The Bay Area Butcher: (Quint Adler Book 2)

by Brian O'Sullivan

  The anchor continued:

  “Authorities have also asked that if anyone has a recent picture of Mr. Danovich, please contact your local police department. All we have is the high school yearbook photo that has been making the rounds. And that is eight or nine years old. Also, anyone who might potentially know Mr. Danovich’s current whereabouts is asked to call your local police department immediately. We here at KPIX would like everyone to be safe out there. And while we now know who the Butcher is, he’s still out there. As they say, a wounded dog is often the most dangerous.”

  “This woman really likes to put her own spin on things, doesn’t she?” I asked.

  “Let’s give her a break. She’s been on the air all damn day.”

  “That’s fair. I feel like I’ve been on all day myself. My head isn’t working all that great anymore.”

  “Do you want to go to sleep early?”

  “I’d love to. Think it’ll be possible?”

  “Unless they catch him, I can’t imagine there will be any new stuff tonight.”

  “I could use some downtime.”

  We looked back up at the T.V., where they had moved on to showing more pictures of the people who died in the old folks’ home. Who’d been alive less than twenty-four hours ago.

  “This is so sad,” Cara said. “Can you imagine going out like that?”

  “No,” I admitted.

  “Do you think we’ll find out tomorrow that the Butcher had a connection to someone who died in the fire?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me a bit. Every other murder has been personal in some way.”

  “I can’t wait until this creep’s reign of terror is over.”

  “Me either. This is insane.”

  38.

  I woke up the next morning to a sharp sound. It came again from the front room of the apartment. A knock.

  Cara sat up next to me, seeming to have heard it first.

  “Someone is at the door,” she said.

  I looked at my watch. It was 8:00 a.m. For what seemed like the first time in years, I’d been able to sleep in a little bit.

  But who was knocking at the front door? The Butcher wouldn’t possibly have the balls to show up here, would he?

  I got out of bed and threw on some sweatpants over my boxers. It didn’t seem like much to possibly confront a killer in.

  I approached the door and looked through the peephole. And then opened the door.

  “Hello, Quint.”

  “Hi, Captain Lockett. It’s a little early, you know.”

  “Not when there’s a serial killer on the loose.”

  I nodded. “What can I do for you?”

  “Let’s go get a coffee and talk.”

  “Alright.”

  Cara and I were a team in every sense of the word. I headed back to the bedroom to see if she wanted to join, but didn’t make it that far.

  “You go, Quint. You can update me when you get back.”

  “I’ll lock the door behind me,” I said.

  I did just that and we started making our way down my hall.

  “So you told me yesterday you’d see this guy Tad around the complex?” Lockett asked.

  “Yup. Quite often, with him being on my floor and all.”

  “Did you talk much?”

  “We always said hello and were definitely cordial. But we never hung out outside of Avalon.”

  “A lot of things are coming together. And that’s why I wanted to talk to you. But one thing that’s bothering me is why he took up such an interest in you.”

  “It’s been occupying space in my brain too,” I said.

  “Any guesses?”

  I pressed the down button on the elevator.

  “This guy obviously wants to be known far and wide. Why else write to the police and try to turn this all into the circus it’s become?”

  The captain nodded and asked, “And what’s that have to do with you?”

  “For better or worse, I’ve kind of become a local celebrity in these parts. And certainly within Avalon. Especially after having been shot here.”

  We arrived at the first floor and started walking through the visitor parking area toward the Starbucks located just outside of the garage.

  “So he mentioned you in the letters, knowing calling you out would bring about more publicity?”

  “I think that may well be part of it. He also might have been jealous of my celebrity. Maybe jealous of Cara, I don’t know. He’s a psychopath and sees me around the complex a lot. Who knows where his mind takes him…” My skin crawled thinking of it.

  “That makes some sense.”

  I opened the door to the Starbucks and let Captain Lockett walk in first.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  I approached the counter and ordered two coffees. We made our way to a corner to talk while we waited for the drinks.

  “And you told a few officers yesterday that the article he was mentioned in may have been one in The New Yorker?”

  “Yeah. I talked to the manager of Avalon and she said Tad was one of the first people there when I was shot. In the article, I referred to someone who told me I was going to be alright as I lay on those stairs. I think I was unknowingly mentioning him.”

  “Was he pissed he wasn’t mentioned by name or something?”

  “Could be. But I was in and out of consciousness. I never knew who it was. I didn’t intentionally slight him.”

  “Doesn’t matter anyway. The man is a lunatic. He probably felt like he needed a rival and invented one in you.”

  “That’s what Cara said. We can’t rationally know why he chose me.”

  We picked up our coffees and headed outside.

  “Do you want to sit?” I asked.

  “Too many people milling around. Let’s walk and talk.”

  We walked a good hundred feet without saying anything.

  “So what did you find out overnight?” I eventually asked.

  “You watch the news this morning?”

  “I hate to admit it, but your knock woke me up. Yesterday was such a long day that I slept in longer than I ever do.”

