The Bay Area Butcher: (Quint Adler Book 2) Page 9

  “I can’t argue with that.”

  “Listen, Quint. I was thinking.”

  “Congrats.”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass.”

  “Sorry. What is it?”

  “I think you should get your Private Investigator’s license. You’re good at this stuff. And while you may not admit it, I think you enjoy the chase. You’d never have a dull moment. And as good a writer as you are, I’m sure that can be a little boring at times.”

  “I can’t argue with that either. You really think it’s something I’d be good at?”

  “There’s no doubt. You took down the bastard Charles Zane almost singlehandedly, and you’ve had the best suspicions about the Bay Area Butcher. So the answer to your question is a resounding yes. You’d be very good.”

  “Is it time consuming to get your license?”

  “Do you have a nine-to-five I don’t know about?”

  “Your point is taken.”

  “Start doing some of the little stuff each day. I bet you could get your license in six months if you put your mind to it.”

  “I appreciate your confidence in me, Ray.”

  “It’s warranted.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Start tonight.”

  “I’ll start tomorrow, if you don’t mind. Hard for me to concentrate knowing this is supposed to be the night of a killing.”

  “I understand,” he said ruefully. “But don’t let a day become a week, then a month. Get on this soon. You won’t regret it.”

  “Thanks for everything, Ray. If I have any questions, can I hit you up?”

  “You already know the answer to that.”

  “I do. Cheers.”

  “I’ve got to run. As you may have guessed, we’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

  “Stay safe, Ray.”

  “You too, Quint. Take care.”

  “See you, buddy.”

  I called Cara a third time, but she was staying put. I respected her for it, even if I didn’t like the decision.

  I sent her a goodnight text at eleven p.m. and she quickly responded in kind. I went to bed that night with a certain peace. At least, as much peace as you could feel with a serial killer on the loose.

  19.

  THE KILLER

  The degree of difficulty involved in the impending murder should be nothing after the first two sets of killings.

  The home invasion of the Langleys brought many potential threats. A failure to contain the family. One of them breaking free. A neighbor walking by and hearing something. A family member with a weapon. A cell phone call to 9-1-1. And surely others I hadn’t thought about.

  The cookies were a different animal, but also very risky. Roaming that neighborhood, slowly and deliberately, setting the plates full of cookies on doorsteps. I had to make sure I wasn’t seen up close. My hoodie, hat, and glasses helped in that regard. And obviously, I’d timed it for after sunset.

  So killing a single individual should be easy in comparison. But that didn’t mean I didn’t have to be careful. I was infamous worldwide and I didn’t want it to end. I wasn’t going to be dethroned by a silly mistake. Especially in something as relatively simple as what was to come.

  I looked down at my watch.

  Soon.

  20.

  I woke up at six the next morning and received a phone call less than ten minutes later. It was from a 510 number that I didn’t recognize. Usually I would just let it go to voicemail, but with all that was going on, and being that it was an Oakland phone number, I knew I had to answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Quint?”

  “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “It’s Captain Lockett from the OPD.”

  “Hi, Captain. Did the killer strike?”

  I figured he’d call for that reason. I was somewhat surprised not to hear the news from Ray, but he’d probably had a long night. Maybe he was even still sleeping. It was just after six a.m., after all.

  “He struck alright. Ray is dead. He was shot outside of his home last night. The psycho fucking killed one of my best friends. And yours.”

  I didn’t say anything for several seconds. I wasn’t in denial, I just couldn’t come up with any words that could do the occasion justice.

  Ray Kintner, my good friend, was dead. A man who had helped save my life.

  I’d talked to him less than ten hours previous. I’d had dinner with him and his wife just a few days ago.

  I was heartbroken. Devastated. Shocked. Grief-stricken.

  And fifty other words that still wouldn’t do his loss justice.

  I bowed my head, although I wanted to throw it back and yell at the top of my lungs. But I knew I had to control my emotions or I wouldn’t be able to get through the phone call.

  “What happened?” I finally asked.

  “He got off a little after eleven p.m. after a long day investigating. He drove straight home. Ray was supposed to be off at eight, but knowing the killer was out there, he wanted to stay on as late as he could. Finally, by eleven, he was exhausted, so he was told to go home. And he was ambushed when he got there. His wife Glenda heard the shots and called 9-1-1.”

  “Can I go see her?” I asked.

  I’d only met Glenda the one memorable time, but I knew that Ray would have wanted someone to look after her.

  “She’s at the precinct, surrounded by scores of Ray’s fellow officers. This wouldn’t be the right time.”

  “I understand.”

  “But she’s going to need lots of shoulders to cry on, so you should call her soon. The loss of her husband is bad enough, but having to come out and see his dead body just makes this worse.”

  I shook my head. This was all too much. My heart plummeted like it had the day I learned my father had died. Also murdered. What kind of luck was that?

  “Was he killed immediately?”

  “Yes. One shot to the chest and one to the head. Glenda called 9-1-1 right after she heard the shots, but Ray never had a chance. He was already dead.”

