The Bay Area Butcher: (Quint Adler Book 2)

by Brian O'Sullivan

  “I’ll never tell,” Tom said.

  I smiled. “I’m going back down to wait for Ray. He’s bringing another detective as well. And then we’ll come back up here to the privacy of this conference room.”

  “I’ll send the link to the database right now. If you have any questions, let me know.”

  “Thanks, guys.”

  I headed back downstairs.

  The two detectives arrived fifteen minutes later and I led them up. My co-workers stared after us, but no one said a word.

  Ray greeted Tom and Krissy and introduced Detective Fields, whose first name was Freddie. Freddie Fields, hard to forget.

  He was handsome, possibly still in his twenties, and seemed both affable and a tough guy at the same time.

  The three of us entered the conference room. I took out my laptop, went to my email, and clicked on the link that Tom had sent. I checked to make sure I was connected to the Walnut Creek Times printer, which I was.

  “So here’s the database. It has a rather boring home page with several different categories. ‘Writer’ is separated into all of the staff members’ last names. ‘Adler’ comes first on the drop-down menu. And that’s not a judgement of best writers. Just alphabetical.” They chuckled weakly at the attempt at humor. “Under subject you have crime, obituary, personal interest, sports, weather, other. A lot of my articles were crime related, but I’ve written every one of these types of articles at one time or another. The third category is year and I’ve been here since the beginning, so you can’t skim there. Finally, there’s the search feature, where you can enter a keyword. Here’s an example.”

  I typed “murder” in to the search bar and pressed enter. A total of 246 options popped up.

  “That can’t be right,” Ray said.

  “Looks more like Oakland’s database,” Fields responded.

  We all laughed in spite of ourselves.

  “Obviously we haven’t had that many murders in Walnut Creek. The database merely pulls up any article in which the word ‘murder’ has been used. If an article mentioned ‘a murder of crows’ it would pop up here. Plus, there could be ten articles written on the same murder.”

  “Understood. Thanks for setting this up, Quint.”

  “You’re welcome. Do you guys need any help from me?”

  “For now, we can handle this. But when we’re done, I’m sure there will be some names I’d like to ask you about.”

  “Of course. Although, honestly, it’s not like I’ve followed up on my subjects over the years.”

  “We get it. But maybe there’s something that will ring a bell.”

  “I really have no idea what we are looking for.”

  “Neither do we, Quint,” Fields said. “But this psycho mentioned you and your articles, so we have to do our due diligence. Maybe, by some miracle, something will jump out.”

  “Of course, Detective Fields. I’ll stay around the office in case you guys need me.”

  “You call him Ray. You can call me Freddie.”

  “I will. Thanks, Freddie.”

  Ray spoke next. “Today is the 10th, Quint. Sorry to break the bad news, but you are at our beck and call for the next forty-eight hours.”

  I halfheartedly smiled, knowing I didn’t have much choice. After letting them know my laptop was connected to the printer so they could print out any and all articles they wanted, I said my goodbyes and walked out. I was spending half my day walking in and out of conference rooms.

  Two hours later, Ray came downstairs and asked me to follow him back up.

  We discussed around thirty articles that had caught his and Detective Fields’s attention. I answered the questions as truthfully as I could, but there wasn’t much to add. I certainly didn’t know what happened to some guy who committed a robbery six years ago.

  And as hard as I racked my brain, no one story stuck out. How the hell was I supposed to know which article I’d mentioned the maniac in?

  We were looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack.

  4.

  “Why the hell did he pick you of all people?” Cara asked.

  When I told her that some potential killer mentioned me in an article, it was her eyes that turned murderous.

  She’d been sitting on my couch watching the news, but joined me in the kitchen soon after I mentioned the letter. I had a six-hundred-square-foot apartment, so it’s not like she had to venture far.

  I had some chicken baking in the oven and was making a sauce with wine, butter, cream, capers, and lemon in a separate pan.

  I’d decided to bring the news up to Cara that night while cooking. I assumed it would seem more casual that way.

  “Because he was featured in one of my articles,” I finally answered. I used a rubber spatula to move the sauce around.

  “So? Is that any reason to bring you into it?”

  She was wearing jeans and a beige sweatshirt with her hair back in a ponytail. As always, she looked gorgeous, but it certainly wasn’t the time to tell her so. Although the way she crossed her arms made the sweatshirt fit her even better.

  “This guy is talking about killing people. I don’t think who he brings into it gives him any pause.”

  “And now you’re working with the Oakland Police Department?”

  “I wrote these articles. In case a name or a crime stands out, they need me.”

  Cara looked at me and started to calm down. She even mustered a smile.

  “I remember when dating a writer/reporter was a bit boring,” she said.

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, me too. This is going to be nothing like last summer. I promise.”

  I leaned into kiss her. She let me.

  “How’s Ray?” she asked.

  It was her way of somewhat changing the conversation. I stirred the sauce a little more. It was thickening up and looked delicious.

  “He’s doing well, but I’m sure this case is front and center on his mind. The killer said he’s going to strike in two days, on the 12th.”

