The Bay Area Butcher: (Quint Adler Book 2)

by Brian O'Sullivan

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t.”

  “That asshole is in there.”

  “Say he is. What do you want to do? The guy has already talked to the cops. Knock the door down?”

  Unfortunately, Cara had a point.

  “Fine. Let’s go.”

  And we headed back toward our car.

  “What’s next?” Cara asked as we sat behind the dashboard, unsure of what to do.

  I thought long and hard. There was one Hail Mary I hadn’t yet tried.

  “Maybe I can poke the bear,” I said.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “I’m going to email the Butcher. Tell him that if he really wants to make this a fair fight, I need some more clues.”

  “And you think he’ll respond?”

  “He loves all the attention he’s getting. But I think he’s missing out on one thing.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Talking to me personally. Telling me that he is winning. That he’s better than me.”

  “What about the letters and the email?”

  “Those are too impersonal. A bunch of other people are reading them. He wants to let me, and only me, know that he’s got the upper hand. To rub it in.”

  Cara frowned. “Let’s hope you’re right. We’re running out of time.”

  When we got back to Avalon, I started composing an email.

  I addressed it to both the Butcher’s work email that Cara found and the Q6221980@gmail he’d used to email Peter Vitella.

  “Can I read it?” Cara asked.

  “Of course,” I said.

  She looked over my shoulder and read:

  Hello, Tad. This is Quint. Since I probably won’t be seeing you in the Avalon elevator anytime soon, I figured I’d send you this email.

  Let’s get this out of the way first: I think you’re a piece of human scum and I’d love to have a few minutes to tear your fucking head off.

  Now that I’ve said my piece, I’ll get to why I’ve really written this.

  Do you know why Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier were badasses? Because they fought fair fights. They didn’t put brass knuckles in their gloves.

  But that’s what you’ve done. And so it’s not a fair fight. It’s amazing that I’ve got as close to you as I have. I’m the one who is actually winning. You’ve had a 25-mile lead in a marathon and I’m right on your heels.

  I think in your heart you truly want to win a fair fight, and if you do, you’ve got to give me something else. A fighting chance is all I want. And knowing it’s going to happen within the next month hardly makes for an even playing field. Not even close.

  Give me a city. Or a specific date. Or how you are going to kill people.

  You’d still have all the edge in the world. But at least I could say I was given a shot. That’s all I want.

  You may win, but don’t let it be because you made this game unwinnable for your opponent. Namely, me.

  All I want is a shot.

  Quint.

  “You were far too nice,” Cara said. “Even with the human scum line.”

  “That was intentional. I have to play mostly nice if he’s going to take the bait.”

  “And you made it sound like a sporting contest,” Cara said.

  “That was also intentional. To make it like a competition. He feels that he’s lost the game of life to me. He hates that I’ve become a pseudo-celebrity, that I’m well-liked, that I have you. Maybe this will conjure up those competitive feelings. And he’ll feel like if he wins this last battle on an even playing field, he’ll surpass me in some way.”

  “It seems like you know him way better than you may have realized.”

  “I didn’t know Tad, but I think I know the Butcher. If that makes any sense.”

  “A little,” Cara said.

  It was time to be completely honest.

  “There’s something else,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I think he’d love nothing more than to kill me before he finishes. I’m giving him the chance to bring me closer.”

  “I wish you hadn’t told me that. Although, I can’t say I’m all that surprised.”

  “I figured you should know. We’ll see what happens, but there’s a chance I may head out on my own at some point.”

  “How many times have you said we’re a team?” Cara asked.

  “We are. But I love you. And if I think it’s too dangerous, I’m not taking you with me. I’m sorry.”

  “Let’s see if we even get to that point. He’s probably not going to respond to your email.”

  “We’ll see,” I said.

  And the next morning we got our answer.

  44.

  THURSDAY

  At 10:52 a.m., I got an email alert on my phone.

  Quint. My nemesis. So you found out who I was and that makes you Sherlock Holmes? Absolutely not! You’re not my equal in this game. Or in this fight. Not even close! How many times have I seen you at Avalon since this all started? If you really had some sixth sense, or any sense at all, you’d have realized something was wrong with me. But you never did, and so you’d go on schmoozing with me, not knowing you were in the presence of evil! Unadulterated evil. You have no idea what I want to do to every person I see. Rip them limb from limb if I could. But I’m also smart and restrained. It’s a Daily Double you rarely see in serial killers. They are usually just brutal and dumb. A lot of low IQs in the history of serial killers. But not here. Not with me.

  And maybe because I know you’ve got zero chance of catching me, I will take you up on your offer to keep you in the game. But it’s going to come at a price. Cara, and also your mother, are now fair game. I don’t know exactly where your mother lives, but I’m sure I can find out. That will be swell. As will be making some sweet time for Cara. Show her what a real man is.

  I’m sure you’d like to rip me limb from limb right about now. See, we aren’t that different, Quint.