  I was struggling to hold it together, but I had to ask a few more questions while I had Lockett on the line. I wanted to ask why he didn’t call me last night, but in that moment, I must have been way down his list of priorities, understandably.

  “How would the killer know what time Ray got off?”

  “Could have followed him. Might have been waiting outside his house, just preparing to ambush him. It’s impossible to know this early.”

  “Listen, Captain, I know how busy you’re going to be in the coming days, but can you keep me in the loop? Ray was a dear friend of mine.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Quint. But truth be told, after this death, I imagine the chief is going to make it much more difficult for outsiders to get information.”

  I hated how he used the word ‘outsider.’ But he was right, after all. I wasn’t a cop.

  “Whatever you can do, Captain.”

  “I’ll try. We will need you to come by the station later today. Make a statement. As you said, you’re close to Ray and we’d just like to hear anything you guys may have discussed in the last few days.”

  “What time?” I asked.

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Thanks for calling me.”

  “You’re welcome. He really liked you, Quint. It’s not going to be the same around here without Ray.”

  Despite my effort trying to keep it together, I had started to lose that battle. Tears trickled into my eyes.

  “I’ll talk to you later, Captain,” I said as my voice began to break.

  “Bye, Quint.”

  I hung up the phone and dropped it on the floor. I then collapsed on my bed and started bawling through a flood of tears.

  I found myself saying “This can’t be real,” out loud a few times.

  Even though I knew it was very real. And sadly, permanent.

  Ray Kintner, my dear friend, was gone from this world forever.

  The next few hou
rs passed in a haze. I still struggled to accept it.

  I realized I hadn’t asked Captain Lockett the most obvious question.

  Were we sure it was the Bay Area Butcher?

  And yet, in my gut, I knew it was. The murder occurred on June 4th, and Ray had been on the news a few times answering questions about the case. This couldn’t be a coincidence. Ray had been targeted by the man he was after.

  Of course, numerous other police officers had been interviewed by the local news, from several different departments.

  Why had he chosen Ray?

  I was wandering into some dark areas that I’d have preferred not to think about.

  What if he’d chosen Ray for a reason besides his appearing on T.V.? Like the fact that he was friends with me?

  I tried to push the thought away, but it would be impossible.

  Of all the officers who’d been interviewed on T.V., why had he killed Ray?

  My mind couldn’t let that question go.

  I couldn’t call my mother or Cara just yet. I knew I’d break down when I started talking about Ray. But even if my mouth couldn’t make the words, they deserved to know. I texted them both about what had happened and told them I’d call after I talked to the police that evening.

  The day took forever. It was too early to remember all the good times we’d enjoyed together. The shock, too new, made it impossible if not inappropriate. It wasn’t a time to reminisce. I drifted, filled with anger and sadness in equal measure. Lockett sent me a text to come by the 7th Street headquarters at three p.m. I told him I’d be there.

  Ray’s death began to finally hit home as I approached the Oakland Police Department that afternoon. He had briskly escorted me through security several times in the last few weeks, bypassing the line that everyone else had to stand in.

  He was my one true friend within the department. Captain Lockett had become friendly, but he wasn’t a friend. And the other officers always greeted me with dirty looks.

  I didn’t expect much better treatment as I walked up to the front door of their headquarters. Every cop in the Bay Area knew I’d been mentioned in the killer’s letters. And now my good friend, who was also their colleague, had been killed. No doubt they wanted to lay at least some of the blame on me.

  A dozen or more cops stood by the front door. After the death of one of their own, safety was obviously of the utmost importance.

  One of them yelled at the people waiting to get in. “Take out your wallet and keys and place them in the little trays. Take off your belt and set it on the conveyor belt.”

  I stood in line like everyone else, eventually making my way to the front. I did as the officer instructed. After walking under the metal detector, I was handed my wallet and keys. As I started putting my belt back on, I heard another officer shout in my direction.

  “Maybe Ray would still be alive if it weren’t for you!”

  I looked over to see a shorter, pudgier officer in his thirties pointing at me. A few of his fellow officers were holding him back and trying to keep him quiet.

  “He saved your life out on the water. Where were you when he was killed?”

  I knew something like this had been possible, but his statement still cut deep.

  It hurt because he was right. I wasn’t there when Ray needed me most. If I had been, it probably would have just ended with one more dead man, but that didn’t bring me any solace in the moment.

  I considered responding, telling him that I was in as much pain as anyone. But I figured no good would come of it and kept my mouth shut.

  I quickly headed around the corner and hopped on the elevator, going up toward the third floor, where I knew it wasn’t going to be any better.

  Walking off, I’d felt the eyes of probably fifty cops following my every move. I felt like part of the freak show at a circus. This all just added insult to injury. My good friend had been killed and now I was being looked upon as the cause of it.

  Captain Lockett headed in my direction. I heard a few whispers from the other people up here, and I knew they were talking about me, but nothing blatant like downstairs.

  “Quint, thank you for coming. Follow me.”

  I did as he said and we walked by more police officers. It was like running a gauntlet, except I couldn’t run. If looks could kill, I’d have been as dead as Ray.

