The Bay Area Butcher: (Quint Adler Book 2)

by Brian O'Sullivan

  But I needed my murder weapon before I left.

  I put on some gloves and grabbed the remaining fentanyl that I’d brought from Walnut Creek. I’d done a lot of research on the subject, and just handling fentanyl would not allow it into your system. Still, I was exceptionally cautious when around it. I knew the damage it could do.

  As did the Tillers and all those other families in San Jose, I chuckled to myself.

  And now some snotty little fucking kids would know as well. I wasn’t going to let them grow up and enjoy life like the Langley family. Fuck that.

  Some of my more grandiose ideas would never come to fruition, at least not during my run in the Bay Area, but maybe this was better. What could be more villainous than killing kids at a birthday party? Nothing.

  I figured people might be a little suspicious of cookies after what happened in San Jose. So when I saw a few boxes of brownie mix in Brendan’s cupboard, I was pleasantly surprised.

  With as much fentanyl as I had left, I could easily make forty or fifty brownies at a lethal dosage. Especially because it wouldn’t take as much to kill children. Now that’s what I call a win-win.

  I laughed to myself.

  As the brownies baked, I started packing. I looked at the clock. It showed 12:52 p.m. That left me just over an hour until the birthday party, and I figured I could drive around for awhile. It was time to leave the townhouse once and for all.

  I grabbed the red Elmo outfit from Brendan’s closet. His phone, passport, driver’s license, and credit cards as well. And obviously all the cash I’d withdrawn from the bank remained in the backpack.

  I decided to bring something else with me. I went to the kitchen and found the biggest, sharpest knife. In fact, Brendan had owned two of about the same size. So I packed them both.

  I’d hated the moniker of ‘the Bay Area Butcher’ from the first time I’d read it. But if that’s what they wanted to call me, then so be it. Maybe I’d give them a few final butcherings to remember me by.

  I grabbed my driver’s license and credit card and put them down the garbage disposal. Grinding it twice.

  It was then that I heard a car.

  I glanced out the front window to see two cop cars sitting outside of the townhouse. They hadn’t approached the door yet.

  But it was time to get the fuck out of there!

  I grabbed two huge Ziplock bags and threw the half-baked brownies in there. I sealed them and set them gently in my backpack.

  That’s when I heard the first knock.

  “Mr. Cabela, we’d like to talk to you.”

  I opened the back door and took the small set of stairs which dropped me off in the alleyway behind the townhouse.

  From here you could head straight toward Union Street, but cops were more likely to be there. Instead I continued going deeper into the alley, hoping to eventually reappear at a less occupied street.

  I’d have to double back to Brendan’s car, but that was still safer than walking along Union to get to it.

  After about five minutes of walking, I took another side street and ended up on Greenwich Street. Not exactly a back alley hideaway, but it wasn’t as busy as Union.

  I turned back toward the car and arrived a few minutes later. I started up the Lexus and headed in the opposite direction of Brendan’s townhouse.

  Way too many ideas swirled through my brain.

  Were the cops going to break down the door when no one answered?

  I wasn’t sure, but from here on out, I had to go with the assumption that they had found Brendan’s body.

  Quint was screwing everything up. Fuck him!!

  I should have left the Bay Area the day Cara texted Brendan’s number. But I had been so adamant about executing my fifth and final set of murders.

  I hadn’t had time to properly prepare like I did with the first four. It might prove to be my undoing.

  And why the hell had I emailed Quint back?

  Was I going crazy? My mind had become a mess. This wasn’t like me.

  Once they find out that Brendan is dead, they’ll put an APB out for his car.

  And you’ll get pulled over and spend the rest of your life in a cage.

  I needed to calm down. My thoughts jumped their tracks like a runaway train.

  I’d always prided myself on my ability to think and be reasonable. But my manic tendencies, which had always boiled under the surface, were taking over. I knew if I didn’t get them under control, it would be the end of me.

  Fuck that!

  I couldn’t let Quint win.

  I was going to control my emotions.

  And then kill as many little kids as I could.

  47.

  “Would someone really have a children’s party with the Butcher out there?” Cara asked.

  We drove in circles around a five or six-block radius of Cabela’s townhouse.

  “Sure,” I said. “Remember, the news is reporting that he might not strike for a month. You think every kid’s birthday for the next month will go uncelebrated? No chance. Plus, what would be safer than a birthday for a kid? Especially if it’s occurring during the day. Every one of the Butcher’s killings happened at night.”

  “I guess that’s all true. And we don’t even know if Brendan Cabela had a gig today. It could just be that the Butcher took the outfit. Maybe he’s planning on hitting up a carnival. Or a local park.”

  “You’re right, it could be anything. But with the way he said ‘smaller in scale’ in his email, I feel like he planned this out and didn’t just make some knee jerk decision to go to a park and hand out brownies.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “I’ve got to call Captain Lockett and tell him to be on the lookout for an Elmo costume.”

  “This is insane,” Cara said.

  “There’s no doubt about that.”

  Lockett said he’d put out an APB for someone in an Elmo costume. He also informed me that Cabela’s car was indeed missing. It was a 2011 green Lexus and he gave us the license plate.