  I don’t have time for a pen pal, so this will be our only back and forth. We’re in the ninth inning, Quint, and you are way behind. I’ll leave you with my clues:

  (1) The cause of death will be the same as one from my first four sets of killings. In case you need reminding: Stabbing/bludgeoning. Poisoning. Gunshot wound. Fire/smoke inhalation.

  (2) Although this will be my most memorable set of killings, it will be on a much smaller scale than some of the others.

  (3) And while I shouldn’t give you any more hints, I’ll leave you with a final one. It will take place in San Francisco. I will complete my plans with the fifth and final city that I mentioned in my first letter.

  That is all, Quint. I bid you adieu. I’d do the same for your mother or Cara, but I may be seeing them one more time.

  You were a better adversary than the police. But not enough in the end, I’m afraid.

  I called Captain Lockett as I read the last lines of the email.

  “Hello, Quint.”

  “Captain, could you send a police car to my mother’s house right now? The Butcher just threatened her.”

  “You’ve talked to him?”

  “Yes. Where are you right now?”

  “At the headquarters on 7th Street.”

  “I’m coming to you. Can you send a car to my mom’s right now, though?”

  “Sure. What’s the address?”

  “116 Adams Place. San Ramon. Please send them immediately. Thank you.”

  “I will. See you soon. Looks like we have some talking to do.”

  I hung up the phone and turned toward Cara, who had read the Butcher's message with me.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  It was a tepid response, and I knew the email had shaken her up.

  “You’re going to be with me and you’re going to be safe. I promise.”

  “But you said we might separate at some point.”

  “Only to keep you away from the Butcher.”

  “I don’t care. I want
to stay with you. And see this out.”

  Cara had a stubborn streak that I’d always loved. I didn’t enjoy it at that very moment, but she was right. She’d been with me on this the entire time. She deserved to see it out to its conclusion.

  “Alright. We’re attached at the hip until this ends.”

  “Good.”

  “Let’s pack our bags really quick. We’re going to get a hotel in San Francisco.”

  “Okay.”

  “And we have to stop in Oakland first to see Captain Lockett.”

  “I heard. I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

  We got dressed and packed in record time, arriving in less than thirty minutes.

  As I drove, I asked Cara to screenshot the Butcher’s email and text it to Captain Lockett.

  We saw him as soon as we approached the entrance to the headquarters. I couldn’t help but be reminded of Ray, who’d waited for me there a few times when this whole crazy case was getting started. It seemed like a year ago, even though it had only been a matter of weeks.

  We exchanged brief pleasantries.

  “Let’s talk as we walk,” Lockett said.

  He was all business, and who could blame him?

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks for the text of his email. Ninth inning, huh? Sounds like time may be of the utmost of importance.”

  “Looking that way. Who knows exactly what he means by the ninth inning. Is that today? Tomorrow? Sometime next week?”

  “Did you send any response to his email?”

  “No, we came straight out here. And he said he was only corresponding once,” I said. “I guess I still probably should have.”

  “Once we’re done here, send him a message. See if you can get one more response. It’s worth a try.”

  “Will do.”

  “It’s like with a hostage negotiator. Keep him on the line as long as you can.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Lockett pressed the elevator button for the third floor.

  “Did you send a police car to my mother’s?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you. Should I tell her?”

  “It’s a plainclothes officer in an undercover car. Your call, but she probably won’t even notice he’s there.”

  “Alright, I won’t tell her.” I closed my eyes and sighed. “This fucking sucks.”

  “I’m sorry he dragged your mother into it, Quint. But it’s a million to one he’ll ever show up there. Especially after alerting you to the fact.”

  “Thanks. And I know you’re right, but can we please keep that officer there until this is over?”

  “The only time that officer will leave is when another one takes his place.”

  “I appreciate it, Captain.”

  We arrived on the third floor. I turned to Cara.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I’m fine. I feel safer about your mother now.”

  “Yeah, so do I.”

  I saw the Chief of Police, Alfred Ronson, approaching us. We’d both said some regrettable things the first few times we’d met.

  He shook my hand and this time, to my surprise, acted almost cordial.

  “Thank you for all you’ve done, Quint. And you must be Cara. I’m the Chief of Police.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Cara said.

  After they shook hands, Chief Ronson turned back to me.

  “We didn’t get off to a great start. And I could probably chastise you for getting a bit too involved in this case. But I don’t care about any of that. None. All I want is to catch this psychopath before he kills again.”

  “I’m with you 100%, Chief. That’s all I want too.”

  “Good. Let’s get it done. Now follow me.”

  Lockett, Cara, and I followed Ronson to a conference room. It was the same one as we’d been in the day I found out about the Butcher’s first letter.

  About ten members of law enforcement agencies had gathered in the room, including an F.B.I. agent and someone wearing a SFPD uniform. This had truly become a melting pot, with agencies overlapping, all in hopes of catching the Butcher in time.

  “Please sit,” Chief Ronson said.

  Each of us took a seat around the long table.

  “This is going to be a very open discussion. We’d like to welcome Quint and Cara, who just got an email from the Butcher within this past hour. I’ve printed out copies.”

  He went around the table and handed one to each person gathered, including Cara and me.