  Lockett bypassed a few interrogation rooms and led me to an office instead. Four officers for me in there, which would have been too many for the tiny interrogation rooms.

  I saw the Chief of Police, Alfred Ronson, and Freddie Fields, the officer who had helped Ray at the Walnut Creek Times. And there were two other officers or detectives that I’d never met. I assumed they were pretty high up on the totem pole.

  “Quint, have a seat.”

  I did.

  A desk had been pushed into the corner, but no one was sitting at it. Everyone settled in their chairs and all eyes went in my direction. I felt like I was in a goldfish bowl for all to see.

  “What would you like to know?” I asked, to no one in particular.

  The Chief of Police spoke. “Everything that you and Ray have discussed since this whole mess started. Don’t leave anything out. No matter how small.”

  I did what he asked. I went through my initial impressions of the first letter, the recording device found on me, our couples’ dinner, and even him telling me I should become a PI.

  I expected a wince or a shrug when I mentioned that, but the room remained silent.

  I talked about getting the phone call, but not my feelings afterward. Those didn’t seem relevant and I didn’t expect sympathy from this crowd.

  “That’s about it,” I finally said. “I’m sure any suspicions I told him were relayed to one of you guys.”

  “Do you know of any connection between Ray and the killer?”

  I hated what was about to come out of my mouth, but I had to say it: “Only me.”

  “Would the killer have known you were close?”

  “I’d assume so,” I said. “After the Charles Zane case, many articles were written about Ray saving my life.”

  “Interviews too,” said one of the officers whom I hadn’t met.

  I bowed my head. “Yes, I mentioned him in interviews too.”

  It was Captain Lockett’s turn to speak. “I’m going to ask you point blank, Quint. Do you think Ray was killed to send a message to you?”

  “Point blank” was a terrible phrase to use after what had happened, but I certainly wasn’t going to tell him that.

  “I think it’s a very real possibility,” I said instead. “But Ray had been interviewed on local T.V. a few times about the Butcher. So it’s conceivable it had nothing to do with me.”

  “And we still have found nothing of importance in any of your articles?”

  “No.”

  “Why is that?” the chief asked, insinuating it was my fault.

  “The killer said he was mentioned in one of my articles. Not exactly a lot to go on.”

  I was not ready for what he said next.

  “You seem to be bad luck for this department. First, the killings by Charles Zane. You became a suspect in those murders. And now you’re wrapped up in these latest set of murders. With the killer being mentioned in your articles. And finally, a good friend of ours may have been killed because he knew you.”

  His words left me with so much to take in. He insinuated it was somehow my fault his department wrongly labeled me a suspect last summer. Worse yet, he was saying that Ray had been killed because of me.

  I’d told Chief Ronson off once before and felt strongly tempted to do it again. But everyone in the room had just lost someone they knew, so I held back. Even though I seethed inside.

  “Trust me, I didn’t want any of this,” I said.

  “We know,” Captain Lockett said.

  I could tell he was trying to nip a potential argument in the bud. But Chief Ronson wasn’t done with me.

  “While that may be true, I
think you’re a jinx for this department and I don’t want you coming around. I don’t want you to be at Ray’s funeral. And I don’t want any more of your half-baked ideas on who the killer might be. If you find out concrete information, you can call us, but you will not be included in our investigation any longer.”

  I looked for any defenders in the room, but nobody stepped forward. I couldn’t tell if they believed in what the chief said or were just afraid to stand up to him. Regardless, I was now persona non grata within the Oakland Police Department. I could live with that, and almost understood it, but not being invited to Ray’s funeral delivered a punch to the stomach.

  “Is there anything else?” I said.

  “No, you can go now,” Chief Ronson said.

  I looked over at Captain Lockett, who gave me a slight nod of his head. It told me two things: One, he didn’t feel the same as the chief. And two, he wasn’t going to let those feelings be known.

  I was on my own.

  And seemingly expelled from having anything to do with the OPD.

  21.

  The next several days were spent grieving. Alone.

  The funeral for Ray took place on June 7th, three days after his murder.

  I hadn’t been able to make my peace with not being invited. In fact, it incensed me. I was willing to bet I’d been friendlier with Ray than 95% of his fellow officers. How many of them had been invited over for dinner recently? Probably none.

  But the last thing I wanted to do was create a commotion at his funeral. What if I was escorted from the proceedings as the cameras rolled? Thoughts like these kept me from showing up unannounced. Instead, I watched the ceremony live on T.V. like everyone else in the Bay Area.

  Just when I thought my eyes couldn’t cry anymore, they started bawling as I saw Glenda, dressed in all black, sitting in the first row. The tears continued to flow as the speakers shared their memories of what a great man Ray was. And finally, when the twenty-one-gun salute resounded for their fallen comrade, I lost it one final time.

  Glenda did not speak herself, although both of their children did.

  I decided that I needed to call her soon. I’d heeded the OPD’s wishes and avoided the funeral. But I knew if Ray was looking down on me, he’d want me to reach out to his wife.