The Bay Area Butcher: (Quint Adler Book 2) Page 5

  I looked around just to make sure no one was within earshot. “That’s possible. But unless he’s a cop, finding his way into the police station, and that conference room specifically, would be a huge risk. There’s another possibility.”

  They looked at me intently. I continued.

  “Recording devices can be made extremely small these days. The killer could have slipped one onto the clothes of one of your officers. Subtly bumped into them and attached it to a shirt or a jacket.”

  “Or to you,” Ray said.

  He was right. It made perfect sense.

  “Shit, I’d probably be the most likely suspect. He’d know you guys would contact me since he mentioned me in the letter.”

  “We met with you on Wednesday, two days before the killing in Tiburon. Do you remember what you were wearing?”

  “I can probably narrow it down to one or two outfits. I haven’t done laundry since.”

  “I’ll tell the officers at the meeting to do the same. And if you happen to see a recording device, try not to handle the clothes too much. Might be some DNA or fingerprints to get off of it,” Captain Lockett said.

  It was good advice. I took another sip of my coffee.

  “This is freaking crazy.”

  “And if the killer’s new letter is true, it’s about to get worse.”

  We all sat in silence for a few moments.

  “I’ll call you once I go through my clothes.”

  “Thanks, Quint,” they said in unison. Which, along with their intent gazes on me, felt kind of creepy. But then so was the rest of this case.

  I tossed my empty coffee cup in the garbage and made my way back up to my apartment. My anxiety levels were off the charts.

  If he’d somehow planted a listening device, I sincerely hoped it hadn’t been on me. Please let it be on one of the detectives. The idea that the killer had come close enough to touch me scared me to no end.

  I took the elevator up to the fourth floor and walked the long hallway to my apartment. Luckily, my new place was on the opposite side of the complex. I didn’t have to retrace the steps of where I’d been shot a year previous.

  But the hopeless feeling I’d had back then was returning. And somehow, it grew worse.

  Arriving back at my place, I tried to rack my brain to remember last Wednesday. Six days ago. I couldn’t think of what I’d been wearing, so I tried to envision the day. Ray called me and we met at the restaurant called Homeroom. I visualized us sitting outside along the bustling sidewalk. Him in his police uniform and me in…

  I remembered! I had worn a long-sleeved black hoodie and some cream-colored pants.

  I started going through my laundry basket. I made sure to be deliberate, not wanting to knock any instrument off. Unlikely as it were. I slowly picked up the more recent clothes and set them on the floor next to me. I was near the bottom of the basket when I saw the pants.

  Careful to only grab them in one spot, I moved them around but saw nothing that shouldn’t be there. I laid them on the pile.

  Next, I saw the black hoodie and picked it up. As with the shorts, I kept my grip on one part of it, not wanting to move my fingers all over and hinder any potential evidence.

  I flipped it over and that’s when I saw it. A small, silver, disc-like shape on the back of my sweatshirt. It was less than an inch long, but with technology these days, it was certainly big enough to record a conversation.

  This ruthless killer had attached a listening device to my hoodie. Without me noticing.

  Had he done it at Starbucks? At Homeroom? Out on the street? Was he on the elevator with me at Avalon Walnut Creek?

  I shuddered at any and all of the possibilities.

  Had he continued listening when I got home? Heard me talking to Cara? To my mother?

  I felt sick.

  9.

  The Oakland Police Department confirmed it was a recording device. No useful fingerprints were found, and they weren’t confident any DNA would be either.

  This was all relayed over the phone. They discouraged me from coming to see them. Despite my friendship with Ray and my improving relationship with Captain Lockett, it appeared the OPD was giving me the stiff arm, Heisman style.

  The dinner with Cara and my mother turned out to be a disaster. My mind had been on the letter I’d read that morning and they could tell my thoughts were elsewhere. Mom even told me to be more present the next time we had dinner. That hurt. Cara turned down an invitation back to my apartment.

  I wasn’t going to tell my mother a single thing about the new case. I’d prefer that she was in the dark as opposed to worrying about me again. She’d done enough of that last time.

  The media, to this point, had avoided mentioning that the killer had dropped my name. They talked about the threats to the Bay Area, but didn’t get more specific than that. I doubted that would last much longer, however. And when they finally mentioned me, I’d be having a long talk with my mother. But I was going to wait.

  As the letter had referenced, I’d heard a few media outlets dub him The Bay Area Butcher. But it hadn’t completely caught on. And yet, I somehow knew it would.

  Was I walking right back into the middle of another horror movie? It sure seemed headed in that direction.

  In my defense, I hadn’t chosen it this time. I’d been blindsided by the first letter, and how it mentioned me and my articles. Which got me thinking about the most recent letter.

  I took out the copy that Captain Lockett had given me and read it again.

  He said his first name was used in every article I’d ever written. And that only I would be able to find it. What did he mean?

  I tried to think of words I’d use in any article.

  I’d certainly used words like “The” or “And” in every article, but surely no one was named anything like that.

  Could his name be Quint?

