The Butcher

by Jennifer Hillier

  “Spoke to Robert Sanchez a little while ago. He’s working the case.”

  The Chief nodded. “Good. I like Bobby, he was always a hard worker. Did he give any information that wasn’t in the news?”

  She shook her head. “He’s working on it.”

  “You said there were two murders?”

  “The other one was a seventeen-year-old. Happened in Marysville, not far from the big casino. She was raped and strangled, and her hand was cut off.”

  The Chief’s face was hard to read. Sam supposed it was hard for the man to feel emotion when it came to murder, having been in homicide for almost forty years. “Is that so? That wasn’t in the papers.”

  “Bobby told me. He talked to the detective at Marysville PD who caught the case. I imagine they’re keeping it quiet for now.”

  The old man nodded. “Of course they are. And you’re here because it reminds you of something.”

  “The Butcher.” Sam leaned forward. “Chief, her hand was chopped off. Likely with a cleaver, just below the wrist bone. Her left hand.”

  Edward smiled, but there was no humor in it, only indulgence. “That always was the Butcher’s signature move. Someone obviously copied it.”

  “What if someone didn’t?”

  The Chief barked a laugh. “You’re still on that track, eh? Rufus Wedge is dead, my dear. I was there, remember?”

  Sam took a deep breath. “Yes, but what if Rufus Wedge wasn’t the Butcher?”

  Edward sighed and took a sip of his tea. “We’ve been over this before, Samantha. Many times. You know I’m always interested in your theories, but I don’t know what more insight I can offer. Wedge was our best suspect. Maybe the case wouldn’t have held up at trial, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t do it.”

  “Well, things are different now,” Sam said. “Technology has come a long way. If there’s a trace of anything on her body left behind from her killer, they’ll find it. You can’t just kill someone and get away with it anymore.”

  Edward laughed again, and this time he seemed genuinely amused. “Sure you can,” he said. “Happens every goddamned day. Now what do you say we break open that box of cannolis? I’ve been patient long enough.”

  20

  Even though the rest of the house was dark, the lights were on in the bedroom, and that meant Matt was home. Sam was perfectly positioned under the magnolia tree in the corner of his backyard, the full moon behind the clouds providing just enough light for her to see her surroundings while still remaining in the shadows. The deck he was building was almost finished and it provided a bit of cover as well. Looking up at his lit bedroom window, she waited.

  So okay, she was totally spying on her boyfriend. And yes, it was ridiculous and humiliating, and she wasn’t proud of herself. People did stupid things to get answers. Matt had been pulling away for a long time now, although if Sam was really honest with herself, he’d never been completely available. And something had to change.

  A rustling noise made her jump, and she turned to see a squirrel paused nearby, sitting on its haunches, watching her with suspicious, glinting eyes. If the squirrel could actually think, it would probably be wondering what in the hell this woman was doing hiding under a tree at midnight.

  And if the squirrel could actually talk, it would have been a fair question. The answer was, she needed to catch him red-handed. She needed a concrete reason—an inarguable, tangible, very strong reason—to walk away from this relationship, because otherwise, she wasn’t sure she ever could. Or would.

  Sam didn’t know for certain whether Matt had actually had sex with the slutty female producer from the Fresh Network (which, let’s be real here, didn’t come close to being as classy as the Food Network, even on its best day). But everything in her gut told her he had, and might still be.

  Oh yeah, she knew all about Karen Burgundy. Though Sam had initially turned down Matt’s invitation to dinner at the Pink Door with the Fresh Network producers, she’d changed her mind. She might not be interested on appearing on her boyfriend’s reality show, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be at the dinner to support him. She loved him, despite how difficult things had been lately. And frankly, she wasn’t sure why they were so disconnected now, and why Matt could never seem to make time for her, and why he’d become so strangely private ever since moving into the Chief’s old house.