  “I can’t blame you, and I’ll be honest, I’m a bit jealous. I’m on about three hours’ sleep.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” He took a deep sip of coffee. “So we found his car last night.”

  “I heard that before I went to sleep. How?”

  “The license plate had been plastered all over the news, and some good Samaritan saw it. It was up on a bluff overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge. I was sent there and we worked with the SFPD and the cops from Marin. It’s become a theme with the Butcher. Police from different cities, who don’t always get along, working for the greater good.”

  “Nice to hear,” I said.

  “And we found a few things that all but confirm that he’s the Butcher. One, and this is going to hurt, but a map that had been printed out. It was of the area right around Ray’s house. Surely he was looking at escape routes. We also found a leaflet for Treeside Manor, the old retirement home where so many people died.”

  “I had a question about that.”

  “In a second, Quint. I’ll finish up quickly. The map and the leaflet could probably be argued as circumstantial evidence, but the third thing we found cannot be explained away.”

  Lockett paused, adding to the drama.

  “We found some jewelry. And it was obviously a woman’s. We expedited the DNA testing on some skin cells from a swab of it, and it came from the Langley daughter. Mia.”

  I shook my head.

  “Just horrible,” I said. “I hate thinking about her last minutes on earth.”

  “It’s unimaginable. So I’d suggest trying not to think it.”

  “That’s good advice.”

  “Tougher to impart in practice.”

  “Why do you think he left such important evidence in his car?”

  “I imagine it was in his apartment and when he found out you were ge
tting close, he just threw everything in his car.”

  “And then ditched it?”

  “Let’s assume he’s found a place to stay. Do you think he wants that car sitting outside in the driveway?”

  “Point taken,” I said. “Do we have any idea where he is?”

  “No. The car was found on the Marin side of the Golden Gate, but that doesn’t mean much. He could have easily walked back over into San Francisco. Or even made his way back to the East Bay. So don’t rest easy. We have no idea where he is.”

  “Well, that’s comforting,” I said.

  Captain Lockett patted me on the back.

  “You’ve done fantastic work, Quint. Ray would be proud.”

  “Thanks,” I said. He’d been right; hearing about the maps that let this creep get away after murdering Ray did hurt. “So what’s next?”

  “The biggest manhunt this area has ever seen. Really, it’s already started. We set up a tip line and we’ve already got fifty calls. Obviously, some of these are just crackpots looking for attention, but maybe we’ll get a real lead as well. He can’t stay hidden forever. We’re going to find him at some point.”

  “Let’s just hope it’s before his final set of murders.”

  “That goes without saying,” Lockett said. “Do you think he’ll send another letter?”

  “With all my heart. And I think it will be the longest yet. He’ll brag about how great he is. How no other serial killer has ever done what he’s done. The world knows who he is now, so there will be no holding back.”

  “Don’t you think he’ll want to lie low? He’s certainly not going to a post office. He may not even risk dropping it in a mailbox.”

  “Maybe he’ll send an email this time. But there’s no doubt in my mind we’ll be receiving something from him. And I’d guess sooner rather than later. It’s terrible to say, but he’s the biggest thing in the world right now. He’ll want to strike while the iron is hot.”

  “I wouldn’t bet against you. You seem to get a lot right when it comes to this guy,” Lockett said.

  Then neither of us said anything more for awhile.

  “Is there something else?” I asked.

  “No, I think that about covers it. Thanks, Quint.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  We started walking back toward the apartment complex.

  Check your email.

  At 8:00 p.m. that night, I received the text from Captain Lockett.

  Cara was sitting next to me in bed. I showed her.

  “Could be the moment of truth,” I said.

  “The Butcher?” she asked.

  “That would be my guess.”

  I opened up my laptop and went to my email. The most recent one I’d received had been forwarded from Lockett. But it was the email just below that got my attention. And what Lockett had forwarded me was surely just a copy of it anyway.

  The subject read: This is the Butcher speaking…

  His allusion to the Zodiac was obvious.

  I didn’t even pause to wonder how he’d gotten my email address. As I’d discovered recently, everything could be found these days.

  I opened it, sliding the laptop between Cara and me.

  Together, we started reading.

  Welcome, all. You’ll have to excuse me for resorting to sending an email. Figure the less I’m out in public, the better.

  I guess I should give myself a proper introduction now that you all know who I am. I’m Tyler Anthony Danovich. Tad. The Bay Area Butcher.

  I still hate that nickname I’ve been burdened with. Makes me sound like some brute who doesn’t have a brain. And we all know that’s not true. I’ve lasted this long on sheer ingenuity. Not brute force.

  I’m playing a different game than you guys. I hate to use an oft-used analogy, but I’m playing chess while you guys are playing checkers. And you may think I’m currently behind the 8-ball, but you’d be wrong. Everything is going ahead as planned.

  You’ll see there’s a veritable hodgepodge of people CC’d in this email. The man, the myth, the legend: Quint Adler. The best “cop” in the Bay Area and I don’t mean that sarcastically. He’s done way more than anyone with an actual badge. Congrats, my friend. You found me.

