The Butcher

by Jennifer Hillier

  “Because that means Rufus Wedge didn’t do it,” Sam said, her voice faint. “Which means Seattle PD shot the wrong guy.”

  “Yes. And yes.” The detective leaned forward. “And there’s deeper ramifications than even that. I ran a query on female murder victims between the ages of fourteen to nineteen, who were missing swatches of hair. Other than your mother, there were two, one in 1989, and another in 1993. Both teenagers, both brunette, both missing hair from the same spot. Hands intact, though, which is why it didn’t flag. And two wasn’t enough to point to a serial killer, especially since the murders were four years apart. One was found in southern Oregon, and the other in northern Washington.”

  “And it also didn’t flag because the hair from the Butcher cases was never reported,” Sam said, horrified. “Oh God, this just keeps getting worse and worse. If the Chief hadn’t decided to keep that information quiet, three more women, including my mother, wouldn’t have died.” Her voice was bordering on hysterical.

  The detective grimaced. “In Edward Shank’s defense, he did the best he could under the circumstances. You were too young to remember what it was like back then, Samantha. The city was freaking out, to borrow an expression from my kids. The body count was piling up, and there were already two copycat murders. The whole investigation was becoming a nightmare. Seattle PD was under a tremendous amount of pressure to find the Butcher, and I can understand why Shank thought he was doing the right thing by withholding certain bits of information. But now, in hindsight? This is a fucking mess.”

  “Are you going to do a press conference?”

  “Eventually, but not until we know exactly what we’re looking for. Connie Lombard wants this quiet until we know just what we’re dealing with.”

  Sam nodded. That made sense. Constance Lombard was the current chief of police.

  “Right now the official tagline is that we’re looking for a new serial killer with similarities to the Butcher,” Sanchez said. “We’re not going to say anything about Rufus Wedge being the wrong guy until we’re absolutely fucking sure.”

  Sam sat back, her eyes welling up with tears. On the one hand, she felt vindicated. Her theory about Wedge being the wrong man all along was about to be proven true. But all she felt inside was . . . empty. Her mother was still dead. It really didn’t change anything at all.

  “You okay?” Sanchez asked softly.

  “I don’t know.”

  “When this comes out, you’d better believe it’s going to be a media frenzy.” The detective closed his eyes for a moment and swore under his breath. “You say nothing, you understand? I told you because I know you need the closure. But this goes nowhere outside this room. You don’t tell your boyfriend. Nobody. Tell me you hear me.”

  “Loud and clear, Bobby.” Sam wasn’t about to argue. “So then who the hell is the Butcher?”

  “I don’t know, but we’ll catch him.”

  “And who’s going to tell Edward?”

  “That he headed up a task force that killed an innocent man?” Sanchez laughed, but there was not one trace of amusement in it. “I don’t know, but it sure as shit isn’t going to be me.”

  28

  Matt tried calling Sam again, but her phone went straight to voicemail, which meant one of two things: either her phone was off, or she was hitting the IGNORE button as soon as she saw his name and picture pop up on her iPhone.

  Pretty easy to guess which one it was, since Sam’s phone was never off.

  He knew things had been distant between them, and yeah, he’d definitely been a shit to her lately. Okay, if he was forcing himself to be totally honest, he’d been a shit to her for a lot longer than “lately.” He’d always put his career before his relationship with Sam, but could anyone blame him? He’d had an incredible wave of success for someone so young.

  But here was the thing . . . he missed her. He missed her in a way he didn’t think was possible. He missed her laugh, he missed her smile, he missed her face.

  Sam had always been there for him, always doting on him, always so proactive about making sure they had plans to see each other, always thinking up fun things for them to do. But in the last few weeks, she had stopped all that. She hadn’t been around at all. She wasn’t interested in his reality show. She’d stopped coming by the restaurant to say hello. She hadn’t slept over at his place in weeks, not since he’d moved into the Chief’s old house. Other than that weird night when she’d snuck into his house only to catch him watching a porno, she seemed completely uninterested in his life.

