The Bay Area Butcher: (Quint Adler Book 2)

by Brian O'Sullivan

“My espresso machine makes them in seconds. Not like the old days of having to heat up water and then waiting five minutes while it steeped.”

  With her age, I’d thought she was going to mention Sanka.

  Cara and I each tried a sip.

  “It’s great.”

  “It’s excellent.”

  We spoke almost in unison.

  “Well, which one is it? Great or excellent?” Sandy asked.

  And we all had a nice laugh.

  Followed by a somewhat uncomfortable silence.

  “I almost feel like you expected us,” I finally said.

  “Well, not you two. But I though the police might come by, considering the Tillers used to live three doors down.”

  “People think these murders are random. And many families were affected,” I said. “Where the Tillers used to live is probably not very high on their list of things to investigate.”

  “Yeah, I get that,” she acknowledged. “Just seems more personal to me, I guess. Having known them and all.”

  “How many years ago did the Tillers move?” I asked.

  “I’d say six or seven years.”

  “That’s a long time,” Cara interjected. “I’m sure the police feel that if there was any chance the Tillers were targeted, it was based on something more recent. Also, there were ten or so other families affected in San Jose. So the odds the Tillers were the actual target is highly unlikely.”

  Cara repeated almost verbatim what I had said, citing the police’s theories. Sandy Doria picked up on that.

  “But you are not buying that?”

  “It’s still the most likely scenario,” I admitted. “But if everyone else is looking at these as just random murders, Cara and I figured it might be better to explore an alternative hypothesis.”

  “Like what?” Sandy asked.

  “Well, that’s what we are here for. Was there ever any incident or reason that someone might hate the Tillers?”

  “They weren’t the most likable people, I’ll admit that. And a few beefs arose between them and other families on the block.”

  “Really,” I said, my attention becoming more focused by the second.

  “They were just jerks, especially the husband. I hate saying that after they both died. I’m not trying to disparage the dead.”

  “That goes without saying,” I said.

  “They were the type of people who would leave vegetables out for Halloween. If their son or daughter stayed at a neighbor’s home too long, Mr. Tiller would make a scene and reprimand his children in front of the whole block. He’d physically grab them and carry them down the street as well. Listen, that in and of itself is not child abuse, and I’ve seen much worse, but it just shows you the type of guy he was. And his wife Celia was a bit of a witch herself.”

  This was all fascinating information, but it meant absolutely nothing if the Tillers’ actions weren’t somehow connected to their deaths. Which, despite my rising interest, still appeared unlikely.

  Poisoning several families to get at only one true target? Was the Butcher that diabolical?

  “How about any issues with someone younger?”

  I didn’t want to come out and say that I thought the Butcher was likely in his twenties or thirties, so I had to skirt around the idea.

  “How young?”

  “Maybe someone who might have been in his teens or early twenties back when the Tillers still lived here.”

  “There were a few of them, too. Mr. Tiller didn’t make exceptions for anyone. He pissed everyone off. And yes, some of the older neighborhood kids butted heads with him.”

  “Anyone you remember specifically?”

  “No, he butted heads with a whole bunch of them.”

  “And here I thought we were getting somewhere,” I said.

  “Well, that leads us to a question I have for you, Quint.”

  She emphasized my name and I knew something important was coming.

  “Why haven’t you asked about the Tillers’ old neighbors? I think you may have heard about them—the Langleys.”

  My mouth hit the proverbial floor.

  31.

  “So these murders are related?” Cara asked as we got back to our car.

  “It’s starting to look that way. Well, at least the Tiller murder is related. The other people who died in San Jose might have been collateral damage.”

  “Maybe he put more fentanyl in the Tillers’ cookies. Assuming they were the primary target.”

  “That’s a good point, Cara. After all, they both died. And only one other family had more than one casualty. I’m not sure the police would keep the cookies from each specific house after the murders. But maybe they’d have more toxicity in their corpses than the rest of the deceased. I’ll ask Captain Lockett.”

  “You’re going to call him?”

  “No, he won’t take my calls. We’re going to drive to Oakland right now.”

  We arrived at the 7th Street headquarters.

  I’d made the mistake of putting the news on as we drove over. Every other story was something about the Bay Area Butcher. It had truly taken over every segment of life in our beautiful part of the country.

  One set of rumors claimed he was a delivery driver and poisoning food. Others thought he worked for the city and planned to contaminate the water supply. To say the Bay Area was on edge didn’t do the level of anxiety the proper justice.

  Finally, Cara turned the radio off. I couldn’t blame her.

  I approached the entry to the precinct. Several cops worked on duty, and I could tell at least a few recognized me as I arrived at the doors.

  “What are you here for?” one of them asked.

  “I need to see Captain Lockett.”

  “He’s busy,” he responded.

  I looked at the other officers to see if I was going to get any help. It didn’t appear so.

  “This is very important,” I said.

  “Then call the captain,” a different officer replied.

  That’s when I saw Freddie Fields hovering behind the giant metal detector.

  “Freddie!” I yelled.

  Seeing me, he reluctantly bypassed the other officers and walked outside to me.