  “Well, I hope they catch him beforehand, obviously. For selfish reasons as well. We had plans for June. Remember?”

  The school year where Cara taught would end in late May. We’d planned a trip to Austin, Texas for a few days in late June. Have drinks and watch some bands on Sixth Street.

  Plus, the real reason we were going. Cara’s sister Charlotte lived there. With her husband and four children.

  Which, when mentioned, would usually lead to a conversation like this:

  Cara: “We should have a child.”

  Me: “We’re not even married or engaged.”

  Cara: “That doesn’t make your age stand still. You’re not getting any younger.”

  I often felt guilty being an only child and not having given my mother any grandkids. Not that you owed it to your parents, but I knew it would mean the world to her.

  And my father, if he was looking down on me. I’m not a religious guy, so I have to say if.

  I’d given the possibility more consideration lately. The problem was that although I’d saved up some money from my media appearances and the New Yorker article, I didn’t currently have a nine-to-five, and wasn’t sure it was the best time.

  I knew it would come to the forefront when we went to Austin.

  “Of course I remember,” I said. “It’s only May 10th. This thing will be a distant memory by late June. We’ll be going, I promise you. I can’t wait to see your nine nieces and nephews.”

  “Very funny, mister. Charlotte has four kids.”

  “Can’t you just pretend one of them is yours?”

  “Nope. Have to go through the whole process.”

  “I’ll remind you of that when you’re throwing up from morning sickness.”

  “I’ll take that as a small victory,” Cara said. “At least you’re acknowledging what we’d go through.”

  “You really want to have a kid out of wedlock?” I joked.

  “We could change that too. Unless y
ou think a semi-out-of-work writer could do better than this.” She sexily shook her hips, and I immediately reverted back to the first time I met her. I was smitten all over again.

  “Probably not,” I admitted.

  She continued moving her hips, doing her best Shakira impersonation. “Probably?” she said.

  I leaned in and kissed her. She moved her hands to my face and kissed me back. Our hands started sliding up and down each other’s bodies.

  “One second,” I said.

  I went over and turned the electric burner off, sliding the saucepan off the heat. I removed the chicken from the oven as well.

  “Good thinking. Let’s burn the bed down, not the apartment,” Cara said.

  “You should have been the writer,” I said.

  I picked her up and took her from the kitchen to the bed, where we spent the next twenty minutes. And the twenty after that. And the twenty…okay, you get the point.

  We emerged from the bedroom over an hour later, and having worked off a lot of calories, ate the chicken piccata with no regrets.

  Having enjoyed the carnal and culinary aspects of our relationship, we both spent the next few hours working. Cara sat on one end of the couch, finalizing a lesson plan for her students. I was at the other end, reading some old articles of mine, hoping something would jump out. Nothing did.

  I pulled out my phone, where I’d screenshot the psychopath’s letter. I read it again.

  But nothing clicked.

  Cara stayed over and we went to sleep around midnight. Well, she did. With May 12th right around the corner, I found it tougher to close my eyes. Eventually, around 1:30, I succeeded.

  5.

  Thursday, May 11th came and went.

  Ray and I kept in contact throughout the day, but I never went to any precinct. He told me they were deep in police work and I’d be persona non grata. I was fine with that.

  He’d asked me about a few names from my articles. I told him what I could.

  “You’ve written about hundreds of names,” he said. “We have one day until this asshole says he’s going to kill. We could hypothetically knock on two hundred doors. But then what? ‘Hey, are you the guy who sent the letter threatening to kill people?’”

  I understood his frustration. At least after a murder, you have forensics, possible motive, etc.

  Before a crime was committed, we truly had nothing.

  He told me they were analyzing the envelope for any DNA. Also trying to find out where it was sent from. And once they found that, they’d look to see if there were any cameras in the area. Potentially find the guy on film.

  Other Bay Area police departments had also turned to analysis and camera searches, since letters had been mailed to several of them.

  It sounded like they were doing a lot on their end.

  Cara had gone back to her apartment and I slept alone that night. I had as much difficulty time falling asleep as on the previous night.

  I woke up on Friday the 12th at six a.m. It didn’t matter how late I fell asleep, my internal alarm clock always woke me at the crack of dawn.

  I went downstairs to my local Starbucks, but instead of hanging out, I took my coffee back to my apartment.

  It was too early to call Ray, so I went to my computer and devoured more of my articles. Nothing left an impression, just as I’d suspected.

  The search came up empty. Again and again.

  I’d read the prospective killer’s letter at least ten times. Something remained just a little off about it. But I couldn’t decide exactly what it was.

  I read it again. Something clicked.

  He’d mentioned five cities in the Bay Area. San Francisco, Oakland, and San Jose were the three most populous, so they all made sense. The Walnut Creek Times was obviously located in Walnut Creek so that belonged.

  The fifth mentioned was Tiburon, a small, wealthy city just north of the Golden Gate Bridge. It seemed an unlikely choice.

  So why mention it?

