The Bay Area Butcher: (Quint Adler Book 2)

by Brian O'Sullivan

  Walking around the halls of a huge apartment complex, I’m as ordinary as the next guy.

  And Quint and I never progressed beyond saying hello in the hallways, anyway.

  One random day, late last summer, I’d settled comfortably in my apartment at Avalon, reading a biography of Edmund Kemper, the Co-Ed Killer, when I heard gunshots. It took me a second, but there was no mistaking what I’d heard.

  I headed off in the direction where they’d come from. Some might say I’m crazy for following the gunshots, but if you didn’t already know, death and carnage fascinate me like nothing else. So it wasn’t really a choice. I was under a compulsion.

  Going to the source of the sound, I sped past the elevator of the fourth floor, and then immediately I saw blood on the wall outside the stairwell next to it. I opened the door to the stairs and was greeted with more blood on the floor in front of me.

  I walked to the top of the steps and looked down. Someone had collapsed at the bottom of the first flight, obviously having been shot. A trail of blood lead down to him and a red pool surrounded his crumpled body.

  I leapt, two steps a time, to the bottom of the stairwell. There I recognized the man as Quint. It looked like he’d received gunshot wounds to his upper arm and shoulder, which he’d likely recover from. But he certainly wasn’t in good shape and as I stood over him, he flickered in and out of consciousness.

  This was the first time I’d ever seen a gunshot victim in front of me, in the flesh and blood, and I have to say, it excited me. The carnage some tiny bullets at a high speed could inflict on a human body proved intoxicating.

  But Quint had been cordial with me, so I didn’t necessarily wish him harm. To say I cared whether he lived or died would be going too far, but I wasn’t actively rooting for his death.

  That would come later.

  Standing over him, I told him he was going to be alright a few times, not knowing what else to say. I didn’t have time to do much else, anyway. In a matter of seconds, a couple other people arrived on the stairwell, and I backed off. A few minutes later, EMTs arrived and I was pushed farther away in the stairwell. Finally, the police arrived, and with curt orders they removed everyone who had gathered.

  A week passed and the shooting of Quint showed up all over the news. He was going to live. But I found out he wasn’t going to be returning to Avalon. I saw Kayla, who managed the property, and she said his presence was deemed too big a risk since someone had tried to kill him.

  Made sense to me. Although I’ll admit, I enjoyed the action. A nice change from the boring everyday life of Avalon.

  Fast forward a few months. Quint becomes a local hero after taking down Charles Zane in their battle at sea. And then I see him do a few national interviews as well.

  That’s when I started to turn on him. It built up some major resentment.

  This guy wrote shitty-ass articles for a small-town newspaper. And now he’s being treated like some sort of hero? Give me a fucking break!

  And then, several months ago, he moves back in to Avalon. With what was rumored to be two months rent-free. For what, getting shot? More bullshit.

  And then the two things that pushed me over the edge in my disgust for Quint:

  First off, Cara. From what I can gather, they were broken up when I first moved in to Avalon, which explains why I’d never laid eyes on her.

  I certainly would have remembered. She was one of the most beautiful creatures I’d ever seen. A 10+, if there is such a thing.

  And she was hanging out with this average (at best) writer who was probably ten years older than her? My blood boiled.

  I preferred him when I thought he was just some pathetic writer. The fact that he had a gorgeous girlfriend, on top of becoming quasi-famous for nothing, was too much for me. My infuriation only increased.

  And then the kicker.

  Since his return, I’d seen Quint a few times around Avalon, and he told me he had an upcoming article in the New Yorker. Keep in mind, I’d never gotten a thank you from him for being the first one at his side. Not a word. And I don’t care if he was passed out half the time from the pain. You find something like that out.

  Maybe he was waiting to mention me by name in the New Yorker article.

  But no. All he said was, and I quote: “To the guy who arrived by my side, thanks for telling me I was going to be okay.”

  Couldn’t he have found out who it was? Given me a shout-out?

  Instead, the article was just him fellating himself. Talking about taking down Charles Zane and all he had to overcome. Quint. Quint. Quint.

  Not one mention of me! About the guy who ran to his side when he was shot!

  Fuck, Quint!

  I was livid. Enraged. Seething.

  If he’d mentioned me in the article, maybe I’d have become a local celebrity as well. Maybe girls would look at me a little differently. Maybe I’d be looked at as courageous.

  But none of this happened.

  To make matters worse, I’d occasionally run into Quint when we ran errands near Avalon. And inevitably, people would approach him and tell him how great he was. What a hero he was. And other bullshit like that.

  I wanted to shoot him in the middle of Trader Joe’s. That’s how much contempt had built inside of me.

  But I knew better.

  I told myself for the hundredth time that I was destined for more than the common criminal activity. I was going to be remembered forever. And killing one person in some bullshit grocery store wasn’t going to do the trick.

  So I decided to bring Quint along for the ride. Incorporating a local “celebrity” could give my killing spree the added juice to take it to another level.

  I stopped fantasizing about killing Quint (and being alone with Cara) and started planning. And plotting.