  And he hated it. Because he realized now that he’d been taking her for granted, and that his life seemed less somehow without her in it.

  The camera crew was packing up their equipment and Matt stifled a yawn. He thought the first couple of tapings had gone well. There’d been some drama between himself and one of the servers. One of his bartenders was a charismatic dude and he’d had some funny, candid moments. A baseball player for the Seattle Mariners had come in to have dinner with a few of his buddies (arranged by the good folks at the Fresh Network, of course), and that had been completely entertaining because one of the guys in the group hit on a waitress that he’d already slept with but had forgotten about. It had been fun.

  Karen was in front of him suddenly, and Matt blinked.

  “That could not have gone better today. You’re a star in the making, Matt.” The producer’s voice lowered to a purr and she put a hand on his arm. “Why don’t we go somewhere and decompress? Change of scenery and some drinks? We can talk about just how far your star can . . . rise.”

  He stepped back, refraining from rolling his eyes at her cheesy come-on. What the hell had he ever seen in her? He honestly couldn’t remember now what it was about her that he’d found so attractive initially. What a colossal mistake she had been, and as far as he was concerned, it would never happen again. With her or with anyone.

  “I’m sorry, Karen, I can’t. I have plans with Sam.”

  “Bring him along.” The producer winked. “I don’t mind.”

  “Sam. As in Samantha. My girlfriend.”

  “Oh.” Karen’s body language immediately shifted from hot to cool. “Gotcha. Okay, well I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll have one more day of shooting, then we’ll do an edit and see what we’ve got.”

  “Sounds good,” Matt said. “Have a nice night.”

  She left, her step a little quicker than usual, and Matt waited around until the camera crew finished packing up their gear. It had felt a little strange to lie to Karen about having plans with Sam, because obviously they had no plans. He tried calling her again, and again it went straight to voicemail. Where the hell was she?

  Matt said a quick goodbye to the Fresh Network crew, and then locked the door behind them after they left the restaurant. Clicking lights off, he headed back to his office to get his things so he could exit out the back way as he always did.

  Maybe Jason would know where Sam was. Jase always seemed to know. Matt tried calling his friend, but Jason’s phone, which was also never turned off, also went to straight to voicemail.

  Okay, for real now, what the hell was going on? Why wasn’t either of them answering?

  And come to think of it, Matt hadn’t seen or heard from Jason in a while, either. Scrolling quickly through his phone, Matt located the last text message he’d received from his friend.

  Well over a week ago. Huh.

  The little seed of suspicion that had been in Matt’s brain for a long time was finally beginning to sprout. Clenching his fists, he felt himself begin to swell with an anger so intense, it couldn’t possibly be rational.

  So help me God, he thought, the rage seeping into his pores. If they’re fucking each other, I will kill them both.

  29

  Trying to get into Jason’s condominium was like trying to break into Fort Knox. There was a doorman and a security guard on staff at all times, but if Matt was going to catch his friend fucking his girlfriend, then he didn’t exactl
y want them calling the ex–Seahawks quarterback upstairs to let them know he was coming up.

  Matt was parked in his utility van across the busy city street in Jason’s neighborhood off Denny Way, the engine idling, staring into the well-lit lobby of his friend’s building. It was a fancy-ass place, filled with people who had money. Mind you, Matt wasn’t resentful of his friend’s success in the NFL—if you could make millions of dollars playing any sport professionally, why the hell wouldn’t you?—but at times he did resent Jason’s face. It was handsome, recognizable, and it opened a lot of metaphorical doors, something Matt was still working on.

  Well, not the handsome part.

  Once upon a time Matt had thought about living in a building like this, but then his grandfather had announced that he was giving Matt the house. Which, at the time, had seemed like the greatest gift ever. But now he wished it hadn’t played out that way. Because if Matt had moved into a building like this, he would never have dug up that goddamned crate in the backyard, he wouldn’t know his grandfather was a serial killer, and he wouldn’t be having nightmares about PJ Wu.