  “Let’s start with your thoughts, Quint. What do you make of it?”

  I stood up.

  “First off, he says that we’re in the ninth inning. So I don’t think he plans on waiting the full month. I hate to say it, but my guess would be in the next day or two. Second, he said that he’s going to kill in one of the same ways he already has. I don’t want to eliminate anything, but I doubt it’s going to be by knife. He wants to go out with something unforgettable, and stabbings seem unlikely. Plus, he’s always said he despises the nickname the Bay Area Butcher, so I don’t see him ending with a knife.

  “I also think a fire is unlikely. Just call it a gut feeling. So my guess would either be a firearm or another poisoning. If he had more fentanyl, that would certainly be possible. So that’s the one I fear the most.

  “He also said this will be his most memorable set of killings, but smaller in scale. My mind went to him targeting someone important. The mayor. Or the CEO of a social media company. I haven’t decided exactly what he means by that, but those are my first ideas.

  “And the last thing. I believe him when he says he will be killing in San Francisco. Not that he deserves any credit on anything, but he’s been pretty honest with us. I guess because it’s more fun for him. So, not to step on your toes, but I’d allocate most of my officers to the city.”

  I sat back down, my heart pounding. I hadn’t realized I was going to talk that long. But I had a lot to get off my chest.

  “That’s quite a summation, Quint,” Chief Ronson said. “Especially since you received this email only recently.”

  “I’ve been thinking about this guy all day every day for several weeks now.”

  “I believe you have. Does anyone else have something to say?”

  I heard a familiar voice. Freddie Fields.

  “I hate considering the possibility, but if he is able to complete his killings, we have to think about how best to catch him afterward. Do we shut down the bridges and bring the city to a standstill? Can we even do that?”

  “I’ve been talking to the mayors of both Oakland and San Francisco,” Captain Lockett said. “We’re not going to shut down the bridges entirely, but if the Butcher strikes we will put officers at each bridge to check every car as they enter or leave the city. We’ll be checking IDs and, obviously, be very wary of men in their twenties. Officers will be stationed at the south edge of town as well. So it’s not just the Golden Gate and Bay bridges. I’d be confident of catching him if he tried to drive out of the city.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Chief Ronson said. “That’s good work. I’m appreciating all the cooperation between multiple agencies.”

  He nodded to some of the non-OPD officers at the table.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “Do we have a lot of people at Oracle, the San Francisco Giants ballpark?” an officer asked.

  “We do. They have night games today and Friday, and then afternoon games this weekend. We’ve talked to them about suspending the games, but it isn’t going to happen.”

  “What if him saying the ninth inning was a reference to the Giants?” Cara asked, drawing all eyes to her.

  Several of the officers in the room nodded.

  “It’s something to think about, Cara. It certainly hadn’t crossed my mind yet,” Ronson said.

  “I’ll talk to the SFPD,” Captain Lockett said. “I’ll see if we can send more officers to Oracle Park. We’ve never had as many Bay Area and Federal law enf
orcement working on one case, and yet I still feel we’re going to be understaffed at certain places. It’s inevitable with so many potential targets throughout San Francisco.”

  “We are going to catch him,” Chief Ronson said. “I just got a text from the Chief of the SFPD and I have to call him back. Most likely we’ll be sending a bunch of you out to SF, so stand by. Sorry this was so quick, but we are adjourned.”

  Everyone started to rise and Chief Ronson headed out of the conference room.

  Cara and I hung around. I held her hand and turned toward Captain Lockett.

  “Hey, Captain. You’re still in touch with the SFPD yourself, right?

  “Several times a day.

  “Can you ask them something for me?”

  “Sure. What is it, Quint?”

  “Find out who talked to Brendan Cabela and what he said? We went by his place in San Francisco and he didn’t answer. But I swear I heard him moving around inside. Just want to make sure he’s not hiding anything.”

  What Lockett said next shocked me to my core.

  “Who is Brendan Cabela?”

  “He used to work with the Butcher. He was fired recently, but was apparently somewhat close to him.”

  “I really don’t remember seeing his name mentioned,” Lockett said, frowning.

  Cara and I exchanged a glance. She didn’t need to say anything. We both knew what the other one was thinking.

  “Is it possible you could have missed it?” I asked.

  “It’s possible. There is a lot going on, of course. But I’ve been reading the SFPD’s daily briefings and I don’t remember anything mentioning a Brendan Cabela.”

  “He said he talked to the police and he lives in SF, so I just assumed it would have been someone from the SFPD who interviewed him.”

  “Give me one second.”

  Captain Lockett took out his phone and walked to the other end of the conference room. Still gripping Cara’s hand, I watched Lockett hold a rapid conversation in a low voice. He came back thirty seconds later with a mystified look.

  “The SFPD has not interviewed him. I’m not even sure he’s on their radar. And he said he’d talked to the police?”

  “Yup. That’s what he told us. It’s possible he just doesn’t want to talk to anyone about his friendship with the Butcher and so he made up an excuse. But this seems a bit odd.”