If any good news could be had, it was that the death toll remained at fourteen. The police and fire department arrived within a few minutes of the first distress call, and were able to save forty-four lives.
A monumental achievement sure to be forgotten as people focused on the lives lost. Understandably so.
I made the mistake of going online. The Bay Area Butcher, as he’d become known across the entire world, led every website imaginable. BBC, TMZ, CNN—even ESPN had an article on the killings. The killer’s story had reached biblical proportions and he had taken over the news cycle once again by doing the unthinkable.
At around 9:30 a.m., Cara said to me:
“I don’t want to sit around and hear about this all day. It’s too tragic. I can’t deal with it.”
I concurred. My own heart had grown heavier and heavier as information began to come out about the people who had died and reporters interviewed their family members. At the same time, I’d been thinking.
“Want to take a little trip?” I asked. “Something has been bothering me.”
“Anything to get me out of here,” Cara said. “Where are we headed?”
“The San Francisco Chronicle offices.”
Cara nodded. She knew there was only one reason to go there.
As we drove up from the Avalon’s underground parking garage, we could see three different trucks belonging to local T.V. stations. They camped out either to get a shot of me or to broadcast from my apartment complex, which they’d consider a nice backdrop considering the “rivalry” between myself and the Butcher.
All for some better ratings.
I felt both angry and sad.
Here I was. The guy who knew Ray Kintner. And the possible reason he got killed. They were implicitly saying that I was guilty as well. Not of catastrophic murders like the Butcher, but by broadcasting outside of Avalon Walnut Creek, they were saying a small portion of this was on me.
It incensed me. My knuckles gripped the steering wheel until they turned white. I was doing everything I could to catch this maniac, and yet these T.V. stations saw me as just a tool to improve ratings.
Luckily, the parking garage was dimly lit, and at this time of the morning a lot of traffic passed in and out. None of the media recognized me as I sped by them.
“Is this all because of you?” Cara asked, summing up what I’d been thinking.
“Mostly. I’m sure they’ll mention how the Butcher was in this apartment complex to drop off that letter to me. But the main reason they’re here is to sell the story of Quint vs. the Butcher.”
I felt weird referring to myself in the third person, but it seemed apropos.
“Did you ever think this was going to get so out of control?” Cara asked.
“Never in my wildest dreams. This is utter insanity.”
I got on the freeway and pressed down hard on the accelerator. I could feel Cara looking at me side-eyed.
“Calm down, Quint,” she said. “The last thing we need is to get into an accident.”
I was fired up, maybe more so than I’d ever been in my life. But I lowered my speed. For Cara.
The San Francisco Chronicle began operation in 1865 and had only changed buildings twice in the subsequent 155 years. The current office sat just a few blocks from where it originally began.
Working in the newspaper business for nine years, albeit at a much, much smaller paper than the Chronicle, I understood the financial risks they faced. But the Chronicle had done a good job and was borderline thriving while so many other papers had either folded or resorted to putting out online versions only.
I parked the car a block from their massive office and put loads of quarters in the meter. I was old enough to remember when a few quarters would get you an hour. Not anymore. The last thing we needed today was a parking ticket, so I kept feeding the meter like it was an old-school slot machine.
Cara had been quiet on the ride over and remained so as we walked toward the huge facade of the building.
“Don’t worry, Cara. Peter Vitella may be antagonistic to us, but he’s not the real enemy. At least, not the one that matters.”
“That’s not why I’m quiet, Quint.”
She didn’t have to elaborate. She was still thinking about the old folks home.
Entering the building, we were greeted by three security guards. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. Too many had come to see the media as the enemy of the people. Although, I had to admit, they weren’t exactly in my good graces at the moment.
Having T.V. trucks camped outside of your apartment complex can do that to you.
“How can I help you?” one security guard asked us. It seemed this position didn’t call for a lot of activity. He was pushing three hundred pounds. As were his two co-workers. He didn’t really look like he wanted to help, either. His expression said he’d rather be anywhere else. I couldn’t blame him. It was a thankless job.
“I’d like to see Peter Vitella.”
“You can’t just meet with one of the writing staff without having an appointment.”
“Well, maybe he’d like to meet with me. Considering I have information on the Bay Area Butcher.”
That got his attention, and his two co-workers also looked over in our direction.
“Mario, call upstairs please.”
A minute passed and Mario approached with the good news.
“Mr. Vitella will see you now.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“My co-worker Andre will take you up.”
I thanked him again.
We followed Andre, who led us to the elevator a hundred feet away. He escorted us on and pressed the 6th floor button.
Once we arrived there, Andre pointed us toward what appeared to be the front desk. He then went back on the elevator and headed back to the ground floor, seeming relieved to have the excitement over. Meanwhile, I steeled myself for the confrontation I’d come here for.