  Continuing to stare into Jason’s building, Matt considered his options. He could either shift the van into drive and head back home to leftover stew and whatever was recorded on his DVR, or he could let the doorman announce his arrival to Jason, which would then give Sam a chance to hustle out as he was riding the elevator up to the penthouse.

  Unless . . .

  He killed the engine.

  Didn’t he have the code to Jason’s side door entrance somewhere? He couldn’t remember the reason Jason had given it to him, but Matt could remember using it at one point. Grabbing his iPhone, Matt clicked through it, opening a note labeled “Miscellaneous” where he stored bits of random information. It took him a few seconds of scrolling to find it, but yes, there it was, aptly titled “Jason’s side door code.” It was 131313. No surprise there; thirteen had been Jason’s Seahawks number.

  Matt stuck his phone in his pocket and locked the van door behind him. The damp chill caused him to shiver a little as he made his way across the busy street and around the building to the other side, where there was a glass door and a keypad. Punching in the code, he waited, and a second later the door opened.

  Yeah, baby. It was almost too easy.

  He made his way down the softly lit hallway to the elevators, which were located just off the lobby. A quick punch of the button and he’d be in the elevator before anyone saw him. But before he came close to reaching the doors, the uniformed doorman appeared in front of him. Shit.

  “Good evening, sir.” The doorman smiled, his shiny white teeth contrasting against his dark skin. Though pleasant and polite, his eyes were sharp, and the man was built like a pit bull. Likely ex-military. “May I ask to see your ID?”

  “I’m just going up to see a friend.” Matt’s heart rate picked up, but he managed to sound calm and confident. “He gave me the side door code to make things quicker.” He stepped to the side, a lame attempt to get around the doorman. Behind him, Matt could see the security guard, who was also built like a pit bull but with paler skin, watching them both.

  Pit Bull One’s smile seemed genuine, but he didn’t budge. “I totally understand, sir, but building policy is that the side door code is for residents only. All guests do need to be signed in. Which apartment are you visiting?”

  “Is this really necessary?” Matt did his best to sound put out. “Clearly if he gave me the code, he doesn’t mind me coming up to see him.”

  The doorman’s smile never wavered, but it did tighten, and he turned back to glance at the bored security guard, who suddenly didn’t seem to so bored. Jesus Christ, put guys in uniforms and they automatically think they’re in control of the universe.

  “I do understand, sir, but I still need to check your ID and notify the tenant that you’ve arrived. Otherwise, I can’t let you up.” Pit Bull One looked pointedly at the phone in Matt’s hand. “You’re welcome to call your friend to check that I’m giving you the correct information. I’m sure he’ll understand, too. The residents all know the drill.”

  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. “No, that’s fine, if anyone’s going to call, it might as well be you.”

  “Which guest did you say you were visiting?” the doorman said as he headed back to the lobby desk to where the security guard was seated. Pit Bull Two picked up the phone, finger poised above the number pad, appraising Matt from behind the desk.

  “I’m here to see Jason Sullivan. Tell him it’s Matt Shank.”

  “Mr. Sullivan, in penthouse A,” the doorman said to the security guard, who nodded and punched in a code. “I assume then, that you have a key for the elevator?” he said to Matt. “The penthouse floor is only accessible with a key.”

  “I don’t.” Shit. Forgot about that.

  “Then it’s a good thing we’re here to call for you.” Big smile.

  Matt didn’t smile back.

  The security guard cleared his throat and spoke into the phone. “Good evening, Mr. Sullivan, it’s Troy from downstairs. You have a friend here to see you?” He listened a moment and then said, “He said his name is Matt Shank.” A nod. “I will. You’re welcome, Mr. Sullivan.” He nodded to Pit Bull One.

  The doorman accompanied Matt to the elevators and pushed the button. When it opened, he stepped inside, one hand holding the door open for Matt to follow. He inserted his key card into the slot and then pushed P for penthouse. “You’re all set, sir. Have a good evening.”

  “Thanks,” Matt muttered. When the elevator door finally closed and he was alone, he looked up at the camera mounted in the corner and said, “Blowhards,” as clearly as he could enunciate.