  I’d texted Ray to check for people named Quint or Adler in the Bay Area, saying there couldn’t have been many.

  He replied: If only we had thought of that. His terse response showed me that this case was getting to everyone.

  The murders of the Langley family had been the lead story on the local news for four days now. The information seeped out slowly, so there was something new every day. The gruesomeness of the killings had finally become public, and the dual murder weapons of a knife and cleaver were brought to light. I’m sure that brought some unwanted visuals to anyone hearing it. And surely had been the reason for his nickname.

  The fact the killer had written a letter to local police departments fascinated the general public, bringing many comparisons to the Zodiac Killer. Which only added to the intrigue.

  Being shunned by the OPD forced me to go in my own direction. Which was generally when I worked best.

  I started researching Micronomy, the company that Paul Langley had worked for. I found employees that had worked there, using their website, LinkedIn, and Google to make as comprehensive a list as I could muster.

  At the same time, I started listing all the people who had made an appearance in at least one of my articles.

  I then cross-referenced the lists, but couldn’t find a match. For a moment, I thought I had one. I’d mentioned a bank robber named Josh Davie in one article and a Josh Davies worked for Micronomy. I celebrated a second too long before I realized the last names were a letter off.

  The unlikelihood of a bank robber being employed by a big dot-com company hadn’t entered my mind. It was just a knee-jerk reaction of excitement that I’d found something.

  And though it didn’t amount to anything, I’d built two lists of names of possible connections. Which might be useful down the road.

  The chances were extremely high that the killer never worked for Micronomy. Most serial killers chose people at random, so I wasn’t confident the killer knew Langley, much less worked for him. But I had to start somewhere. And the viciousness of the murder made it seem personal.

  I wanted to make a list
of people who lived in Tiburon and cross-reference them with people who’d been mentioned in my articles. Tiburon was a small city and its population was listed at only 9,000. Sure, it was still going to be a lot of work, but at least it wasn’t Oakland, with its population of 429,000. That would be impossible.

  But I quickly realized that I didn’t have something as simple as the yellow pages. It didn’t appear you could just go online and get a list of people who live in a specific city.

  So instead, I’d google every name mentioned in my articles, adding ‘Tiburon’ to the search, hoping one of them had lived there or worked there. It was tedious work.

  I didn’t know if I was going to strike gold or strike out, but I was working hard. There was something to be said for that.

  After several hours, I’d come up with four names of people who’d been mentioned in my articles and had some affiliation with Tiburon. One lived there, one got in a fight and was arrested there, and two people appeared to both work for Sam’s Harbor Cafe, a famous restaurant that sat right on the Bay.

  I texted Ray the list, knowing they could do more with the names than I could. Regardless of whether it led to anything, I had done great work. I knew that. I wasn’t a police officer, but the work I’d done was police-officer worthy. I felt proud.

  My work was done and I was mentally exhausted, so I sprawled out on my couch. I called my mother, apologizing for my behavior at dinner the previous night. I asked if she wanted to have lunch in two days and she quickly agreed. I looked at my phone. The lunch would be on May 19th, the same day the killer was set to strike again.

  10.

  Exercise had long been my refuge when I was stressed out. While some people turned to yoga or Pilates, I found that a good run refreshed my mind like nothing else. So, on the morning of May 19th, I went for a three-mile run, sweating profusely the entire time. It was like each bead of sweat represented a small level of anxiety, and when they flew off my body, I became a little bit calmer with each stride.

  I’d run along the Iron Horse Trail, which went almost thirty miles through the East Bay—Concord, Pleasant Hill, Walnut Creek, and even as far west as San Ramon and Danville. You could make your own personal marathon out of it if you so chose. But three miles was plenty for me.

  I felt reinvigorated when I went to lunch with my mother. She’d chosen a restaurant called Fat Maddie’s Grille, only a few miles from her home.

  I loved the name of the place and I immediately knew why “Fat” had been used. They offered grilled cheese, fried chicken, pork chops, clam chowder, and other gut-expanding dishes. Given my run that morning, I ordered the fried chicken guilt-free. My mother chose the Cobb salad, probably the healthiest thing on the menu. And with bacon, blue cheese, and fat-filled dressing, it wasn’t exactly a dietician’s dream.

  In the small, cramped dining room, every seat was taken. It was nice to see that restaurants were making a recovery after the horrific toll the coronavirus took on the industry.

  “Would you be mad if I started dating again?”

  So much for an innocent, carefree lunch with my mother.

  “Of course not, Mom.”

  “It’s been almost two years since your dad died. Trust me, he will always be the love of my life. We were together for over forty years. No one can replace that. But I do get lonely from time to time.”

  While it was a bit odd to think of your seventy-year-old mother dating again, the most important thing was her happiness.

  “Then I think you should go for it. In fact, I bet Dad would be in favor of it. He’d want you to be happy.”

  “Don’t think I’m not joyful, Quint. I am. I love you. I love Cara. I’ve got some great friends. It would just be nice to have a man that I could go see a movie with. Or the opera.”

  “I’m all for it. Just don’t give me any details.”