Peter Vitella approached us before we got to the front desk. I’d never met the man in person, but he wore the derby hat that accompanied his picture for the paper. He was definitely older than the man in said picture. But while he might have been bordering on elderly, I knew his fangs still packed some venom.
“Peter Vitella.” He extended his hand. “You must be Quint and Cara. I’m truly honored.”
It was an odd introduction. He’d badmouthed us in print and potentially put us in harm’s way. And yet there was no acknowledgement of that. It was like he was saying hi to two old friends. And I hated to admit it, but he almost came off as charismatic.
I reminded myself of all the lies he’d spread over the years. The faux charisma probably explained how he got close to people. Before stabbing them in the back.
“Yup, here we are. Do you have a place we could talk?”
“Certainly,” he said. “Follow me.”
Vitella walked us toward the back of the expansive room. The San Francisco Chronicle had to have twenty times the space of the Walnut Creek Times. Maybe more. And that was just on this floor. Not that this came as any surprise. The San Chronicle was a world famous newspaper that had been around for over a century and a half.
I could feel all the eyes turn toward us as we passed. And who could blame them?
Vitella had berated us in print and yet here we were. And on the morning after the Bay Area Butcher had struck again. It had to be jarring for his co-workers.
I heard some whispers that I felt sure were discussing us, but I paid them no mind. I was here to talk to Vitella and find out how he got his inside information. Namely, how he knew Cara brought files into Avalon Walnut Creek.
Could it have been the Butcher who told him? That was my suspicion.
We bypassed a few smaller offices and found ourselves entering a massive one. I knew that Vitella had been with the Chronicle for decades, but it still seemed wrong that a guy who peddled in lies and gossip had one of the most impressive offices at the paper.
Two le
ather chairs sat opposite a big oak table from another, more impressive leather chair. It turned out to be the perfect office for three people and Vitella gestured for Cara and I to take seats. Which we did.
“So what can I do for you, Quint? Not here to beat me up, I hope.”
His smugness showed in his teasing tone.
“I’d probably enjoy it too much and land in jail,” I said. “No, we’re here because of the true scourge of the Bay Area.”
“Ah, the Butcher. What sickening news to wake up to this morning.”
“It’s unfathomable,” I said.
“Truly repellant. Looks like I’ll have to keep writing about him. And you.”
He said it in a gross, self-satisfied way.
“Almost sounds like you’re looking forward to it,” I said.
“I’m a writer, like you. Doesn’t it feel good to have work?”
“Not because people are dying.”
“People die every day.”
“Not like this. And they’re not just ‘people’. These are your innocent neighbors of the Bay Area.”
“Semantics,” he said.
He was truly as disgusting in person as in print. And now I really did want to kick his ass. But I couldn’t. I needed something from him.
“How did you find out that Cara was taking supplies into my apartment complex?”
“A confidential informant, of course.”
Vitella started smiling again, but it was insincere to its core.
“Can you tell us who it is?” I asked.
“You may be able to get information from the police, but I myself will not give it up so easily. If I go around outing my sources, who would I be? You know how important such integrity is to a journalist.”
“Fuck off,” I said. “Don’t even try to equate us. You’re a slimeball.”
His smile faded.
“I could have you escorted out right now. No one tells me to fuck off.”
“I think you’re trash, Mr. Vitella. Calling out my girlfriend who never did one thing to anyone.”
“She can’t speak for herself?”
Cara had been quiet all morning, the murders at the retirement home affecting her deeply. Now she sat straight in the chair, her arms folded, and said steadily, “My opinion of you is the same as Quint’s. If not worse.”
His shit-eating grin returned as if he found this funny.
“You guys think you are so fucking cool. But you know what, you haven’t done shit to catch the Butcher either.”
“That’s why we’re here,” Cara said. “And you have no idea about all the work we’ve done.”
Now that she had entered the conversation, she was going to have her voice heard.
“What kind of person would I be if I gave up my sources?” Vitella repeated.
I decided to try a softer path for the asshole in front of us. For the greater good.
“Maybe you could have a part in helping catch this psycho,” I said.
It seemed that I’d piqued his interest.
“How is that?”
“Well, if your alleged source was the Butcher himself, maybe the police could trace him through his email. Or did your source call you?”
“Who’s to say that it wasn’t just one of your neighbors at the apartment complex? Surely it didn’t have to be the Butcher.”
“Very few of my neighbors know who Cara is. The Butcher certainly would, however. The guy knows everything about me. Or so it seems.”
I could see his mind racing. From personal experience I understood that outing sources was a no-no in this profession. But we were talking about the possibility that the Butcher himself had contacted him.
Vitella typed something into his desktop computer. He looked closer at whatever appeared on the screen. And something seemed to register.
“You turned forty last year, didn’t you, Quint?”
“Yes.”
“During the Charles Zane madness, correct?”
“I ended up in the hospital on my birthday. It’s how everything got started. Why?”
That news had become public, so I wasn’t exactly shocked that Vitella knew how old I was.
