It was definitely time for me to have the townhouse to myself.
Thirty minutes later, I had my chance. We’d engaged in some more small talk, mostly about Caltenics. He asked who I thought had really stolen the money. It was so pathetic.
He offered to make us some drinks and walked into the kitchen. Looking around the room, I saw a paperweight that resembled a very large snow globe. Or a small bowling ball. I grabbed it, settling the weight in my palm.
A few seconds later, I followed Brendan into the kitchen. I did a brief check of my surroundings, making sure no neighbor might be looking in. The blinds were shut and that made now as good a time as any.
He’d heard me enter, but he didn’t turn around.
“I’m really glad you stopped in, Tyler. It’s been a tough few weeks for me since I was fired. I miss my work friends.”
He poured what looked like vodka into two large glasses.
“It’s good seeing you as well,” I said, inching closer.
“How is everything else? Any new girls in your life? I know you didn’t get along with that many at Caltenics.”
And then I struck. I lifted the paperweight over my head and brought it crashing onto the back of Brendan’s skull.
He let out a terrible shriek and fell down to one knee. He was severely injured, but I hadn’t put him out of commission yet.
I raised the paperweight once again and brought it crashing down a second time.
This blow was even more brutal, and he went from his knees to flat on the floor. Two huge gashes showed on the back of his head, blood sticking to his hair, but he was still alive, and thus, a threat to me.
He muttered six final words: “But…I…was…nice…to…you.”
Then I brought down the paperweight a third time. And I didn’t hear any more from him. I followed with a fourth, fifth, and sixth strike to the back of his skull, but at that point I was just showing off.
Brendan was dead.
I walked through both floors of the townhouse and shut every blind. I found a downstairs bathtub in which I could keep Brendan’s body. Every piece of it.
The apartment only had to last me until the final set of killings. Which, with this news about the children’s party, might well be next Thursday.
Going outside and disposing of the body somewhere, even just throwing it in the garbage, was too risky.
I’d chop up his body, throw the parts in the bathtub, and add Clorox or some other household supplies to diminish the smell that would surely arise.
I looked around the kitchen drawers, in which found some extremely sharp knives. In particular, a few serrated ones I thought might do the trick. With no hacksaw, I wasn’t going to be slicing the body into fifteen parts, but if I could just cut it down to three or four, I could carry the parts down to the bathtub without the noise and work of dragging a whole body.
The body parts wouldn’t be the only mess. I’d be cleaning a lot of blood off the kitchen floor as well.
As I took off his clothes, I found a cellphone in his jeans.
An idea popped into my head.
I took his right thumb and placed it on the phone screen. It came to life, with the thumbprint serving as his password.
I scrolled through his contacts and found Vanessa Mathers. Her number was there. More importantly, their text conversation showed the address and time for next Thursday.
I’d hit the jackpot.
His Elmo outfit had to be somewhere in the townhouse. This couldn’t have worked out any better.
I certainly would need Brendan’s cellphone.
I could probably change its security system from his thumbprint to a numerical code.
But just to be safe, I started by cutting off his thumb.
Phase Two of my plan had worked to perfection as well.
Two days later, I left Brendan’s townhouse for the first time.
I drove back to Walnut Creek and carried out my fourth set of murders. At the Treeside Manor. My joke of a grandmother lived there, which seemed as good a reason as any to pick it. But she’d just be the cherry on top. The killing of any innocent people made up the delicious ice cream sundae for me.
I’d surveilled the place when I still lived in Walnut Creek. With the two U-locks I’d used to barricade in the doors, and the fact that Treeside Manor’s elderly occupants couldn’t be too strong or quick on their feet anyway, I knew the loss of human life would be considerable.
Not to state the obvious, but I’d always been a terrible person. And I had become much worse once I started killing. It whetted my appetite. Now, death consumed me. I wanted to kill more and more.
I’d entered my most manic stage yet.
The next morning I woke up and watched reports of the carnage at Treeside Manor flooding the news. I gloated, loving the attention it brought to me—albeit not the true recognition of calling me out by name.
But to my shock, that changed later that day.
It was probably around two p.m. when I first heard my name mentioned on the local news. I spun to look at the T.V. and saw my old high school yearbook photo staring back at me.
They had finally found out who I was!
It had to be because of Quint. Well done, my friend. Maybe you truly are the adversary I was looking for.
Just as I soaked in the idea of being forever infamous, just like I’d always wanted, I realized I had to get rid of my car. It was parked a block away from Brendan’s apartment.
Driving it any distance meant taking a huge risk, but surely there would be an APB on my car soon. If one wasn’t out already. I had to move it. The risk of having it found so close to Brendan’s outweighed the risk of taking it somewhere else.
I also realized they might try to ping my phone, so I powered it down. Luckily, I hadn’t needed to use it since taking over the townhouse. Plus, I had a pre-paid burner and now Brendan’s phone as well.
I borrowed a hoodie from Brendan (he wouldn’t be missing it), covering my face before I exited the townhouse and walked to my car.