  Sam had arrived at the Pink Door thirty minutes late, well after the burlesque show had started, and she’d rushed inside, apologies for her tardiness on the tip of her tongue. That’s when she’d seen them. They were seated at a table right by the stage, huddled close and whispering like lovers. The image of that slutty producer’s hand on her boyfriend’s leg, leaning in to shove her desperate cleavage in his face, was burned in Sam’s brain. It had taken all her willpower not to grab the woman by her hair extensions and punch her. She had never felt so angry, so insulted, and so hurt, all at the same time.

  Still, though, the public display of inappropriateness wasn’t quite enough to convict Matt. Flirting with and being attracted to another woman were one thing, but it didn’t mean he had necessarily crossed the line into Cheaterville. If he had, though, they were over. Sam knew she could never forgive him, and either way, she needed to know.

  The lit bedroom wasn’t telling her much. She thought she could make out Matt’s silhouette behind the curtains, but she couldn’t confirm whether or not he was actually alone. Dammit.

  Clenching her teeth, she began to creep through Matt’s backyard. Within a few seconds she had crossed the nearly finished deck and was at his back door. She paused, deciding what to do. The house had never had an alarm system. The Chief had always believed that security alarms were essentially useless, because if someone was determined to murder you, then no alarm system in the world was going to stop them from doing it. And if someone was going to rob you, well then, let ’em. That’s what insurance companies were for.

  She tried the door handle, but of course the back door was locked. No surprise there. Where did he keep that spare key? After a minute of searching, she found it hiding in the planter a few feet away.

  Inserting the key, she held her breath, listening for the click that told her the door was unlocked. Twisting the doorknob, she pushed the door open slowly, then paused again before stepping inside. Elmo, Matt’s cat, immediately came to greet her, and she knelt down to pet him. The Abyssinian purred and nudged her hand, but thankfully that was the only sound he made.

  She closed the door behind her as quietly as she could, and stepped farther into the kitchen. The main floor of the house was completely dark, but Sam had been here enough times when Edward had owned it that she knew the house well.

  Moving silently through the kitchen and down the hallway, she navigated her way toward the steep staircase. She took the steps as quickly as she could, knowing a few of them would creak, and reached the top of the landing in record time. She paused again. Matt’s bedroom was at the end of the hall, his door open just a smidge.

  She stood still, cocking her head toward the bedroom. At first she couldn’t hear anything over her own breathing, but then all of sudden, there it was.

  He wasn’t alone, goddammit. Sam could totally hear them.

  Oh God, it was really happening. Matt and that slut were in his room, right now, fucking like a couple of dogs in heat, and the confirmation of this hit Sam like a sledgehammer to the gut. Yes, she had wanted to catch him, and yes, she needed to see it for herself, but never could she have anticipated a pain like the one that was stabbing her in the chest like an ice pick, making it impossible to breathe.

  They weren’t being overly loud, but there was no mistaking that her boyfriend was in his bedroom and totally having sex with someone else. That fucking slutty producer with Sam’s boyfriend of three goddamned years? It was unconscionable, and Sam felt the rage build up inside her. Willing herself to remain some semblance of calm, she moved closer to the door, every inch of her body tense. She could hear soun
ds of a bed squeaking, and Matt grunting, and that Halle Berry clone moaning like the disgusting whore she so obviously was.

  How could he do this to her? How could Matt have actually brought that witch home? They were really in there, fucking each other as if they had the goddamned right to do it, as if there wasn’t someone else in the picture who loved him, that they’d be hurting. What gave them the goddamned right? Who the hell did they think they were?

  The pain would come later. Right now, Sam was so mad she could stab them both.

  Striding toward the bedroom, she pushed the door open before she could overthink it.

  And got an eyeful, all right.

  Matt was on the bed, but he wasn’t naked. He was wearing a T-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts that had been pulled down to his knees. His erect penis was in one hand, and he appeared to be alone.

  Yes, totally and completely alone . . . unless the two people having sex in the porn movie on the wall-mounted TV counted.

  “Holy fuck!” Matt shrieked, his face a mask of shock and horror at the sight of her. Scrambling, he pulled his shorts up over his erection, swearing when the elastic band snagged his penis. Grabbing the remote, he thrust it toward the TV in an attempt to stop the movie, but all he managed to do was hit the fast-forward button. The two people having sex onscreen were now on warp speed, and if Sam hadn’t been so surprised by the entire thing, she might have laughed.

