Thanks.”

  “Of course. I’m doing it for Ray. And the rest of the Bay Area.”

  “I’m afraid his next murders are going to be even more horrific.”

  “Well, your gut instincts have been pretty damn good over the years, so I’m not going to doubt you. Wish I could. Let’s hope we can find out who he is first.”

  “Amen to that. Thanks for your help, Tom.”

  “You’re welcome, Quint. Listen, I’ve got something I’m working on, but stop by here more often. And I’ll be in touch if any of the staff find anything.”

  “Thanks for your help, Tom.”

  “You’re welcome. Be safe.”

  It was the way people said goodbye to me these days.

  I learned about the killer’s fourth letter that afternoon, but it didn’t come from the police.

  Instead, it was a screenshot sent from my favorite bookie’s strongman, Paddy Roark.

  As had become standard, I read it several times.

  Hello, everyone!

  I feel like we’re all old friends now. I realize this letter is a quick follow-up to the last one, but it’s necessary.

  This is the last letter you’ll receive before I commit my fourth set of murders. Although Ray Kintner was technically just a single murder, I guess. Oh well, it felt like more since it cut so deep for those close to him. Here’s looking at you, Quint.

  These last two sets of killings are going to be so over the top, so majestic, that I’m going to need some time.

  But I am a man of my word, so I will give you the date. And since Fridays have been so successful, I feel no need to change it up.

  On Friday, June 18th, the world will be shocked. Aghast. Speechless.

  And because you’re so far behind, and have basically zero chance of catching me, I’m going to leave you with a little riddle.

  It will help answer the question of how my name is mentioned in every article. But Quint, I’m afraid only you will be able to get this one. The entirety of the Bay Area is waiting on you. If not, there will be more carnage.

  So, here goes:

  If queen, king, ace, two, three was a straight in poker, then maybe you’d see my name…

  And that’s it. Talk to you guys again soon.

  Happy Hunting!

  I had played my share of poker in my life, but I had no idea what he meant. And the stakes were higher than in any poker game I’d ever been involved in.

  26.

  Peter Vitella was a legend in the Bay Area. For all the wrong reasons.

  He was the Jerry Springer Show in print.

  His weekly column in the San Francisco Chronicle, “The Vitella Vine” was full of rumors, innuendo, and every other thing journalists should avoid using. But Vitella didn’t care.

  Keeping his column interesting, and ahead of the curve, was all that mattered to Peter Vitella. He’d taken down many people during his thirty-plus years writing it. Politicians, VIPs, Silicon Valley tycoons, even beloved Bay Area athletes.

  No one was immune.

  One of the earliest examples had been the story of Maxfield Unger, a huge fundraiser around the Bay Area. He proved ubiquitous. If there was a mayor being sworn in, a huge skyscraper being christened, or the opening of a new ballpark, Maxfield Unger would be there.

  He was a mysterious person, because you’d see him at every big-time event, but would never be quite sure how he got there. Most people assumed he supplied the money behind the money.

  An angel investor, as it’s called now. But before the internet, no one really used that term.

  The rumor went that his family had made tens of millions in the oil business in the 1960s and Unger had inherited the money when his parents passed.

  In 2020, this would have been easily verifiable, but in 1990, people were able to keep their private lives much more private.

  So Maxfield Unger remained a riddle to the Bay Area. Peop
le were fascinated by him, but really didn’t know all that much about him.

  That is, until Peter Vitella struck.

  His column usually contained a hodgepodge of anecdotes and rumors, a series of small stories. But he dedicated an entire column to Maxfield Unger. He titled it, “I’m Madder than Mad, Max.”

  In the article, Peter Vitella laid out the case that Maxfield Unger was a pedophile.

  He talked to fifteen different boys and girls who’d said Unger had gotten way too touchy with them. No, Vitella didn’t use their real names or verify them in any way. People understood. These were kids, after all.

  Vitella also stated that members of the SFPD had found old video cassettes of child pornography. He was known to be close to many police officers, so people took this at face value.

