The Bay Area Butcher: (Quint Adler Book 2)

by Brian O'Sullivan

  “Do you think we should be scared?” Cara asked.

  Ray took the bait. “You’ve got a strong, tough boyfriend who should be fine. But yes, it does worry me that this creep has got a fixation on him. And he got close enough to set that recording device on him, so that would give me pause.”

  I jumped in. “Thank you, Ray! I’m now going to have a petrified girlfriend constantly worried about me.”

  “You know that’s not true. Cara is tough.”

  “Yeah, she is,” I admitted.

  And Cara leaned over and kissed me.

  “Wow, get a room, you two!”

  “Our house isn’t a brothel!”

  We laughed at the Kintners’ mock-scandalized comments.

  “I think this scumbag will be in our rearview mirror within a week.” Once again, I didn’t really believe what I said. But it felt like the right thing to say considering the circumstances.

  The wine glasses had been replaced with coffee cups, be we still attempted a cheers. It was loud and clunky.

  “That works better with glass,” Glenda said.

  “Sure does.”

  “We’ve got a spare bedroom. Next time you guys can crash here and I’ll make after-dinner drinks instead of coffee.”

  “Or both, in the form of an Irish coffee.”

  “I like the way you think, Cara.”

  “I like the way you cook, Glenda.”

  We’d gotten past the serial killer moment of the dinner rather quickly and were back to enjoying the small talk. Ray and I were just fine with that.

  “I’ve heard you’re quite the bowler, Ray,” Cara said.

  “There aren’t many sports you can still dominate in your mid-fifties. But seems I’ve found the one.”

  “We should all go play some day.”

  “I’d love that.”

  “Would Glenda feel comfortable at a seedy bowling alley?”

  I wasn’t sure where Cara was going with this, but an awkward silence met her question.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She seems more like a short-ribs-and-1957-wine type of girl,” Cara said, obviously ribbing her new friend.

  Glenda let out a big belly laugh.

  “Quint, don’t ever lose this girl. And Cara, I can play the blue collar role as well. I grew up with three older brothers. Spent many hours in bowling alleys, dive bars, and the like. Plus, I’m married to a cop. I’ve seen it all.”

  “You guys have a great marriage,” Cara said.

  “And on that note…” I said.

  “I wasn’t referring to you being afraid of the ultimate commitment, I was merely saying they have an awesome one.”

  “See, Glenda, I get the ribbing too,” I said.

  “She’s an equal-opportunity ballbuster,” Glenda said.

  “Perfectly stated.”

  We’d finished our creme brûlée and Ray started grabbing the plates and headed to the kitchen.

  “Here’s a little marital advice if you ever take the plunge,” Glenda said.

  Cara leaned in closer.

  “It’s going to sound simple, but it means the world. When your spouse does the cooking, try to help with the cleaning. I’m not saying you have to do all of the dishes, but take some to the sink and wash them off like Ray is doing right now. Trust me, the gesture itself means more than you know.”

  “Sounds good,” I said. “I’ll let Cara do all the cooking and I’ll bring the dishes to the sink.”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass, Quint,” Glenda said, but she was smiling. “And you can cook from time to time.”

  “He’s being modest. The man can cook,” Cara said. “He just recently made a great chicken piccata.”

  We looked at each other and shared a moment, remembering our carnal interlude before the meal.

  “A guy who can cook can’t be all bad,” Glenda said.

  Ray emerged from the kitchen. “Are you giving your ‘help your spouse clean up’ speech?”

  “He knows me so well.”

  “Can I help you guys clean?”

  “Maybe next time, Cara. Let us play the good hosts this time.”

  “You’ve been a lot more than good. Dinner was spectacular.”

  “Thanks, dear. And you guys are great company. I’d like to do this again soon.”

  “Let us host you guys.”

  “Okay. We could use a nice dinner away from home.”

  “Is that okay, Quint?” Cara asked.

  “Of course,” I said. “I’ve got this great hamburger surprise recipe I’ve been wanting to test out.”

  Glenda laughed.

  Ray grabbed a few more plates and headed back toward the kitchen.

  The night was winding down.

  A few minutes later, we started to say our goodbyes.

  “We’ll have you over soon,” I said.

  “Thanks, Quint.”

  “No, thank you, Glenda. We had a spectacular time.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  I gave Ray a hug as the women continued to talk in the corner.

  “We’d be here all night if it was Cara’s choice,” I said.

  “Glenda too.”

  “Thanks, Ray, we had a blast.”

  “You got it. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  I walked back over to the women.

  “Alright, Cara, it’s time we head back to Walnut Creek. Let’s give Ray some time to do the dishes.”

  “See, he’s learning already,” Glenda said.

  They hugged each other for a good ten seconds and we said our last goodbyes before stepping through the door.

  It had been a splendid evening.

  16.

  The third letter arrived the next day.

  I got a screenshot from Ray, with a message that merely said “Just received this.” There was no acknowledgement of our dinner the night before. I’m sure he was busy as hell.

  It read:

  Hello to the police, the media, and my friendly Bay Area neighbors.