  Yes, it was immature, but whatever. Did these yahoos in polyester uniforms actually think he was a stalker or some kind of criminal?

  But you are a criminal, his mind whispered. You’re a murderer.

  He caught a glimpse of himself in the elevator’s mirrored walls, and had to admit, he’d seen better days. His dark circles were getting worse, and his face was looking craggier. He needed sleep.

  The elevator chimed softly as it flew upward to the thirty-fourth floor. When he stepped out, the door to Jason’s apartment was open slightly. He took a deep breath and knocked before pushing it open. “Jase?”

  The penthouse hadn’t changed much at all since Matt had last been here, though he still couldn’t remember exactly when that had been. Twelve-foot ceilings, light walls, dark furniture, all very simple and all very expensive. Way above Matt’s current pay grade.

  “Matt!” Jason came out from the kitchen area, open bottle of beer in hand. He offered it to Matt immediately, seeming surprised to see his friend, but not particularly nervous. Matt noticed a woman’s purse sitting on the kitchen counter, but it wasn’t one he recognized. Had Sam bought a new purse, or was it someone else’s? “Good to see you, buddy. Were you in the neighborhood?”

  “Sorry for just dropping in. I tried calling you but your phone’s been going straight to voicemail all evening.”

  “Oh, shit. Yeah.” Jason looked over his shoulder quickly and lowered his voice. “Lilac’s here. She hates it when I get calls during ‘our time.’ ” He used his fingers to make exaggerated air quotes, his lips pursed in displeasure. “I fucking hate having it off, but I’m trying to be respectful of what she wants, you know? We don’t get a lot of time alone together. I mean, you know how it is.”

  “Lilac’s here?” Matt suddenly felt very uncomfortable, and okay, more than a little bit foolish. He’d come primed for a fight and wasn’t expecting that the reason he hadn’t been able to get a hold of Jason was that he was actually with his own girlfriend, and not Matt’s. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. Shit, I should go.” He moved to put his untouched beer on the breakfast bar.

  “No!” Jason said, his voice filled with good-humored urgency. “Stay. Please. We’ve been together all afternoon. All. Afternoon. So please, just stay. Hang out. Fo
r me.”

  Matt finally allowed himself to laugh, and immediately felt his whole body relax. “Okay, okay. I’ll hang out. Nice to see you, my friend. Got any food?”

  “Yes I do,” Jason said promptly. “And I love how you own your own restaurant, and yet you’re always hungry. There’s leftover pizza. I ordered it before Lilac got here.” His voice dropped and he leaned closer. “Totally forgot she was a vegan and I had them, like, pile it with sausage. She picked it all off, but she was so grossed out.” He chuckled with glee. “I’ll pop it in the oven; there’s still half of it left.”

  “Jay? Baby?” An unequivocally girly voice floated out from the bedroom. “Did you say something? Who’s here, honey bear?”

  Jason looked at Matt, stricken, and Matt lost it. He burst into laughter, trying to hold it back, unsuccessfully, behind his hand. “Oh shit, dude. She actually calls you Jay? And baby? And . . . honey bear?”

  “Yes, and you know I hate it, and don’t you say a fucking word,” Jason hissed.

  “Are you kidding? I’m going to record this for ESPN.”

  “Bite me.”

  A second later, Lilac appeared from the bedroom. As she crossed the living room floor toward them, Matt felt his mouth drop open slightly. Tall, maybe five foot ten, she was barefoot, wearing a simple cream dress that hung down to her ankles but was cut very low up top, showing her ample and well-defined cleavage. Her platinum hair was swept into a topknot that was designed to look casual, but still looked totally sexy. Her cheekbones were high, her eyelashes were long, and her lips were full. If she was wearing any makeup, Matt couldn’t detect it.

  She was smoking hot. So this was what had been keeping Jason busy the past little while. It all made sense now. Until she spoke.

  “I’m sorry, we haven’t met,” Lilac cooed in a little-girl voice, stepping toward Matt. “I’m Jay’s girlfriend, Lilac Sills.”