  I started making some lists.

  I started with people who had wronged me over the years. From the bullies in high school to the adults who allowed it.

  I listed ways in which I could kill a great deal of people at once.

  I listed ways in which I could escape after my fifth set of murders. This was going to be harder than the killings themselves. How could one of the most wanted men in the world just vanish into thin air?

  I’d finally decided that I’d learned and studied all I could. I was ready. I knew the first set of murders had to be both personal and hands-on. To be a great serial killer, you had to get your hands dirty at least once.

  So I chose the Langleys.

  I’d grown up close to both them and the Tillers.

  And hated them for quite different reasons.

  The Langleys for the love they had for the world. And the Tillers for the hate they exuded.

  Paul Langley was about the most positive man I’d ever met. I abhorred him immediately.

  His wife had a permanent smile on her face. But not the kind that looked plastic and fake. That I could have lived with. No, she actually enjoyed being alive. Every day offered some new adventure she just couldn’t wait to dive into. I never saw her in a bad mood.

  And it ate me alive, knowing I hated people, hated life, was always miserable, and would never have her rosy outlook.

  Their daughter Mia was only a few years younger than me. She was the most attractive girl in our section of Pleasant Hill. Making matters worse, she was nice and polite. I wanted a pretty girl to be bitchy so I had reason to hate her. But Mia was the opposite, so I had even more disdain for her.

  I understand that might not make any sense.

  Let me explain it like this:

  I understand people who are miserable. I get that. I am that. What I can’t comprehend is going around every day and loving the opportunities that life brings.

  That infuriates me to no end.

  And it’s why I chose the Langleys.

  The Tillers were the exact opposite. Roger Tiller was possibly the biggest asshole I’d ever met. He constantly yelled at the neighborhood kids, myself included. He’d embarrass his
children by chastising them in front of any and everyone, humiliating himself in the process as well. His wife wasn’t much better.

  I’d been jealous of the Langleys. And that had driven my hate. But I was motivated to kill the Tillers because people like them were what made the world so dark. They were one reason why I could never celebrate life like the Langleys did.

  I spent some TLC on their cookies, making sure the ones on their doorstep were laced with a touch more fentanyl than the rest that went to the people in San Jose.

  It seemed to have worked.

  RIP.

  Haha.

  Like I give a shit.

  Boy, have the last six weeks been a wild ride.

  I can honestly say I’ve never felt more alive than since I’ve started killing. I like being the center of attention. And I love having the power to end people’s lives. I think humanity sucks and I enjoy the misery and chaos that I’ve created.

  The fact that I’ll be remembered and talked about forever is the icing on the cake. To me, and this may sum me up better than any psychologist could, it’s way better to be remembered as an all-time villain than to be like Bob from Accounting who worked the same shitty job for forty years and raised 2.5 kids with his fat, unattractive wife.

  Am I narcissist? Undoubtedly. Am I a psychopath? Certainly. Do I care? Assuredly not.

  If I have my choice, I’ll go on killing forever.

  We’ll have to see what the future holds.

  36.

  “My God,” I yelled.

  Cara had been watching as I wrote down the name Tyler Anthony Danovich. And then the letters of my own name.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Come here.”

  She sat next to me on the couch.

  “Do you remember the poker riddle?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  I took my pen and drew a huge circle around the T at the end of Quint. I then did the same with the A and the D that started my last name.

  “It crosses over from the end of my first name to the beginning of my last. Just like a potential straight that goes King, Ace, Two, etc. And the letters would be in every article I’d ever written.”

  “I get that part. But who is Tad?” Cara asked, genuinely perplexed.

  And then I realized that she had probably never met him.

  “He lives in this complex.”

  “You’re kidding me, Quint. The Bay Area Butcher lives here at Avalon?”

  “If I’m right about this, then yes. And worse yet, he lives on this floor.”

  Cara shook her head in disgust.

  With my own skin crawling, I stood up.

  “I have to go downstairs,” I said.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “You can’t.”

  “You’re going to leave me up here with that psychopath close by?”

  “I have to ask the manager of Avalon a few questions. If Tad is around and sees us both approach her, he’ll know something is up.”

  “Alright, if you must. But please hurry back.”

  “I’ll be very quick. Obviously, don’t answer the door for anyone.”

  “I won’t. I’m scared, Quint. Please hurry back.”

  “I will.”

  I grabbed a table.

  “What are you doing?” Cara asked.

  “You can shove this against the door when I leave.”

  “Just go. I’ll be fine for a few minutes.”

  “Okay.”

  I opened the door to my apartment and looked to my left and to my right. I saw no one in the hallway. Still, my heart rate remained off the charts.

  I locked the door behind me.

  I’d seen Tad on the elevator many times over the years, so I decided to take the stairs. I didn’t trust myself to act normal if I happened to run into him.

  When I first saw the initials of Tyler Anthony Danovich, I couldn’t help but think of Tad. The three letters jumped out at me. But could he, someone who seemed so cordial every time I talked to him, be the deranged killer the world was looking for?