  Her boyfriend’s face was a flaming shade of red that Sam couldn’t recall ever having seen before. He glared at her, chest heaving. “What the fuck? What are you . . . how the hell did you get in? Why didn’t you call first? Oh Jesus Christ.”

  He was almost shaking from embarrassment. His legs were jammed together on the bed, and he sat with his arms crossed over his chest, his expression a blend of guilt and indignation as he continued to glare at her.

  Sam bit her lip. The relief she was now feeling was so palpable she thought she might crumple. As she tried to figure out what to say to her boyfriend, the DVD decided to resume regular play again. Onscreen, the girl with the big fake boobs looked up at the man mounted on top of her and moaned, “Yeah, harder! Fuck me! Just like that! Harder!”

  Matt finally managed to mute the sound, staring at her, and Sam spoke into the strained silence.

  “Oops.”

  Because really, what else could she say?

  21

  Edward’s new family physician didn’t look old enough to drink, let alone prescribe medication, and he eyed the young doctor suspiciously as the man took his blood pressure. He supposed the doctor seemed proficient enough, and so far was quite amiable, at least as far as doctors went. “I didn’t realize Dr. Kleinberg retired. Nobody told me,” he said, feeling grumpy.

  “Sorry about that. They should have sent you a letter.” Dr. Brian Ross unstrapped the blood pressure cuff from Edward’s arm. “Did you move recently?”

  “Yep. Old folks’ home. Sweetbay Village.”

  “I’m familiar with Sweetbay,” Ross said. “Don’t see a lot of patients from there, though. Don’t they have their own doctors?”

  “That’s the problem,” Edward said, shifting his weight a little. He was sitting on the patient table, feeling exposed and chilly in the thin green smock they had made him wear for the appointment. “They have a few different doctors that rotate in and out. Hard to see the same person twice, and I’m not fond of inconsistency. Plus they only see patients on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

  “And today is Monday.” Ross grinned. Picking up his iPad, he made a few notes, then grabbed his stethoscope. “I’m going to listen to your heart now.”

  “What happened to my folder?” Edward asked.

  Holding up a finger, Ross pressed the stethoscope against Edward’s chest and listened for a few moments. Nodding, he said, “What’s a folder? Some archaic thing? Everything I need to know about you is in the computer now. Welcome to the year 2014.”

  Edward grunted. “I don’t trust those tablet things. Hit one wrong key and next thing you know, everything’s gone.”

  “That’s the beauty of it. The iPad has no keys.” Ross laughed. “But I get what you’re saying, and my grandfather would share the same sentiment. He thinks computers and the Internet are everything that’s wrong with the world nowadays. He still writes letters. By hand. I can’t even imagine.” The doctor shuddered as he typed a few more notes into his tablet. “Your heart sounds good, by the way. Nice and strong. You seem to be in great shape for eighty years old. Do you still exercise?”

  “I walk a lot. And if my hands and hip aren’t bothering me I’ll play a little tennis, do a few sit-ups, that kind of thing.”

  “That’s more than what I do,” Ross said with a grin. “Keep it up. Whatever you’re doing, it’s working. You have the blood pressure of a man half your age. Wish mine was as good.”

  “I’ve always had good blood pressure.” Edward was pleased at the compliment. “I don’t let things get to me, know what I’m talking about? Stress is not healthy. I’ve never been one to stress.”

  “So tell me about Sweetbay Village,” Ross said, putting aside his iPad. “We were thinking of sending my wife’s mother there, but my eyes almost fell out of my head when I found out how damned expensive it is. You think it’s worth the money? Mind you, it’s either that or she lives with us, and I’m not sure you can put a price on the freedom of not having your mother-in-law move in. She’s just, how do I put it . . . a difficult woman. If she moves in, I’m going to need blood pressure medication for sure. Do you like it there?”