  “What is it, Quint?”

  “I need to see Captain Lockett.”

  “He’s not going to see you. We’re now working with the feds and we’ve been told that you are no longer part of the investigation.”

  I shook my head. “This is such bullshit.”

  “I like you, Quint. I’m just doing my job.”

  I knew I had to see the captain. This info I’d uncovered was too important not to share.

  “Well, if you want to stop more murders, you’ll allow me to see him.”

  That got his attention.

  “Do you have something?”

  “One of the victims from San Jose used to be a next-door neighbor of the Langleys.”

  Freddie Fields’s jaw hit the proverbial floor just as mine had.

  “Jesus,” he said.

  “Yeah, Jesus. Now can I see the captain?”

  Freddie turned around and faced the officers watching the front door. “Officers, let them through.”

  They acquiesced, and Cara and I followed Freddie into the precinct.

  We bypassed the metal detector, just as I used to do with Ray, and headed to the now-familiar elevator around the corner.

  “Freddie, you remember Cara.”

  They had briefly met when Freddie was at my apartment checking for fingerprints.

  “Nice to see you again.”

  They exchanged a quick pleasantry, but I could tell Freddie’s mind was elsewhere.

  “This better be true, Quint. Could be my ass if not.”

  “It’s true, alright.”

  We stepped off the elevator and walked around the corner. Captain Lockett saw me before I saw him and approached us with an unhappy expression.

  “What the hell is he doing here?” he asked Freddie.
/>   “He found something important.”

  “You can’t just let sleeping dogs lie, can you, Quint?”

  “Not when they’re killing innocent people,” I said.

  “Well, fuck. You’re here. Let’s hear what you got.”

  “Do you want to hit a conference room?”

  “No, we’re fine right here.”

  I could tell he was perturbed about the whole thing.

  “Cara, this is Captain Lockett. Captain, my girlfriend.”

  Their pleasantries barely merited the introduction. Then the captain turned back to me.

  “What is it, Quint? You’re testing my patience.”

  “The Tillers were next-door neighbors to the Langleys.”

  This information hit Lockett like a ton of bricks. He even took a step backward.

  “You’re fucking kidding me.”

  “I’m not.”

  He sighed. “Maybe we should get that conference room.”

  A few minutes later, I, Cara, Freddie, Captain Lockett, and two other officers occupied said conference room.

  “You’ve got the floor, Quint.”

  I went over everything, explaining how we’d gone to Bradley Marks’ house and he’d mentioned Pleasant Hill. Then, how Cara had found that the Tillers lived in Pleasant Hill several years back. Finally, I got to our meeting Victoria and then walking down to the Dorias.

  “And that’s when Sandy Doria dropped the bomb on us.”

  The two other officers nodded when I said that. They wore plain clothes, and I wondered if they might be feds who had let Captain Lockett take the lead.

  “You’re right there, Quint. It is a bomb. That would be the coincidence to end all coincidences.”

  “Agreed,” I said. “Maybe we’ve been wrong all along. This wasn’t just a psycho killing random, innocent people, but someone getting revenge on people he thinks wronged him.”

  Cara hadn’t said a word, but she spoke up now.

  “It might be both. Let’s not forget, several other people died in San Jose and a lot of others got very sick. It’s not like this guy gives two shits about anyone else being hurt. He’d blow up a building to kill someone he was targeting. At least, that’s what I think.”

  Her words hung in the air. She was right. This didn’t suddenly mean the Butcher would limit himself to targeting people related to the Langleys and Tillers. He’d shown he had no problem killing innocent civilians as well.

  “True. And well said,” Captain Locket said. “Alright, Quint, my phone is available to you again. But the OPD is not the only one working this case now.”

  And he nodded at the two other men in the room, confirming my suspicions.

  “So I can’t guarantee we will always be quick in getting back to you.”

  “I understand,” I said. “I’m just trying to help out.”

  “Of course. We all are.”

  As he walked with us to the door, he added, “Be sure to call me if any of your articles now stand out more. And I may be calling you if we have some added questions.”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  We said our goodbyes soon thereafter.

  32.

  Another day passed. We’d accomplished a lot in the last week or so. Much of it thanks to Cara, who had been hugely instrumental. We’d become a team in every sense of the word.

  Unfortunately, each passing day brought us twenty-four hours closer to the next killing. Or killings. And as I looked down at my phone that morning, I realized we were only one day from the all too literal deadline. Tomorrow was Friday.

  Despite all the great work we were doing, we were still behind the eight ball. And we’d need a huge break in order to catch him before he murdered again.

  I’d stayed up until two a.m. going over my articles the night before. Still I hadn’t found any article that jumped out. Nothing specific to Pleasant Hill. I wasn’t going to be that lucky.

  I realized that the Butcher could have been mentioned in an article that had nothing to do with either the Langleys or the Tillers. Even if he held a massive grudge against the two families, the article may have involved something completely different.

  Even though we’d achieved a lot, I was still at a standstill when it came to whatever clue lay in my articles.

  While I was busy reading them for the umpteenth time, Cara looked up at me.