  He could have been a spoiled rich kid living in his parents’ elaborate basement in Tiburon. That was possible.

  But would you mention the city in which you lived?

  I didn’t know. There was so much that I, and the OPD, were in the dark about.

  Hopefully, it wouldn’t take a murder to bring us into the light.

  Like on the day before, I talked sporadically to Ray. They were making the rounds and he said they had extra OPD officers patrolling the city. The same went for the SFPD and other Bay Area police forces.

  I told Ray that I thought Tiburon stuck out like a sore thumb, compared to the obvious choices of the other four cities.

  “I’ll tell Captain Lockett,” he said.

  “Might be better if you take credit,” I responded.

  Just before midnight, I got a call from Ray.

  “This can’t be good,” I said.

  “No, it’s not.”

  “The guy killed someone?”

  “Three people. I’ll wait and give you the details, but they are ghastly. Captain Lockett wants you to come by the precinct tomorrow morning at eight.”

  “Sure. Did you find a connection to one of my articles?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Then why does he want me?”

  “Because the murders took place in Tiburon.”

  6.

  THE KILLER

  I chose my first victims as they crossed the street.

  Something as random as that.

  At least, that’s what I hoped the Porky Pig Police would think.

  In reality, I’d long ago chosen the three people I intently watched.

  It had been a long time since I’d seen them. So I didn’t think they’d recognize me. But I certainly wasn’t going to get close enough to find out. So I watched from afar.

  The daughter had become an extraordinarily beautiful young woman. When I’d last seen her, she was probably thirteen or fourteen, and even then I knew she was going to be gorgeous. But she was now off the charts. I was going to have fun with her.

  But probably with gloves and while holding something. Using my own appendages would only leave DNA and land me in jail. And I had more people to kill, so as pleasurable as the daughter would have been, there would be no sex. At least not using my dick. Maybe a different instrument lying around the house. Hahaha.

  My connection to them did bring the potential their murders might lead back to me. But I found those odds to be miniscule.

  No, I didn’t think they’d tie me to the Langleys’ murders. And part of that was my own doing.

  I’d written my letter as if I was unhinged, creating the notion that a psycho was on the loose.

  Which, while partially true, would have the authorities looking for an undisciplined, crazy man. They’d assume I was just killing to kill. It’s unlikely they would think I’d carefully selected my victims.

  I wouldn’t get any credit for meticulously planning all this. At least, not yet. Eventually, it would all come out. And I’d be praised as a diabolical mastermind.

  For now, they’d just think I was crazy. Which is how I wanted it.

  I looked back in the direction of the daughter. Innocent. Supple, but firm. Perfectly tanned skin. She was wearing some Daisy Dukes and the Dark Side of the Moon shirt with the prism. I wasn’t the only man looking.

  Her parents were dressed immaculately, him in a tan suit and her in a light green dress that almost made her pass as her daughter’s older sister. She was quite beautiful as well. Just as she had been when I’d last seen her.

  They walked down the street and I continued following them from a distance. They stopped at a few shops, but didn’t stay long.

  Tiburon was a small town, and eventually they’d finished walking the downtown area. I felt no need to follow them anymore. I knew they were heading home.

  And I’d be joining them that night.

  7.

  “Try to be on your best behavior. A lot of these guys haven’t slept,” Ray s
aid, greeting me outside of the 7th Street headquarters, the shield staring down at us as we entered.

  “I’ll try,” I said.

  He once again whisked me through security. “And they aren’t going to let you sit in on the meeting. The chief is here and this is very official business. But Lockett wants to hear why you were suspicious of Tiburon.”

  “I told you why.”

  “He wants to hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

  We approached the elevator and waited.

  “What happened in Tiburon?” I asked.

  “You’ll see it on the news.”

  “I want to hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

  “C’mon, Quint.”

  Ray didn’t like his words being used against him. But I was pissed.

  “You dragged me out here. That’s the least you can do,” I said.

  The elevator opened. We were the only two to enter.

  “When these doors open back up, I’m done talking about it,” he said.

  “Okay. Go.”

  “A family of three. Murdered. Tortured. Made to suffer. A couple in their fifties and a teenage daughter. She suffered the most.”

  I shook my head, trying not to let any visuals pop into it. We were arriving on the third floor.

  “What else?”

  “It was an extremely expensive house with views of the Bay.”

  Ray looked at me and I could tell he had something else to say, something very painful. I knew it.

  The doors opened.

  “What else?”

  “The motherfucker painted ‘1 down, 4 to go’ on the wall. In the victims’ blood.”

  I didn’t have time to react as we stepped out of the elevator. It was nothing like a few days previous when only a few officers were there. The floor was packed with Oakland’s finest.

  I recognized Alfred Ronson, the Chief of Police. He was on the news from time to time. Though he was approaching seventy years old, he had slicked-back black hair that was the most obvious dye job in human history. Ronson’s wrinkles made Ray look like a newbie. Of course, Ronson wasn’t out in the field looking for the bad guys. Age didn’t matter in his position.