  I thought back to the day when the Butcher left a note attached to my apartment door. Despite the mania that ensued once the cops arrived, the absolute fear I’d felt at the threat ensured that entire morning was etched into my memory.

  In my mind, I recreated my steps when I went to get a coffee, and sure enough, I remembered seeing Tad. I had been approaching the elevator as he was getting off! He would have known I wasn’t going to be back for a while. Even if I was just going down to get my mail, that would still take five minutes. Plenty of time for him to leave the note on my door.

  I finished climbing down the stairs and walked into the main office of Avalon Walnut Creek. Kayla, standing behind the desk, looked up at me as I entered.

  “Can I help you, Quint?”

  She had an office and I hated asking to use it, but I couldn’t risk having anyone else hear our conversation.

  “Can we use your office?” I asked.

  “Sure. This must be very official.”

  I tried to laugh, hoping to make it sound like no big deal. But failed miserably.

  Kayla walked into her office. I followed her and pulled the door shut behind me.

  She had a computer on her desk and a nice executive chair behind it. I sat in the nondescript chair that faced her.

  “I have to ask a question and I hope you won’t tell anyone.”

  “Well, this is a little odd, but sure. I can keep a secret.”

  The license plate, the initials, and the fact that I saw him the morning that note was attached to my door. That should have been enough.

  But there was one other thing that bothered me. What article had I mentioned him in? I’d never mentioned Tad, Tyler, or certainly Tyler Anthony Davonich by name.

  I had a guess, however. And it was what had brought me down to see Kayla.

  “Do you remember the day Iast year when I was shot?”

  “How could I forget? The craziest day we ever had at Avalon.”

  “You told me you were one of the first people who went upstairs, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Once I was shot and taken to the hospital, that day became a blur. I certainly don’t remember much. And once I got out of the hospital, and was persona non grata at Avalon for awhile, I pushed it out of my mind. For obvious reasons. I was almost killed.”

  “Perfectly understandable. Not sure where you are going with this, though.”

  I decided to just ask.

  “Do you know who were the first few people by my side?”

  When I couldn’t think of any article mentioning Tad, my mind went to the one I had written for the New Yorker. It was the only time I ever mentioned Avalon Walnut Creek, so it made sense that Tad may have appeared in that one.

  And while I hadn’t mentioned people by name, I had discussed fellow Avalon residents coming to my aid. Even singling out the person who spoke to me as I sat at the bottom of the stairs, drifting in and out of consciousness.

  It had been as good a guess as any. No other article made any sense.

  “By the time I got up to the fourth floor, there were probably about five people up there,” Kayla said. “We were looking more at you than at each other, but I remember seeing them.”

  I didn’t see any other way than just asking her.

  “Was Tad there, by chance?”

  She thought about it for a few seconds.

  “Yeah, he was, now that I look back at it. I don’t know if he was the first one to find you, but he was definitely there.”

  I wanted to scream. But I had to keep my cool.

  “Okay. Thanks, Kayla. One last thing, what was Tad’s last name again?”

  “Danovich.”

  “Okay thanks, that’s all I wanted to know.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Not sure we needed the office for that.”

  “I just don’t want Tad to know I was asking about him. Think I’m going to get h
im a gift for helping me out.”

  I had to make something up and that’s what I could come up with on the spot.

  I stood up and turned to go. It was time to call the police and have them take down this fucking lunatic. I couldn’t tell Kayla and risk creating chaos at Avalon. The police would know how to handle it.

  “I can try and get you his new address,” Kayla said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Yeah, I guess you wouldn’t know. Tad moved out two days ago.”

  “Was that expected?”

  “Not at all. He said his parents were sick and he had to leave immediately.”

  My world spun around.

  Did he realize we were closing in on him? Had our trip to Iron Hill Street given us away?

  I had been forty-five seconds from calling the police. I’d already envisioned a SWAT storming his apartment.

  But that wasn’t going to happen now.

  Tyler Anthony Danovich, a.k.a. Tad, a.k.a. the Bay Area Butcher, had gone on the run.

  37.

  The previous six weeks had been frenetic to say the least, but nothing prepared me for what came next.

  I called the OPD at 3:15 p.m., as soon as I finished talking to Kayla. I told them everything I’d discovered.

  Before they arrived, I asked Cara to google Tyler Anthony Danovich and find out where he worked. He did a front-end job at a computer company in Walnut Creek named Caltenics. I called the main line and asked for Tad or Tyler Danovich, with my intention being to hang up if they connected me to him.

  “Sorry, Tyler called in sick a few days ago and hasn’t returned to work.”

  Just like I’d suspected.

  Within a half-hour, Avalon was inundated with law enforcement of all types. I spotted the OPD, SFPD, Walnut Creek PD, local sheriffs, and many blue and yellow F.B.I. jackets.

  For ninety minutes, I fielded questions from any and all of the aforementioned law enforcement. It got tedious as I answered and then re-answered the same questions many times.

  But everyone was on edge and trying to get every detail they could about the Butcher. So I understood.