  The article was plastered with pictures of Unger alone with kids. Many of the pictures had been cropped to remove other people from them. It was shoddy journalism to say the least, but it was also a different time.

  After the article, you couldn’t find Maxfield Unger with the Hubble Space Telescope. He’d become a permanently uninvited guest to any of those grand openings that he’d become famous for.

  Stories spread of him being cussed out the rare times he did appear in public. He bought a full-page ad in a rival newspaper in which he swore his innocence up and down. Some people may have believed him, but who is going to stand up for an alleged pedophile? It could ruin their own career, reputation, and personal life. So people stayed silent.

  Oddly, no police charges were ever filed. Or not odd at all, if you believed that Peter Vitella worked in conjecture, unsubstantiated rumors, and lies.

  But those could still be enough to wreck someone.

  And they wrecked Maxfield Unger. Six months after the article was published, he walked out on the Golden Gate Bridge on a beautiful Saturday morning. On this summer day, many people were walking the bridge connecting Marin County and San Francisco.

  Unger walked over the railing, and looked out over the water below. He sat there for a minute.

  A crowd developed. Some people had cameras of the bulky analog type used in those days and they snapped pictures. Others told him to step back over the railing.

  Maxfield Unger said three things only. The first two would never be proved or disproved. But the third sentence he uttered has undoubtedly become true.

  As people looked on in horror, Unger stood up on the railing and grabbed one of the world-famous bridge’s bright red poles.

  He looked down at the assembled crowd and said, “I never improperly touched any little kids. I’m not an animal. And this yellow journalism, especially Peter Vitella, is only going to get worse and wreck more lives.”

  With that, Maxfield Unger let go of the pole and jumped toward the Bay below. Several members of the crowd shrieked, and parents tried to cover their children’s eyes.

  An extremely high majority of people who jump from the Golden Gate Bridge end out dying, and Maxfield Unger was no different. They found his body a few days later.

  Many people had wished it had been Peter Vitella who had jumped.

  But over the last several decades, he’d proven to be a cockroach. Impossible to kill.

  He’d go through many more Maxfield Ungers over the following decades. And his column flourished despite backlash and people calling for his job. He sold papers and that’s what mattered most, apparently.

  A brash thirty-year-old kid back in 1990, Peter Vitella was now sixty, but no less venomous.

  And now he was coming after me.

  I first heard about the article on the morning after receiving the Bay Area Butcher’s new letter. Nothing could be worse than Ray’s death, but it did really feel like I was being hit on all sides.

  My mother called first.

  “Quint, I need you to go read Peter Vitella’s article this morning. And then call me back. We’re going to need to have a long talk.”

  “Okay, Mom. I’ll be in touch.”

  I could have read the article online, but I was old school and still preferred reading the actual newspaper. So I went down to my local Starbucks and grabbed the Style section where Vitella wrote his article.

  Fatima, one of the baristas who’d kept me out of jail, worked behind the counter today.

  “Can I take this one section?” I asked.

  “Of course. We’ve got like five papers lying around.”

  I ordered a coffee as well.

  With my purchases, I walked back to Avalon and got on the elevator. I saw Tad and the elderly Evelyn on the elevator together, just as I had a few weeks back.

  Once Evelyn departed, I told Tad people were going to start thinking they were a couple if they kept appearing together.

  “Don’t quit your day job,” Tad said, but he was laughing.

  I exited on the fourth floor and headed to my apartment. With every step, my stomach churned.

  I’d long known Peter Vitella was bad news, and now I’d been caught in his crosshairs.

  I proceeded to my couch, took a sip of my coffee, and started reading.

  QUESTIONS FOR QUINT!

  BY PETER VITELLA

  Quint Adler, a previously unknown Bay Area writer, became a feel-good story last summer. He bypassed local law enforcement and recklessly took things in his own hands to go after the archvillain Charles Zane. He succeeded and took down one of the worst criminals in Bay Area history.