  Would you agree that artists get better over time? Seems logical to me. I promise to keep improving. Sadly, I’ve been burdened with the moniker of the Bay Area Butcher. I’m so much more than some savage with a knife (that was only one set of murders), but I guess I don’t get to choose what name is bestowed upon me. Time to move on I guess.

  As you may have noticed, I didn’t begin by mentioning cities.

  I thought I might have given myself away, eliminating cities as we went. That would be too obvious, even for the pathetic police departments of the Bay Area.

  So now I’m putting everyone on watch. Those hippies in Berkeley. Concord. Los Gatos. Fremont. Burlingame. Any of your cities may be next.

  And as an artist becomes better, he branches out as well. So my next killing will not be a home invasion. Or a poisoning. I’m thinking a drive-by. Or in honor of the Zodiac, a school bus of children.

  I can smell the fear now.

  I’d like to thank the media for making me the most famous killer in the world at the moment. It’s truly an honor. Just wait until they see what happens next.

  Although it won’t help catch me, I will stick to my edict of giving you the date.

  And that date is…drumroll please…June 4th!

  Happy Hunting!

  The first thing I’d noticed was the excessive spacing between each sentence. This was the first letter in which he’d failed to mention me by name. But he’d given me the big middle finger by having five to six spaces at the conclusion of each sentence. I knew he intended that not-so-subtle dog whistle for me.

  Second, his decision not to mention the original cities. Could he have listened to our conversation at the Lafayette Reservoir? Had he gotten close enough to attach another recording device on me?

  I checked the clothes I’d worn at the reservoir. I found no recording device on them.

  I called Cara and had her check. An excruciating few minutes passed as I waited for her to get back to me. I could handle a l
ot, but if he’d attached something to my girlfriend, that would have been too much.

  To my relief, she spotted nothing on her clothes from that day.

  I tried to focus on the letter. I couldn’t let my mind wander. These first impressions mattered.

  It was disgusting to mention a drive by shooting. And a school bus of children.

  He likely meant to scare the already petrified Bay Area just a little more. And there was no doubt his comments would succeed at that. People’s psyches were already frazzled. This would only make everything worse.

  I hoped against hope the letter could be kept under wraps, but I knew that was next to impossible. Especially since the killer had been sending them to the evening news channels and the newspapers as well. His letter was bound to get out.

  And it did. I sat alone in my apartment that night and watched the letter appear as the lead for the five o’clock local news. And I could just feel the tension ratcheting up, not to mention see it filling the faces of the local reporters.

  It led the national news as well. The Bay Area had already become the focal point of the nation, and with another letter to “fawn” over, the media frenzy was only going to increase.

  I, for one, did not look forward to it.

  17.

  The enemy of my enemy is my friend. So goes the saying. But what if that shared enemy is dead? Are they still your friend?

  I decided to find out.

  I showed up at Boyle’s, a San Francisco grocery store, that next morning. Paddy Roark was the reason.

  Paddy had been integral in helping me find out the movements of Charles Zane. Which led to everything that followed.

  It may not have been out of the goodness of his heart, since his boss Dennis McCarthy was a rival of Zane’s, but they’d still come through for me.

  And we’d established a bit of a bond. Dennis was the biggest bookie in the Bay Area, and Paddy his right-hand man. They likely resorted to some untoward collection practices from time to time, but I saw them as honorable people. They’d been nothing but candid with me.

  But now that Zane was dead, I wanted to find out if they were still my friends.

  I spotted Roark walking down one of the aisles. Boyle’s was very Irish themed, with green and orange everywhere. Roark stopped in the corned beef section. As always, his intensity was off the charts. His eyes could melt steel. Easily one of the tougher-looking guys I’d ever come across.

  “Quint. What do we owe this surprise to?” he said.

  I was happy I’d become friendly with him. It made the intensity a little less intimidating.

  “Hello, Paddy. It’s been a long time.”

  “It sure has.”

  “I never got to properly thank you,” I said.

  He leaned in and whispered his response. “The fact that the police never came knocking was thanks enough.”

  “They’d have just thanked you for helping them out.”

  “Somehow, I think they’d have had more to say. But alas, they didn’t show.”

  “Can we talk?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he said, knowing that the type of talking I referred to required some privacy.

  The store was pretty quiet, but the last thing we needed was some nosy customer listening in on our conversation.

  “Follow me,” Paddy said. And I did.

  We headed toward the back of the store like I’d done many times during the Charles Zane case. Roark led me through the revolving door past which customers were no longer permitted. We entered his office. Dennis McCarthy was sitting behind the computer. He looked splendid with his orange Vineyard Vines vest and a long-sleeved white T-shirt beneath it.

  If I was meeting with the Beauty and the Beast of bookies, McCarthy was definitely the former.

  “Quint, how are you?”

  “Hello, Mr. McCarthy. I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

  “I told you way back when to call me Dennis. That still stands.”

  “I’m sorry, Dennis.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s nice to see you, Quint. You became a stranger after we helped you.”

  “I thought that’s what you’d prefer,” I said.

