The Bay Area Butcher: (Quint Adler Book 2) Read online

  The Bay Area Butcher

  A Quint Adler Novel

  (Book 2)

  by

  Brian O’Sullivan

  BIG B PUBLISHING

  B

  Acknowledgements:

  To all my family and friends who read my early drafts and give me constructive criticism. To my mother, Judy O’Sullivan. My aunt, Maureen Kammer. And friends, Lorraine Evanoff, LuAnn Paddock, Jim Kostoryz, Nicholas Cueno, Bling Morley, Tomi Eto, Aaron Pewtherer, Stacey McDonald, and Marisa Wrobleski. Thank you all!

  To Hamar, who designed the cover. And to Liam DiCosimo who will be doing the Audible version.

  Finally, to my superlative editor, Therese Arkenberg, who dealt with me trying to edit this novel in a few short weeks while bombarding her with ten emails a day. She’s the best!

  This novel is dedicated to you –yeah, you—the reader! Without guys and gals like you, this wouldn’t be possible. Thanks so much for all of your support!

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is merely coincidental.

  THE BAY AREA BUTCHER

  Copyright @2020 Brian O’Sullivan

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-0-9992956-7-0

  Published by Big B Publishing

  San Francisco, CA

  No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission to the copyright owner.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of the book be photocopied for resale.

  PROLOGUE:

  THE KILLER TO BE

  I began penning my first letter.

  And with it, a spot in permanent infamy. There was no question about that.

  I shook my head, barely believing it had finally come to this. I couldn’t decide if my transformation into a monster was a million to one chance or had been written in stone from the beginning. To me, there could be no in between.

  But it wasn’t something I enjoyed thinking about. I’d resolved to become a killer, so self-reflection wasn’t going to end well.

  I decided to stop pondering what had brought me to this point.

  It didn’t matter anyway.

  Serial killers would never get any sympathy. Especially one like myself.

  You see, I wasn’t bullied every day of my life. Or beaten by my father. I didn’t have some sob story of broken homes and broken bones.

  I just happened to be a horrible human being. I enjoyed seeing suffering. From an early age, I rooted for the bad guys in movies. And no, I’m not talking about the “shades of gray” villains. I’m talking the serial killers. The abusive boyfriends. The narcissists. I rooted for them all.

  I was “evil personified,” according to many people I’d met. And that was before I’d begun hatching my ungodly plan. Imagine what they’d say now.

  Not that I cared.

  Nothing anyone could say would stop me.

  There were actions that might prevent my crimes from occurring, but words were no longer sufficient.

  I was now committed.

  I’d set up a heinous, vicious, hateful plan of murder and mayhem. I delighted in its simplicity.

  Five horrendous bursts of crime and then I’d walk off into the sunset.

  At least, that was the plan.

  Obviously, I’d entertained the possibility I could be caught during one of the murders. Or before. But I didn’t think either of those scenarios were likely.

  I’d thought long and hard about what lay ahead. I’d read, listened, watched, and most importantly, absorbed, everything I could on serial killers.

  How the feeble ones got caught.

  How the extraordinary ones went on killing for long periods.

  How the police departments generally conducted themselves and mistakes they made.

  I felt I was the most prepared human in history to become a serial killer. No, that didn’t mean I’d automatically complete my five crimes. There were too many variables. And it was very contingent on luck. A random jogger here. A nosy neighbor there.

  It certainly wasn’t an exact science, but I’d done all I could. If I was to be caught, it wouldn’t be due to a lack of preparedness.

  I constructed the first line of my first letter.

  A mere four days before what was to be my first set of murders.

  And with it, my first steps to immortality.

  A week of firsts, you might say!

  1.

  Quint

  If I could choose a minor superpower, it would be the ability to bottle the good times. Have some handy when the bad times come knocking at your door. Which they inevitably do.

  The last eight months had definitely qualified as the aforementioned good times. Some of the best of my life.

  After concluding my nightmare at sea, I’d become a bit of a local celebrity and was in high demand amongst the media in the Bay Area. I’d even given a few national interviews. I wrestled with the morality of getting paid for them, but I’d lost my job and been through a tremendous ordeal. So I took the money.

  Quint Adler, professional interview giver. Certainly didn’t see that coming.

  But the media attention was not what made the time so rewarding. I’d never been closer to Cara, my on-and-off-and-back-on girlfriend of eight years. We’d always had an active sex life, but now we were taking walks, cooking for each other, and doing all the small but important things that successful couples do.

  Cara was still as beautiful as ever, and I was lucky to have her. She’d allowed her usually shoulder-length brown hair to grow out, and it was now halfway down her back. I thought it looked great. Then again, Cara could even make a shaved head look great.