  My mother started laughing and almost spit up her water. “I’m looking for companionship. Not a roll in the hay.”

  It was my turn to laugh. “Not that you need my permission to date, but you have it. Now, can we change the subject?”

  “Maybe we’ll double date with you and Cara.”

  “Stop, Mom,” I said, although my smile belied me.

  “I will. Just wanted you to know that no one will ever replace your father. That’s impossible.”

  “Thanks. I know how much you loved each other.”

  “I’ve told you a million times, but he’d be so proud of what you did last summer.”

  “You’re right. You have told me a million times.”

  She laughed again. “And he’d be even prouder if you took the plunge with Cara. Are you guys still going to Austin?”

  The current situation had put the trip in doubt, but I couldn’t tell her that. The press still hadn’t mentioned my name. Although I knew that could change at any moment. My guess was the police departments had told local media there were some things they couldn’t announce.

  “Yeah, we are still going.”

  “Are you going to hang out with her sister?”

  “That’s the main reason we’re going.”

  “What’s her name again?”

  “Charlotte.”

  “That’s right. I knew it started with a C. Do you like her?”

  “A lot. She’s very similar to Cara. Upbeat with a good outlook on life. Makes her fun to be around.”

  “I’d love to meet her someday.”

  “You will. Although I can’t guarantee it will be at Cara’s and my wedding.”

  “You read me like a book, Quint.”

  “Yeah, I guess I do.”

  As a child, I often knew what my parents were going to say before they said it. It was a blessing and a curse.

  A few minutes later, the Cobb salad and fried chicken arrived and we each took a bite.

  “How’s your chicken?” she asked.

  This meant the more serious side of our conversation had ended.

  “It’s delicious.”

  “Do you remember that time your father tried to make fried chicken and it was so underdone, it’s like the bird was still alive?”

  “Someone had the good idea to cut into it first.” I laughed.

  “That was me. As much as I loved your father, I never quite trusted him in the kitchen.”

  “Whenever he broiled anything, he’d forget about it until it started smoking.”

  “So true. He always put it on the top level like two inches from the broiler. Be smoking in seconds.”

  We smiled at each other, soaking up the good memories of my father.

  “He could make some good banana pancakes, though,” I said.

  “They were delicious. It was his one saving grace in the kitchen.”

  “I miss those.”

  “Do you know what his secret ingredient was?”

  “I don’t,” I admitted.

  “He always threw about a quarter cup of rum in the batter.”

  “You guys were boozing me up as a kid?”

  “He’d say the rum would burn off when the pancakes cooked. I had my doubts.”

  “Next time I have you over, I’m making those things. Extra rum.”

  My mother nodded, laughing. “I’m in. I haven’t been over in awhile.”

  “Hey, we had dinner three nights ago and lunch today. You’re getting enough time with me.”

  “I know, Quint. You’re a great son.”

  “And you’re a great mom. Now, enough of the mutual admiration society.”

  We went back to eating. I was much more present than I’d been at the dinner and was happy I’d set it up.

  After finishing our meal, I dropped her off at home, promises of rum pancakes to come.

  My life for the last week had fluctuated between lighthearted moments and brutal news about the deranged killer. So when I returned to my apartment and turned on the news, I expected to hear there’d been another awful murder. But it was just local news, sports, and weather. Boring, but I’d take that any
time.

  Afternoon turned into evening, and I decided to go for another run. I couldn’t just sit around waiting for the bad news sure to come. It was driving me crazy.

  I ran, arrived back home, showered, and turned on the T.V. Still nothing. I sent a text to Ray, who responded with Nothing yet.

  Was it possible the guy had decided to stop killing? Been caught? I wasn’t confident of either, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t holding out hope.

  But my hope proved unwarranted. At eleven p.m., I got the text I’d been dreading.

  11.

  San Jose is one of the most overlooked big cities in the United States. It’s the most populous in the Bay Area. While being overshadowed by San Francisco, Oakland, and even Berkeley, San Jose has over a million residents and lies within the heart of Silicon Valley.

  It should be more famous than it is.

  It’s also the third most populous city in California and tenth in the United States. But for some reason, San Jose isn’t considered sexy. People don’t come from Paris, France (or Paris, Texas) to visit San Jose. If they are coming to the Bay Area, it’s for San Francisco.

  Even their professional sports teams, the Sharks of the NHL and the Earthquakes of the MLS, pail in comparison to the 49ers, the Giants, and the Warriors. It’s almost treated like a second-class city even though it’s anything but.

  I was guilty of that as well. While San Francisco and San Jose were about equidistant from my apartment in Walnut Creek, I’d choose San Francisco any day of the week.

  Sadly, on this day, San Jose had been chosen for me.

  Ray’s text sent me to the Willow Glen section of the city. I’d been there before and it was very charming, with tree-lined streets and lots of shopping.

  But there would be none of that on this night.

  The address was actually just two cross streets, Cherry Avenue and Willow Street. Cherry and Willow. Peaceful and tranquil-sounding names.

  They didn’t fit the occasion, that’s for sure.