I drove over the Golden Gate Bridge. It’d possibly throw them off the scent of San Francisco if my car was indeed found.
A sight-seeing bluff just north of the bridge faced back toward the Golden Gate. I parked my car. Other cars surrounded mine, and I thought it might get lost in the shuffle. There was incriminating evidence in the car itself, but I couldn’t carry everything back to Brendan’s, so I just left it all.
The Golden Gate Bridge loomed large as I looked out from the bluff, and I took a few seconds to take in its splendor. Yes, I can take beauty in things. It’s humans I despise.
I walked in the bridge’s direction.
Obviously, I couldn’t take an Uber and leave a trace. I’d considered calling a yellow taxi, but there would still be a record of someone being picked up near where my car might be found. I couldn’t chance that either.
I decided I had no other choice, so I walked back over the Golden Gate and into the city.
I wasn’t nearly as scared as I probably should have been. But the high school yearbook photo looked nothing like my current self and I figured it was a thousand to one I’d be recognized.
Still, I kept my hoodie on as I walked the several miles to Brendan’s apartment. I didn’t close the drawstrings and make it obvious, but I did make it tough for someone to see my face clearly.
When I arrived back safely, I knew I couldn’t risk going out again. Although I didn’t have many pictures out in cyberspace, there were a few, and they’d surely be on the news soon.
So I’d have to stay in.
I set up a delivery from Safeway to provide me with food for the next week or so, Thursday being six days away. I’d already gone through what little Brendan had left in the refrigerator.
There was a slight smell coming from his corpse in the bathroom. Nothing egregious yet, but some more Clorox would help limit the odor. So I added that to my Safeway order. It was a common, everyday product and nothing that would arous
e suspicion.
And for good measure, in the notes section, I said that I was an invalid, and asked that they please leave my groceries at the front door. No need to meet with the delivery guy.
Obviously, I used Brendan’s credit card and not my own.
My mind flashed back to when I drove over the Bay Bridge and saw the cruise ship. It really was the perfect getaway. Get on a cruise under the name of Brendan Cabela. I had found his passport in his room. I also had his driver’s license and his credit cards.
While we didn’t look identical, it’s not like I was trying to get into a bar at nineteen years old. Once they saw the passport, I should be home free.
I used my burner phone (I worried about them tracing the IP address on my laptop) and started searching for cruises leaving out of San Francisco or the Bay Area. But none would be departing for two weeks.
Even though taking over Brendan’s townhouse had been a rousing success, that was far too long to wait. He’d already started receiving a few texts from friends, and I had needed to make excuses so they wouldn’t get suspicious.
I had to get out of the Bay Area either next Thursday or Friday.
No, it had to be Thursday.
They would find out that Brendan Cabela was originally scheduled for the kids’ birthday party.
I started to realize for the first time that I hadn’t been as meticulous for this final set of killings. After leaving Avalon, I’d been flying by the seat of my pants. And it just might get me caught. For the first time, I was scared.
And a cruise ship? What the fuck had I been thinking! They’d be sending someone aboard to arrest me as soon as they’d found out the room was booked on Brendan Cabela’s credit card.
My mania had gotten worse. I wasn’t thinking right.
I tried to settle down.
I could change the plans for my final set of murders.
No, it was too perfect. That would remain.
I thought more.
A flight to Europe was out of the question. They’d be waiting for me when I landed.
But I figured I could make it to Mexico. I’d spent time in Mexico City, but that was over a four-hour flight from San Francisco. Too big a risk. Tijuana lay only an hour and a half away. I’d fly there.
And once I got to Tijuana, I’d give Brendan’s credit card to a poor Mexican. Tell him it was a gift. Let the FBI, or the Federales, follow the card around Tijuana while I headed off to some other part of Mexico. Paying with cash, of course.
I checked Brendan’s phone again. The party was at two p.m. on Thursday. I’d confirmed with Vanessa Mathers, the woman throwing the party, that I’d be there. She had no reason to be alarmed. And she’d told me there might be as many as twenty or thirty kids present at the party. Perfect.
I began looking at flights to Mexico. With the amount of cash I had withdrawn, I could live there for a year under the radar. Maybe longer.
A flight left at 5:00 p.m. on Thursday night for Tijuana. The timing couldn’t be better. People say you’re supposed to be three hours early for an international flight, but that’s rarely truly necessary. If I arrived at the airport by 3:30, I had no doubt I’d catch the flight.
And it seemed unlikely the police would find the connection with Brendan Cabela that soon. So they’d be out looking for Tyler Anthony Danovich.
All I had to do was land in Mexico and it would be easy to do the rest. Go undercover. Go underground.
I purchased the flight on Brendan’s credit card and thought my getaway plan just might work.
But in my mind, I could still hear a voice of doubt that hadn’t been there before. I wasn’t as confident as I had been with the other murders. Once I’d moved out of Avalon, plans had changed. And I hadn’t had time to be as thorough as I had in the past.
I needed to recharge my brain and stop thinking of the worst. I lay down for a nap.