  I relayed the information to Cara.

  “Let’s drive farther away from the townhouse,” she said. “It’s been almost a half-hour and I don’t see him hanging around this area if he’s got a car.”

  “I’ll do that, but I need you to do something.”

  An idea had just come to me.

  “Sure, what?”

  “Google Brendan Cabela. See if you can find out if he got his work through a kid’s birthday catering company. Or whatever you might call that type of business.”

  As Cara typed on her phone, I tried to prevent my mind from painting gruesome pictures. But that proved impossible.

  What if the Butcher was currently arriving at a birthday party armed with fentanyl-laced brownies? It would be the ultimate catastrophe. My head flooded with images of children lying in a house or around a backyard. Not moving. Toys and party decorations scattered uselessly around them. Presents that would never be unwrapped, maybe bloodstained. As helpless as the elderly people who had died at Treeside Manor, but with so much life ahead of them.

  I couldn’t imagine a worse scene.

  “Fuck!” I yelled a bit too loudly. The swear echoed in the car.

  Cara jumped in her seat. “What?”

  “I keep imagining a bunch of dead kids.”

  “Don’t say that, Quint.”

  “You think I want to?”

  It was rhetorical and she didn’t respond.

  “Anything on Cabela?” I asked.

  “No, his LinkedIn profile only has his former job at Caltenics.”

  I took a left turn onto Lombard Street. It was busy, and my eyes found it difficult to look at every car that passed. The chance of seeing the 2011 green Lexus had to be a thousand to one. Still, I tried.

  “How about this?” I said. “Find a company in San Francisco that deals with children’s party planning. If they don’t employ a Brendan Cabela, ask them for other companies that do the same thing.”

&n
bsp; Cara looked me and nodded in agreement. ”I like where this is headed.”

  She looked down at her phone, thumbs moving rapidly in her Google search.

  “Found one called A-1 party planning.”

  She dialed their number and someone answered quickly. I heard Cara’s side of the conversation, and it was obvious early on that Cabela did not work for them.

  “No luck,” she said. “But they told me to call Private Party Planning.”

  I looked to my right and saw a Lexus. But it was gray and a much more recent model than 2011.

  A minute later, Cara told me Private Party Planning was a dead end.

  “Did they mention another one?”

  “Yeah, I’m calling them right now.”

  Once again, I could tell within ten seconds by Cara’s reaction. No luck.

  She was about to hang up the phone when I thought of something.

  “Ask the agent if any companies specialize in Sesame Street characters,” I said.

  She nodded and asked the question I’d put forward.

  I saw her nod again and then she said, “Thank you.”

  “We get something?” I asked as soon as she hung up.

  “The dispatcher wasn’t positive, but she thinks a place called For the Kids does a lot of Sesame Street characters.”

  Cara searched on the internet and found the number.

  I pulled in next to an old school motel on Lombard. I had to hear this.

  “Put it on speaker,” I said.

  Cara did and we heard the number dialing.

  “Hello, you’ve reached For the Kids,” a woman’s voice said.

  Cara had the phone in her hand, so she spoke.

  “Do you have someone named Brendan Cabela who works for you?”

  “The name rings a bell. Let me check. Are you trying to book him for an event?”

  “No, I’m actually trying to find out if he works today.”

  “Are you a family member?”

  The voice seemed guarded, not wanting to give out info. I nudged Cara and nodded.

  “Yes, I’m his sister. And there’s been a family emergency.”

  “Did you try calling him?”

  “He’s not answering. That’s why I want to find out where he’s working today.”

  “Alright, give me a few seconds. I’ll put you on hold.”

  “Oh my God,” Cara said. “What if he is on the schedule?”

  “Listen to me, Cara. If we get an address, I’m going to drive like a bat out of hell to get there. I want you to call 9-1-1 and tell them the address. Then call Captain Lockett and do the same. With all the cops on patrol in the city today, hopefully they can get there first.”

  A voice came back on the phone.

  “So Brendan is working for us today. In fact, he should be getting there any moment. He starts at 2:00 p.m. for a woman named Vanessa Mathers.”

  My heart sank. We were going to be too late. The horrible visions in my brain were going to come true.

  “What’s the address?” Cara asked.

  “571 Presidio Boulevard.”

  We were four blocks from the Presidio!

  I pulled off from the curb and veered into Lombard traffic, narrowly missing getting rear-ended. The car I’d pulled in front of honked and flipped me off.

  “Is she still on the line?” I asked Cara.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you hear me?” I yelled.

  “Yes, what’s going on?” she said.

  Obviously our questions and reactions had rattled her.

  “I need you to call the owner of the house on Presidio Boulevard and tell them that the Bay Area Butcher is coming as Elmo.”

  “What?” she screamed. “What kind of—"

  “This is not a joke. Call them right now!” I yelled.

  I switched lanes quickly after seeing approaching traffic.

  “Now!” I repeated. “Okay, hang up the phone, Cara. Call 9-1-1!”

  I continued accelerating toward the Presidio.

  Cara dialed. With my focus on the road, all I could hear was her end.