  And how do I know that? Because the crazy kid gave herself a buzz cut a month into the coronavirus. And she was still a knockout. That being said, I was happy when she started growing it back out.

  Her legs remained perfection. Long, athletic, and permanently tanned.

  But more than her looks and her legs, it was her intellect. She was smart and she was quick. She kept me on my toes and called me out for my bullshit. I always appreciated that. She was more than my match. She was my superior.

  I’d never been more in love with her.

  They say that people who survive a life-altering event gain a new outlook on said life. I’d certainly qualify, and maybe that provided more stability in my relationship with Cara.

  Whatever the reason, we were both extremely happy with each other.

  My mother seemed to be in a good place as well. She soaked in all the attention that her only child was getting. I’d discovered that my father had been murdered, but he died a hero, trying to protect one of his students, so it almost served as a blessing. It became easier for her to grieve at that point.

  And she decided to focus on the positive, thoroughly enjoying the calls and texts congratulating her on my actions. If I was featured in the newspaper or had an interview with a local news station, you could be sure my mother would post it on Facebook. My interview with Good Morning America provided her with days of social media attention.


  It got to the point where I asked her to stop tagging me in all of the stories and videos. I told her to enjoy them with her friends, but that I was out. She understood.

  She still lived in San Ramon, just twenty minutes from my place in Walnut Creek, and I’d go see her at least once a week. I loved my mother dearly, and the only time she raised my ire was when she’d ask if I was going to propose to Cara.

  “You’ll be forty-one years old before you know it,” she’d say, and then add: “At least she’s still in her early thirties.”

  The reference to her still being in prime childbearing age was implicit.

  My stance was that if everything was going well, why rock the boat?

  Of course, I’d probably be outvoted 2-1. Cara had, with almost zero subtlety, insinuated that she’d like kids as well.

  I was taking a wait and see approach.

  As for me, after about my fifteenth interview, I noticed that I was being recognized every time I went out in public. People would approach me and want to talk about taking down the villain Charles Zane. I had grown tired of it.

  Much to my mother’s dismay, I decided to put an end to the interviews.

  How did famous people do it, getting mobbed every time they went out in public? Picking up a meal at the grocery store and getting approached by every fifth person? No thanks.

  I decided to grab my anonymity back.

  I’d moved back into my old apartment complex, Avalon Walnut Creek, located twenty-five miles east of San Francisco. The manager came and met me personally and pledged forgiveness for the way they’d handled my previous departure. That’s what they called it. Even though we both know it was an eviction.

  After being shot, no less.

  I think they just wanted to have a local “celebrity” living at their complex. When they offered me the first two months free as a way of apologizing for giving me the boot, I let bygones be bygones.

  They gave me a different apartment, but I was still on the fourth floor, and still had a balcony, something I used daily. I’d sit out with my cup of coffee and ponder the world. It was my form of meditation.

  I’d penned a tell-all story that was published in the New Yorker. The generous commission, along with money from my various interviews, gave me some time to decide on my next gig. Tom and Krissy Butler, my bosses at the Walnut Creek Times, had asked me to come back and work full time, but I turned them down.

  As much as I’d loved my co-workers, my reporting job had been writing in its most primitive form. I wanted more. So I asked Tom and Krissy if they’d mind if I wrote a couple of longform articles a month and got paid on scale. They quickly agreed, knowing any time my name was above the fold, they’d sell a lot more papers. So my new celebrity had some perks.

  Detective Ray Kintner remained a good friend. We’d grab a bite to eat now and then and I even went bowling with him and a few buddies. I’d yet to meet his wife. Hey, some people liked to keep their private life just that. Private.

  At fifty-four, he was still the old man of the Oakland Police Department, but his star had risen after my case. He’d arrested several people subsequent to Charles Zane’s death and really spearheaded the entire investigation into Zane’s criminal enterprise.

  I was happy for him. He deserved it. After all, he’d saved my life out on the unrelenting Pacific.

  I met Ray on a surprisingly cold day in May.

  He’d picked a restaurant named Homeroom, located in northern Oakland. The place was packed, always a good sign. I’d heard positive things about the food, but this was my maiden visit.

  The red awning outside made it stand out, and I told the maître d’ I’d prefer to sit at one of the outdoor tables. I was ready to enjoy the brisk air while I could, with summer right around the corner.

  It was a lunch meeting, so I assumed Ray was working. I was proved correct when he approached with his Oakland Police Department blues on, a few minutes later than I’d expected.

  I gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. Ray had put on a few pounds over the course of the last year. But it was almost like a badge of honor with him, one of the oldest active cops. The extra pounds actually looked right on him. Like he’d earned them.

  He joined me at the table. The street was bustling and safe to say, I liked Homeroom before I’d even tried a bite of their food.