  “Let’s go out more tomorrow,” she said. “Dennis McCarthy’s guy hasn’t had much to do. A few walks down to the coffee shop and a quick lunch at Hops and Scotch. One trip to Pleasant Hill and maybe he followed us to Oakland.”

  “I agree. But it’s unlikely the Butcher will be out following us tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, we’ve been so busy, I almost forgot. Tomorrow is Friday.”

  “I just hope that whatever happens isn’t something catastrophic,” I said. “I feel like we’re making inroads and may have a chance to catch him before the final killing. But it would take a miracle to catch him before tomorrow.”

  “You’re right,” Cara said and shrugged helplessly.

  We’d been so caught up in our research and investigation that we’d forgotten how terrible the murders had been. We started after Ray had been killed, so we hadn’t experienced a new murder since turning my apartment into a true crime diorama.

  Would tomorrow be the day that changed?

  Sadly, it likely would be.

  33.

  “Quint! Turn on the news,” Cara yelled from the bedroom as I sat on the couch going through old articles.

  It was only eight a.m. Although this was the day the Butcher was supposed to strike, I hadn’t expected anything so early. My heart rate shot off the charts as I flipped on the T.V.

  A young, bespectacled news anchor looked on. I expected something terrible to come from her mouth, but she just talked about how BART was running behind schedule for the next few days.

  “You almost gave me a heart attack. I thought you’d seen something online,” I shouted back.

  Cara appeared from the room. “No, I just thought we should have it on in case something happens.”

  I let out a sigh of relief, although my chest still felt tight. “His first three sets of murders all took place at night. Not that he couldn’t strike early, but I’m not expecting anything at eight in the morning.”

  And I was right. We didn’t hear anything that day. Not at eight a.m. Not at eight p.m. And not by midnight, when we finally decided to try and crash.

  It felt like the antithesis of Christmas Eve. Something would be waiting for us the next morning, but it was a surprise we would have done anything to avoid.

  The universe, and the Butcher, had different plans.

  I woke up at six a.m. and immediately went out to my couch and turned on the T.V.

  I’d never bought a T.V. for my bedroom. Some people found it weird, but I explained to them when I fell asleep at night it was usually with my handy laptop next to me.

  Of course, that had changed once Cara moved in.

  Maybe it was time to buy a T.V. for the bedroom as well.

  That inane subject swirled through my mind as the T.V. came roaring to life.

  I heard the sound before I saw the newscaster, and what I heard made my heart plummet:

  “And authorities are assuming it has to be the work of the Bay Area Butcher.”

  I pressed pause on the remote and hurried to the bedroom, where I tapped Cara on the shoulder.

  “Get up,” I said.

  She rose and walked out to the couch immediately, without another word needing to be said.

  I rewound the remote a few seconds, pressed pause a second time, and the anchor came to life. In her late fifties, she had been a Bay Area fixture for decades. Her voice did not offer a cheerful start to the day.

  “And authorities are assuming it has to be the work of the Bay Area Butcher,” I heard a second time.

  I looked at Cara, who had instinctively grabbed my hand. I tightened my grip around hers and we held ea
ch other’s gazes for a moment before turning back to the T.V.

  “They believe the fire was set just before midnight last night. Walnut Creek authorities have said they first received calls at 11:54, reporting smoke coming from Treeside Manor. Some neighbors arrived before the police and found that the two main doors had been locked from the outside with a U-lock of the kind often used to secure bicycles. All in all, just a horrible scene. The locks on the doors surely added to the high death count, but with it being a retirement home, the lack of mobility of its guests probably contributed as well. We will have more throughout the day here at KRON, but right now the news is that fourteen people have been confirmed dead at the Treeside Manor in Walnut Creek. Beyond tragic. Authorities ask that if anyone saw something suspicious in the area, please call 9-1-1 immediately. That includes people, cars, or any other detail.

  “We also have a quote from the Walnut Creek Chief of Police, Millard Lyons: ‘We can’t be certain this was the work of the Bay Area Butcher, but all signs point to yes.’ This has just been an altogether tragic late night and morning. We hope you’ll stay with KRON for extended coverage throughout the day.”

  The anchor’s words had slowed, her eyes turning wet and red. Now she bowed her head and took a deep breath to compose herself. I’d watched her reporting for years and had never seen her come so close to losing it.

  “We’ll be back in a few minutes,” she said through a few tears.

  I pressed pause on the T.V. Cara gave me a hug and started crying herself.

  “Killing defenseless old people in a fire? You can’t go any lower.”

  I nodded. It was a disgusting act. Even for someone as deranged as the Butcher.

  “I want him dead with every ounce of my soul. I’d kill him myself if I could,” Cara said.

  “I feel the same,” I said, the first words out of my mouth since we’d sat together to take in the horrible news.

  “I’m sick to my stomach.”

  I leaned in and hugged her again. She’d shown great courage investigating the Butcher with me, but she’d reached her breaking point. I couldn’t say that I blamed her.

  We intermittently checked the news for the next hour or so. On the one hand, we didn’t want to miss anything. But the news was so sad, so sickening, that we couldn’t just watch it without a break. It would have driven us crazy.