  Good for him.

  However, history is not repeating itself.

  This time around, his maverick streak is not only undesirable, it’s deadly. As we all know, his friend, Ray Kintner, was killed by the Bay Area Butcher.

  And the killer himself called out Quint in his latest letter to the police, media, and anyone else reading it. Which happens to be the whole world at this point.

  While I rooted for Quint last summer, this man has become a nuisance. Who does he think he is? Some self-avenger representing the Bay Area? Count me out if that’s how it is. Leave this case to the SFPD, the OPD, and all the other experts in the field.

  And maybe, just maybe, we won’t have another officer killed while you’re busy trying to be the hero.

  That goes for your girlfriend, too. The beautiful Cara.

  I’ve heard from a respected connection that Cara was seen taking some papers and diagrams into Quint’s apartment complex in Walnut Creek. Looks like they might be working the case together.

  My advice to Cara: Stay out of this.

  People who hang out with Quint for too long seem to have a nasty habit of turning up dead.

  But you do you, Cara.

  Apparently, Quint was named after Robert Shaw’s character in Jaws.

  So I’ve got a quote for him.

  We’re going to need a bigger body bag count!

  Stay out of it. Let the experts handle it before more people end up dead.

  Sincerely,

  Peter Vitella

  The entire thing filled me with fury, but one line stood out.

  “But you do you, Cara.”

  I wanted to rip the fucking heart out of Peter Vitella. Blaming me for Ray’s death was bad enough, but going after my girlfriend lay beyond the pale.

  If Vitella had arrived at my apartment at that exact moment, I might have thrown him off the balcony.

  I wish I was joking.

  “I didn’t know you were so involved with the Bay Area Butcher case,” my mother said.

  I had to make the call even though I knew it wouldn’t go over well.

  “I was mentioned in his very first letter. I couldn’t avoid it.”

  With the phone to my ear, I caught myself pacing back and forth in my apartment like a crazy man.

  Only two days ago, the killer had left a note on my door. And then Cara and I made the collage. And now I was staring at an article in the San Francisco Chronicle that was going to change everything.

  All while having to deal with a worried mother.

  “Of course you ca
n avoid it, Quint. It’s just like Charles Zane. But you couldn’t say no then, either. You had to move forward.”

  She was right.

  “There’s a murderer on the loose and I might be one of the few people who can identify him. It’s impossible to just leave it alone.”

  My mother paused before responding, and I knew I’d struck a chord.

  “I just wish it wasn’t my son who was involved.”

  “Well then, you’re going to hate this, Mom. I’m not only going to keep investigating this case, but I’m looking to become a private detective.”

  I expected a tongue lashing, but none came.

  Instead, she said, “You’d be pretty good at it.”

  “That’s not the response I was expecting, Mom. I’m pleasantly surprised.”

  “Doesn’t mean I like it.”

  “Then why the sudden change?”

  “I just thought of your father for a moment. About him trying to protect that student even when it led to his death. Maybe you’re just trying to protect people.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m doing, Mom. This guy is the worst killer this region has seen in decades. Maybe ever. And he’s going to kill again and it’s going to get worse. I can’t just sit idly by.”

  “That’s all true. But you’re still my baby. And my only child.”

  “I’m going to take every precaution available. There were ten cops at my place a few days back. I’m safe.”

  I realized my mistake immediately.

  “What happened at your apartment to warrant ten cops being there?”

  “The killer left a letter addressed to me,” I admitted.

  “Jeez Louise! We need to meet up, Quint. There’s obviously a lot of things that you haven’t been telling me.”

  “You’re right, Mom. I haven’t. But you have to know that it’s from a place of love and I’m just trying not to worry you.”

  “Well, I’m worried now. So you don’t have to keep any information from me anymore.”

  “Alright, I’ll tell you everything.”

  “Tell me in person. I haven’t seen you in awhile.”

  I tried to think. She was right, we should meet up again soon.