  Ray must have been a regular. When he saw the waitress, a diminutive woman named Shelby, he asked for his usual. I ordered the Gilroy garlic bacon mac and cheese. With a gut bomb like that, an extra jog definitely lay in the cards.

  “I’m lucky you were punctual when I was stranded at sea,” I said, making fun of his tardiness.

  “There are times I wish I was late then too.”

  I laughed.

  Our friendship had been a longshot from the beginning. He’d been one of the officers who, suspecting me of murder, had arrested me. Usually that would be unforgivable, but when your life is saved by that same man, you willingly make exceptions.

  “How’s work?” I asked.

  “How’s Cara and your mother?” he responded. He inquired about the two women in my life every time I saw him.

  “I think Cara wants to move in. She’s over all the time.”

  “You’re like a fungus. You just grow on people.”

  “I’ll take it as a compliment,” I said.

  “When it comes to landing Cara, it is.”

  “I’ll tell her you question her judgement.”

  Ray smiled. “And your mom?”

  “She continues to love my newfound celebrity. Apparently her friends don’t grow tired of hearing about what I went through. And she loves to tell the story.”

  “Your mother is a very nice woman.”

  “Thanks! She’ll enjoy your summation more than Cara.”

  “You’re too much, Quint.”

  “My mother said if my story ever gets made into a movie, she wants to be in the background for one shot.”

  “I didn’t know she was a ham for the camera.”

  “Me neither,” I said. “Going to have to tell dear old Mom she’s getting too big for her britches.”

  “It’s cute.”

  “She says the movie should be called Revenge at Sea.”

  “Sounds cheesy,” Ray said.

  “Right? I was going to go with Quint.”

  “That would never sell! You have to get ‘Revenge’ or ‘Murder’ or ‘Thrilling’ in the title. That’s what sells these days.”

  I shook my head.

  “You’re probably right.”

  “Plus, it would never get greenlit. It’s not a comic book or a sequel.”

  “Maybe for the best,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sometimes celebrity isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” I said. “And listen, I know I’m the Frank Stallone of flash-in-the-pan local celebrities, but every time I go to the store, someone wants to come up and talk. Imagine if they made a movie out of my story. It would only get worse.”

  Ray looked at me with probing eyes. I realized he wanted to tell me something.

  “You’re not completely innocent in this. You did do a couple of local interviews.” He accentuated ‘a couple’ to underline it was a lot more than that.

  “I’d been fired from my job. I didn’t have much choice.”

  “And the interview with Good Morning America?”

  I laughed. “They paid well. But listen, I haven’t been on T.V. in several months. I’ve decided celebrity is not for me.”

  “That’s the problem with celebrity. You’re never really out of the public eye. Even when you think you are.”

  “That’s cryptic.”

  “Listen, Quint. There’s a reason I invited you here.”

  The waitress came over and filled our glasses of water. We paused our conversation and thanked her.

  “This meeting seemed more official than usual,” I said as she walked away.

  “There’s so many wackos out there
who think they know these celebrities. Even if it’s just the Frank Stallone types.”

  “You’re beating around the bush, Ray. Is there something you want to say?”

  He fiddled with his napkin. Whatever it was, he was having a tough time getting it out.

  “It appears you’ve come to the attention of one of those wackos,” he finally said.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “We received a letter addressed to the OPD yesterday. It was a little jarring, to say the least.”

  Ray took out a xeroxed piece of paper from his back pocket. “Before I let you read this, let me say something. There’s a million crazies out there and hardly any of them ever act on their rage. It’s almost pointless to worry about them. They’re just barking at the moon, trying to get attention. Probably pissed off at their own pathetic lives.”

  “It’s a nice filibuster, Ray, but can I just read the letter?”

  He handed it over. The original letter had been typed on a computer, so handwriting experts couldn’t get a crack at it. That was my initial disappointment. It got worse.

  This is a monumental moment in history!

  It may seem trite as you first read this, but people are going to write books about these letters. Make movies. Produce documentaries. Mark my word.

  To the police departments of the Bay Area: You will be busy this summer!

  Sorry, no taking your fat asses to the beach and reading Michael Connelly novels.

  Instead, you’ll be peeling bodies off the streets of your cities.

  San Francisco. Walnut Creek. Oakland. San Jose. Tiburon.

  And now, for a plot twist: There will be only five sets of murders total.

  Once I have finished the coup de grace, I will walk off into the sunset. Maybe to return somewhere in the future, but it will not be in the Bay Area. You have this summer to catch me.

  A warning: Be prepared for some savagery.

  I’m going to make Ted Bundy look like an angel. Jeffrey Dahmer a saint. And the Zodiac a Girl Scout.