  Dennis finally stood up and shook my hand. “You’re a smart lad. That was probably for the best.”

  “Thanks. And you’re welcome.”

  “So what brings you here today?”

  “Should we sit?” I asked.

  “No, let’s stand,” Dennis McCarthy said.

  While I’d become friendly with the two men before me, these tough dudes liked to show their dominant side. There was no valid reason to remain standing, but Dennis wanted it known that he’d make the suggestions, not me.

  “Fair enough,” I said. “This likely won’t surprise you guys, but I’ve found myself in the middle of a pickle again.”

  “Yeah, we know,” Paddy Roark said.

  The surprise must have shown on my face.

  “C’mon, Quint,” Dennis said. “I hope you remember who you’re talking to. You don’t think we’ve seen the letters that went to the police?”

  The media never read the letters verbatim and mercifully had kept my name off the news, so I hadn’t expected anyone to know. But these guys...

  “I should have guessed,” I said.

  “Yes, you should have,” Dennis said, putting me in my place. “Always remember, our eyes and ears are everywhere.”

  “Do they happen to have seen or heard anything about the killer?” I asked.

  “Is that why you’re here?”

  “Yes. We’re at a dead end and the next murder is coming up quick.”

  “First off, we didn’t give the killer the recording device he used on you.”

  We all had a short-lived laugh. The irony that a recording device had helped me take down Charles Zane, but now another had been used on me by the Butcher, was not lost on any of us.

  “Wish you had. That would make this easy.”

  “We only give recording devices to people named after shark hunters from the movie Jaws.”

  “I’m touched.”

  “This killer is a stain on this great area. And we’d love to help the police catch him. But as for what you want us to do, I’m at a loss.”

  “I don’t know exactly. I’m trying to help, but besides Detective Kintner, I can’t get much from the police. You guys are powerful and know people. Just thought I’d ask.”

  “If we knew anything, we’d go straight to the police. This is a serial killer, after all. Not some deadbeat gambler we can deal with ourselves,” Paddy said.

  Dennis was the boss, but Paddy was the furthest thing from a wilting flower. He didn’t need permission to speak.

  I told them, “I think the guy is in his twenties, in good shape, from the Bay, and as you must know, he’s been mentioned in one of my articles.”

  “We know. As I said, we’ve read the letters, Quint.”

  I didn’t like being treated like a kid, but they were right; they’d already made it clear they knew everything.

  Dennis said bluntly, “Everyone is grasping at straws. Ourselves included. I think we’re going to have to wait till this guy fucks up.”

  “I don’t want to wait that long.”

  “You have no choice,” he said, and I once again felt like a scolded child.

  Paddy Roark decided to play mediator. I imagine that didn’t happen very often.

  “We’d love to help you, Quint. But we’ve got nothing. Nor do the cops, so it’s not like we’re in the minority. If we learn anything, we’ll tell the cops and then tell you.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’m not sure what I expected coming here.”

  “It was good seeing you, if that’s any consolation.”

  “We did good work with Charles Zane, didn’t we?”

  “You did the work,” Dennis said. “We just gave you a little push in the right direction.”

  While it was fun reminiscing, I knew the visit wasn’t going
to pay any dividends.

  “Nice to see you guys again.”

  “You too, Quint. I don’t think we’ve seen the worst of this psychopath, and he seems to have a hard-on for you. Be safe, you hear?”

  I shook their hands and left with a worse feeling than I’d entered with.

  18.

  Before I knew it, June 4th had arrived. I’d gone by the Walnut Creek Times and looked through some more old articles. As usual, however, nothing jumped out.

  I could have done it at home from my computer, but I’d hoped being at the paper itself might help jog my memory. It didn’t.

  I gave my mother a call. She was on pins and needles, knowing it was the day the killer was supposed to strike. The media had talked about the date since the letter came out, so everyone in the Bay Area had gone on high alert. With all of us as vigilant as possible, hopefully, this would lead to a citizen seeing something and alerting the police.

  I invited Cara over, but she said she preferred to stay at her apartment. I think she actually wanted to see me, but was trying to prove that the Bay Area Butcher wasn’t getting to her, even though the creep was getting to everyone. I appreciated her stubbornness. It’s one of the traits of hers that I loved.

  But I still wished she’d come over and stayed with me. I pleaded a second time, but she remained resolute.

  Ray gave me a call around six p.m.

  “Hello?”

  “Staying safe, Quint?”

  “I am.”

  “I’m always nervous on these days, obviously. But especially for you, since you seem to be the apple of this psycho’s eye.”

  “I’m alone in my apartment. You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “I figured you’d have Cara close.”

  “I tried. She’s trying to show how tough she is.”

  Ray laughed. “We’ve both got great women.”

  “Didn’t get to tell you how much fun we had the other night. Thanks so much!”

  “You were plenty complimentary throughout dinner. But I appreciate it. Glenda loved you both dearly. I think she and Cara have a similar tough-girl streak.”

  “Your wife was delightful,” I said.

  “That’s true,” Ray agreed. “But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have a tough streak.”