“What was the date?” he asked, ignoring my question.
“June 22nd.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he said.
“What is it?” Cara asked.
“Come here,” Vitella said.
We stood up from our red leather chairs and walked around his desk. He moved the monitor in our direction.
“Look at the email address it came from,” he said.
We looked. [email protected]. Q 6 22 80. Q surely stood for Quint. And the rest spelled out my birthday. June 22nd, 1980.
“Fucking A!” I said. “Do you still think it’s just some random neighbor?”
Vitella looked at me with a seriousness that had appeared for the first time.
“No. I don’t. But can the police find someone by their email?”
“Probably not,” I admitted. “But I still want you to call them right now.”
“Your friends at the Oakland Police Department?”
“They are no longer my friends. But you can call them if you’d like. Or the SFPD.”
He looked resigned to the fact he had no choice. If he kept protecting his source, he’d be aiding and abetting a felon at this point.
“I’ll call both.”
It was no use belaboring the point that the man in front of me was an asshole. So I continued to play nice.
“You’re doing the right thing.”
“I’m sorry about the articles I wrote about you two. I had no idea who I was getting the information from.”
I didn’t know whether to believe him.
“The Q didn’t give you pause?” I asked.
“What’s Q and a bunch of numbers supposed to mean to me? It looked like a made-up email. Which is what I’d expect from any source who doesn’t want to be outed.”
I didn’t have the time to continue arguing. I’d got what I wanted.
“Make sure you call the police as soon as we leave. Maybe, just maybe, this will lead to something.”
“I will. You guys stay safe, knowing the Butcher is out there watching you.”
I reached for Cara’s hand and turned to go. I was done with Peter Vitella.
“Stop pretending like you care. People die every day, right?”
We walked out of his office before he had a chance to respond.
“We’re not going home, are we?” Cara asked once we returned to the car.
“No.”
“Off to see Paddy?”
“Yup. It’s quite obvious now that he’s following us, isn’t it? Let’s see if the guy we hired has spotted anything suspicious.”
“You didn’t text him this morning, did you?”
“No. We were just going straight to the Chronicle. Didn’t think it was necessary.”
“I guess,” Cara said. “But it couldn’t have hurt.”
We arrived outside of Boyle’s Grocery Store less than fifteen minutes later. It was across town, but San Francisco is very condensed for a big city, so that everything turns out to be pretty close to everything else. It’s nothing like Los Angeles, where you could be twenty miles away from your destination but looking at a ninety-minute drive.
I hadn’t called ahead and just hoped that we’d find Paddy Roark there. Cara and I made our way into the now familiar grocery store. We walked past the checkers and looked around the aisles.
“Do you want to ask if he’s here?” Cara asked.
“If he’s here, he’ll find us,” I said.
And I was right. Less than thirty seconds later, Paddy strolled down the aisle toward us. We exchanged pleasantries.
“I swear, your eyes must be on those closed-circuit T.V.s at all times,” I said.
“No, I just smelled trouble walking in.”
Cara and I laughed ruefully.
“Can we talk?” I asked.
“Of
course. You know the drill.”
And we followed him to the back of the store.
We sat down, with Paddy taking the head seat, which was his unless Dennis McCarthy was present. Then Paddy became second-in-command.
“I’m assuming you’ve heard,” Paddy said.
“Sadly, yes. Woke up to it this morning,” I said.
Paddy nodded, and something passed between us, both acknowledging that we wouldn’t talk any more about what happened at the retirement home.
“You’ve been a bad boy, Quint,” he said instead.
“What did I do?”
“It’s what you didn’t do.”
“Not sure I follow.”
“We forget to call his guy this morning,” Cara said.
“Bingo.” Paddy nodded. “My guy tells me when he gets a call from you. But nothing this morning. And yet, here you are, out in San Francisco.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “We couldn’t deal with the news about the old folks’ home and I impulsively decided to go talk to Peter Vitella. Not much your guy could have done.”
“How’d it go with that asshole?” Paddy asked.
“He’d been in contact with the Butcher about Cara walking into my apartment complex. I wanted to wring Vitella’s fucking neck.”
“A lot of people would have patted you on the back.”
“I thought better of it.”
“Smart,” Paddy said.
“If I gave you an email address, could any of your guys trace it?”
“I’ll ask, but I don’t think our guys are that advanced. The cops might be able to get his IP address though.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured.”
No one said anything for a few seconds. Finally, Cara spoke.
“Has your guy found anyone suspicious tailing us?”
Paddy shook his head. “No. He told me you guys haven’t been out all that much. He thought he was going to have tons of footage and many people in the background of your life. But that’s not the case.”
“It’s our own fault,” I said. “Today wasn’t the only time I forgot to call him. And we’ve kind of been shelled up in the apartment more than I expected. That’s where we’ve been going over all of our information.”
The Bay Area Butcher: (Quint Adler Book 2) Page 17