  Dr. Ross had to be the chattiest doctor Edward had ever met with. And yep, just a kid. He’d learn soon enough, as all doctors did, that time was money.

  “It’s fine.” Edward waved a hand. “Food’s pretty good and there’s lots of stuff to do. I wasn’t crazy about moving out of my house, but my hip had been bothering me and I took a fall, scared my grandson. You ever heard of Matthew Shank? He’s a chef here in Seattle, owns a restaurant called Adobo. Lots of his recipes are from his grandmother, may God rest her soul.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Shank. I’ve heard of Adobo, been meaning to stop in. I heard the food is terrific.” Ross smiled again. “How does the grandson of the chief of police end up a chef, anyway?”

  “Call me the Chief, everybody does.” Edward felt a tingle of pleasure at the recognition. The doctor might be young, but he obviously wasn’t ignorant. “And that’s a question for Matthew, though I can say he never really expressed an interest in following in my footsteps. He was very close to his grandmother. I used to worry he might be a pansy, because you know, a little boy in an apron, following his grandmother around in the kitchen? A bit queer, right? But I’m told cooking is a perfectly acceptable male profession nowadays. Plus he’s always liked girls, thank sweet Jesus.”

  Ross laughed out loud. “Well, I can say that ladies do love a man who can cook. I’m pretty good in the kitchen myself, and a good home-cooked meal never fails to win me bonus points with the wife.”

  “If you want to keep your marriage intact, I recommend sending the mother-in-law someplace that isn’t your house. Sweetbay Village is as good as it gets.”

  “I appreciate the recommendation.”

  “You’re welcome. How old are you, anyway?”

  “I’ll be thirty next month.”

  “Christ. I got whiskey on my shelf that’s older than you.”

  “I have to confess, I was looking forward to meeting you when I saw your name on my schedule this morning. I’m kind of a fan.” Ross leaned back in his chair and smiled. “You were a guest lecturer for one of my psychology classes.”

  Edward raised an eyebrow. “That so? Which college?”

  “Puget Sound State.”

  “What was the professor’s name again?” Edward frowned, trying to remember. “Pretty little thing. Chinese, I think, but not fresh off the boat, spoke perfect English.”

  Ross chuckled and shook his head. “Dr. Tao. Sheil
a Tao.”

  “That’s it,” Edward said. “I remember her well. She hounded me for a year to come and guest lecture, but public speaking was never my thing. Finally gave in, though. She was fascinated with the psychology of serial killers.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “And to think she almost got killed by one herself.”

  “I read about that,” Ross said. “That was a messed-up story.”

  “That’s what happens when you fuck with crazy.”

  “You were great, by the way.” The doctor smiled. “Your presentation, I mean. It was cool to hear about Rufus Wedge from the perspective of the cop who caught him. And killed him. That ever keep you awake at night?”

  “Not even a little bit.”

  “You also talked about the other serial killers from the area, like Ted Bundy, Robert Lee Yates, Ethan Wolfe, et cetera. I think you even nicknamed the Northwest ‘Butcherville.’ I always thought that’d make a cool name for a book or something.”

  “You have a good memory,” Edward said, impressed. “And hopefully it does. My grandson’s girlfriend is an author, and she’s writing a book about Rufus Wedge. Butcherville is actually the title she’s using.”

  Ross glanced up at the clock. “Wish we had more time. God knows I could talk about this stuff all day.” He reached for his iPad and swiped the screen. “So. Back to the boring medical crap. You appear to be in good health, and your prostate looks good, but we’ll see if the lab tests show anything in your blood. You mentioned the arthritis in your hip. How bad is the pain? Your file says that you’ve been offered prescriptions for pain meds in the past, but have always declined.”

  “Well, I’m not declining this time. Go ahead and write it up. Be generous.”

  “Really.” Ross’s eyebrows shot up. Consulting his tablet, he said, “Are you aware that there’s a note in your file that says—and I’ll read it to you word for word—‘Do not offer this patient pain meds as he will bite your head off.’ ” He turned the tablet around so Edward could see it.