  “We know where the Bay Area Butcher is. 571 Presidio Boulevard. We just know. No, this isn’t somebody seeking attention.”

  The light in front of us turned red. I would have driven around the car in front of us and gone through it, but a car on my right had boxed us on.

  C’mon light! Turn green!

  “For the last time, the Bay Area Butcher is at 571 Presidio Boulevard,” Cara said. “Dressed as Elmo. This is not a joke!”

  The light turned green and I started honking my horn when the car in front of us didn’t move. Finally he did, and I hit the gas and accelerated into the right lane and back into the left after passing him.

  “Hang up on 9-1-1! Call Lockett!

  “It’s busy!” she said.

  “Cara, I need you to GPS 571 Presidio Boulevard. I’m a block from the Presidio itself, but I don’t know exactly where Presidio Boulevard is.”

  “Okay,” Cara said.

  She had been great so far, under extreme duress.

  We heard the familiar voice:

  “Stay on Lombard Street for .3 miles and then take a slight right on Presidio Boulevard.”

  She tried calling Lockett again. Still busy.

  “When we get there, Quint, I want you to leave me. I’ll keep calling Lockett and 9-1-1. Run as fast as you can into the house. Every second matters.”

  We’d talked about not leaving each other’s side, but she was right. Every second did matter. Assuming we weren’t already too late.

  “I love you,” I said.

  I wasn’t sure if I said it because of her unselfish decision or if I feared I might never get a chance to say it again.

  But it felt right.

  We approached the beginning of the Presidio.

  “In .two miles, take a slight right on Presidio Boulevard, and then your destination will be on your right.”

  I was doing sixty miles per hour in what was probably a thirty-five or a twenty-five zone. Maybe a cop would see me and follow our car to its destination. That would be a good thing.

  Or, better yet, they might already be there.

  But after the botched call to 9-1-1 and Lockett’s phone being busy, I had my doubts.

  I had to slow down as we approached Presidio Boulevard or we would have gotten into an accident. I took the slight right and began looking at house numbers.

  “You have arrived at your destination.”

  As soon as the GPS said it, I saw the address. 571 Presidio Boulevard.

  And in front of it sat a green Lexus.

  I’d never been more terrified in my life.

  48.

  THE KILLER

  Fifteen minutes before I was to show up at the birthday party, I pulled my car to the side of the road.

  And had a moment of clarity.

  I wasn’t going to be flying to Mexico in a few hours. I wasn’t going to be reappearing in five years and killing again.

  It was over.

  The cops had surely found Brendan’s body. If I tried to catch a flight under his name, they would know.

  And every other escape route would likewise be cut off. I had no doubt.

  So if this was to be my final day on earth, I was going to be as savage as I could. I’d punctuate the dreariness. The homicide detectives who first arrived on the scene at Vanessa Mather’s home would be talking about it for decades.

  The brownies would do their own damage. The knives would do the rest.

  I was parked in the Presidio, a few blocks from where the party was to take place. I’d chosen a vacant area and felt sure I’d be safe until the festivities started.

  I grabbed the Ziplock bag of brownies. They were only half-baked, but what the fuck did I care? They’d work fine.

  I pulled out the Elmo suit from my backpack. I looked and then felt around, but found only one small pocket in the costume. Certainly not big enough to hide one of the two huge
knives I had brought with me.

  I wore jeans, so there would be no keeping the knives there either.

  The Elmo suit was long-sleeved, obviously, and it gave me an idea.

  I grabbed some of the duct tape that I always kept in my backpack. Then the knives. I looked outside of the car, making sure a random jogger wasn’t running by.

  No one in sight.

  I set one of the knives against my forearm and taped around both the handle and the tip of the blade. I then moved my arm around to make to make sure I wouldn’t be stabbing myself. But the knife lay flush up against my arm and I could move it fluidly. I strapped the second blade to my other arm in the same way.

  With knives taped to my arms, I couldn’t risk stepping out of the car to change. So I did it inside. I took my jeans off and slid the Elmo suit over my legs. Next I put my arms through the arm holes, carefully pulling the sleeves over the knives.

  I looked at myself in the mirror, knowing I might well be saying goodbye. But what a goodbye it would be. I smiled, then I took the face of Elmo and slid it over the top of my head.

  I looked at my new face in the mirror.

  And I loved what I saw.

  A Sesame Street character killing a bunch of kids. What fantastic irony.

  Maybe part of my legacy would be making children and parents everywhere terrified of a PBS character.

  I started up the car and headed off for 571 Presidio Boulevard.

  I arrived less than three minutes later, at 2:01.

  No point in delaying any longer. I Time to get down to business.

  I stepped out of the car, grabbing the Ziplock bags.

  And I made my way toward the front door.

  The woman who answered my knock was in her forties, and cute in a country-club-blonde type of way.

  “Hi, I’m Vanessa. You must be Brendan.”

  This was the time—maybe the last time—to turn on the “normal” self which I had mastered over the years.

  “I am. Nice to meet you.”

  She extended her hand.

  I made sure to only grab the tips of her fingers. If she somehow extended her grip past my wrist, she might touch the knives hiding under the arms of Elmo’s costume.