  There’s also Peter Vitella. A pure scumbag, of course. But he sure came in useful when I saw the beautiful Cara walking into our apartment building. How did you ever land a woman like that, Quint? Hope you’ll let me know. But that’s for another day.

  Then there are cops, local celebrities, news anchors, and even a few athletes on this email. It’s a Who’s Who of well-known people from the Bay Area. Although, let’s be honest…I’m currently the most famous person on this thread. And that will likely be the case forever.

  Do you think Cynthia Parkey, that trashy-looking news anchor on KTVU, is going to be remembered longer than me? I don’t think so. How about Reggie Ferris, that running back for the 49ers who does nothing but fumble? Not a chance.

  Welcome to this email though, Cynthia and Reggie.

  But I digress.

  You are probably reading this in hopes of understanding why I do what I do. Why I kill. How much time do you have? I could probably put on my psychiatrist’s hat and spend five hours looking inside myself. But it would surely bore you to death. So I’ll give you the Cliff’s Notes version.

  I don’t give a fuck about anything. And certainly not people. I think life is a joke. People die every day. And there’s certainly not a fucking heaven. I mean, what’s the point? So if I can become famous while killing people who are all destined to die anyway, then why not?

  Life is temporary. Infamy is forever. Throw that on my tombstone.

  And more than that, I love the chase! Hasn’t this been fun? I’ve never felt more alive. And yes, I get the irony of having to kill to feel alive. But damn if this hasn’t been exciting, keeping the Bay Area on its toes.

  I wish it could go on forever.

  Why Quint, you may be asking? Because he’s a below-average writer who everyone grovels over. He’s about the hundredth most interesting person in our apartment complex, but people treat him like a god. I’d see him at the grocery store and he’d be getting his ass kissed by all these people. It made me want to vomit.

  So I decided to bring him into my little game. And sadly, for Quint I mean, that also brought Ray Kintner onto my radar. Sorry about that. But not really.

  As you all know by now, I grew up near the Langleys and the Tillers. For different reasons, I hated both of their families. And that’s why I chose them. Nothing more, nothing less. But I intentionally made myself out to be some complete and utter psycho in my first letter in hopes that you would think all my murders would be random.

  Which seemed to have worked. After all, you haven’t caught me yet!

  Have you found out my connection to the Treeside Manor yet? I haven’t seen anything on the news. Maybe the cops should ask Quint. He’s done all the work in finding out about me up to this point.

  Maybe I’ve been selling him short. While he might not be the best writer, he’s a much better cop than the rest of you pigs out there.

  Sounds like you even needed the public’s help in finding my car. Sorry, I couldn’t park it outside of my new dwelling. I’m not going to make it that easy on you guys.

  Despite this minor hiccup, my fifth and final set of murders will still go ahead as planned. After that, it’s clear sailing for me. And you’ll never see me again in the Bay Area.

  I’ll pop up somewhere else in this wretched world and start killing again. And people will talk about how the Bay Area police fucked up and couldn’t catch me. The blood of the new victims will forever be on your hands. But that may be years down the road.

  As you may have realized, I’m meticulous to a fault. I’m not going to jump the gun on anything. I’m going to prepare and outthink you.

  And that’s why you will never catch me.

  But in keeping with tradition, I’ll keep you in the game.
<
br />   The final set of murders will occur sometime in the next month.

  Sorry, nothing more specific. I’m not making it so easy for you guys this time. Even if knowing the date hasn’t made you any more effective at stopping me.

  Plus, I like the idea of the Bay Area being on edge for the next thirty days.

  In fact, I can’t fucking wait.

  Happy Hunting!

  39.

  MONDAY

  I woke with the news that the police had found the Butcher’s connection to the killings at Treeside Manor. And as usual, it was personal. Tad’s grandmother lived in Treeside Manor.

  She had escaped with her life, but I’m not sure that even mattered to the Butcher. He just enjoyed killing. Fourteen people tragically died, and I think that was a success in his eyes. Sure, he probably wished his grandmother had been one of the victims, but that wish had just been the impetus. The fact that many would be killed was the real goal.

  Everything had gone out of whack. Fourteen elderly people had been killed. And any other time, it would be the biggest story in the nation. But since the Butcher’s identity was discovered the same day, it took a back seat. His potential whereabouts led every newscast. And now, with the release of the new letter to the public, the murders at Treeside Manor became buried. An unbelievable tragedy had been relegated to a supporting role in the bigger drama.

  Which was tragic in its own right.

  Cara and I spent the rest of the day doing what we’d done so many times. Reading articles. Rereading the Butcher’s letters. Trying to find anything that might point us to his current location. Which we knew was a huge long shot.

  I talked to Captain Lockett, but they hadn’t made any discoveries pointing to his whereabouts either. I walked around Avalon and talked to several neighbors, but they all felt like I had. Tad always acted pleasant enough and we never could have guessed who he truly was. No other tenants had any idea where he might be.