I spent that night thinking about Quint. The asshole had found me. I’d been so busy all day, I hadn’t had time to consider how he’d done it. And it had to be him. The police were always a step behind. But not Quint.
It must have started when he found out that I’d grown up near the Tillers and Langleys.
Could he have seen me tailing him to Iron Hill Street? I thought I’d been cautious, but you never know.
And would that be enough for him to suspect me?
Maybe that and my name did the trick. Maybe he saw how T-A-D fit so perfectly at the end of Quint and beginning of Adler. My poker analogy might have finally hit home. And could I really be mad? It was I who instigated our little game after all.
I guess it didn’t make a difference in the end. They had discovered who I was. And that’s all that mattered.
Things had changed now.
And for the first time, I had to play a little defense.
The next day, Sunday, I wrote another letter to Quint, the police, and the media. I even added a few local celebrities to my mailing list. I couldn’t risk leaving the townhouse, so I emailed it. I couldn’t wait to see the attention another message to the media would bring me. I had to be rising up the list of most famous serial killers in history. It brought a huge fucking smile to my face, I can tell you!
It was a welcome change after the paranoia which had filled me the day before.
I told them I’d kill sometime in the next month.
I certainly couldn’t tell them I was killing before the week was out. The city would be even more infiltrated with police then it already was. But by saying the murders could occur anytime in the next thirty days, I spread out the potential timeframe and made it tougher on the cops.
My manic state passed as nothing much happened the rest of Sunday nor Monday. I spent most of my time watching the T.V. and browsing the internet, soaking in the attention from all over the world. I took the occasional trip to the bathtub to pour more Clorox on Brendan’s corpse. It smelled worse by the day, but I didn’t think the odor would have made it to any neighbors yet.
My confidence was slowly coming back.
And then, on Tuesday, out of the blue, Brendan’s phone received a text from none other than Cara. I ignored it, knowing nothing good could come of responding.
Wednesday came and I received another text. I was only one day from the killings that would cement my infamy forever, and I wanted to ignore it.
But thought better of it.
I realized I couldn’t risk them showing up unannounced. So I texted back, pretending to be Brendan and telling them I’d already talked to the police and didn’t want to deal with anyone else.
It didn’t work.
Thirty minutes later, I heard a knock on the front door of the townhouse. From a room upstairs, I opened the blinds a half inch and looked down on the front step.
To my initial dismay, but then my growing excitement, there stood Quint and Cara.
I quietly tip-toed down the stairs.
43.
We made our way into the city and parked two blocks down from Brendan Cabela’s apartment. I’d never known it to be easy to find parking in San Francisco, and this day was no different.
“Let’s hope he answers,” Cara said.
“The woman, Lu, told us he’d been fired from Caltenics. So it’s unlikely he’s already found a new job. He’ll be home,” I said.
I was thinking positively, but I really had no idea.
Cabela lived in a pleasant area of San Francisco, with two-story townhouses intermingled with local businesses. We strolled past two residences and then a laundry service. Three more townhouses and then a hole in the wall restaurant. May not sound like it, but it was charming.
We approached the apartment.
“It’s 1584 Union Street, right?”
Cara looked down at her phone.
“Yup.”
So I rang the doorbell. But no one answered. I rang it again a minute later. Still no response.
“Did we come all the way out here for nothing?” I asked rhetorically.
; I rang the doorbell a third time and could feel my frustration rising. The impending murders had made me easily irritable. Who could blame me?
“Try calling him,” I said to Cara.
“Yeah?”
“Worth a try.”
I tried to look in the townhouse windows, but the blinds were shut. At the bottom they left a small, half-inch space to look in, but that wasn’t going to help. I wasn’t sure what I expected anyway. Brendan Cabela, sitting on a couch, ignoring us?
“No answer,” Cara said.
“Shit.”
“How about sending one more text? I’m not worried about bothering the guy at this point. Say we’re outside his apartment and can wait here if he’s out and about.”
“Alright.”
And then I heard a faint noise from inside.
Or at least thought I did.
“Did you hear that?” I asked Cara.
“No. What?”
“I’m pretty sure I heard some movement behind the door.”
“Are you sure?”
I put my index finger to my lips, hoping we’d hear something else.
We waited a good thirty seconds. But nothing more came.
I knocked loudly on the door.
“I heard you in there, Brendan,” I said. “Come out and talk to us. All we’re doing is trying to catch a killer. Maybe you can help us.”
“I hope you’re not losing your mind, Quint. I didn’t hear anything.”
“It was a small movement. Very quiet. Like he was right on the other side of the door,” I told her. Then I turned back to the door and yelled, “Yeah, I know you can hear me.”
Maybe Brendan wasn’t there and I was shouting at thin air. But maybe he was and I’d elicit a reaction.
“Just give us two minutes of your time,” I said.
Two people walking on the sidewalk looked in our direction.
“This is crazy, Quint. You look like you’re talking to yourself.”
I sighed.
“I’ll stop. But I know I heard something.”
The Bay Area Butcher: (Quint Adler Book 2) Page 24
