The Butcher (14 page)

Edward barked a laugh. “I'm not doing a goddamned thing, kid. This is your shit show, dummy. You're doing it.” He grinned, shaking the chain saw slightly, and it rattled into the silence of the garage.

“No. No fucking way. I can't.”

“Sure you can.” The Chief stepped toward him, holding out the saw. “He's already dead, Matthew. You killed him, remember? He won't feel a goddamned thing, trust me on that.”

The old man was deadly serious, and there was a light in his eyes that mirrored the one Matt had seen in that horrible video. Recoiling, he shook his head rapidly. “I can't. Chief, please. I can't do this. Maybe . . . maybe I should just turn myself in. It was an accident. They'll believe me, right? I'm your grandson. They won't believe I could do anything bad on purpose.”

Edward held out the saw. “You're wasting time. The sooner we dispose of the body, the better.”

“Chief.” Matt's breath was coming out faster, and he struggled to stay calm. He felt as if he were on the verge of hysteria. “Chief, please. Don't make me do this.”

“What the hell did you call me for then?”

“I . . . I don't know.”

Edward rested the saw at the edge of the table and took another step forward toward his grandson. “Do you want to go to prison?” he said softly, his dark eyes piercing Matt's face. “Do you want to spend the rest of your life locked up? Because that's what will happen. You'll go to the state pen, where you'll be beaten and raped and God knows what else. Is that what you want? Is that what you want for me, your grandfather, who's now officially an accessory?”

“No,” Matt whispered. “That won't happen. It was an accident. You were trying to help me. They'll understand.”

“All right,” the Chief said, shifting tactics. “Let's say you don't get locked up. Let's say we put the body back where he died, and you somehow convince the jury that it was self-defense and so they don't convict of you anything, not even manslaughter. What kind of publicity would that be for you? Whether you meant to kill him or not, the kid's dead, Matthew. And he's dead because of you. What would that do to your reputation? To your restaurant? To your TV show deal?”

“I . . .” Matt's voice trailed off. He couldn't bring himself to answer.

“It would all go away, wouldn't it? Everything you've dreamed of, everything you've worked for. Is that what you want?”

“Of course not.” Matt's voice was thin and shaky. “I don't want to lose everything.”

Edward's voice, in contrast, was strong and firm. “Then don't throw it away. You made one mistake, do you understand me? One goddamned mistake, and now your life is on the line, and if you don't smarten the fuck up and do everything I tell you, you will lose everything that means anything to you. Do you understand me?”

Matt still couldn't seem to speak.

“Do you understand me?” the Chief roared, and Matt jumped.

“Yes, yes, I understand you.”

“Then put on that rain poncho. Take the goddamned chain saw. Cut him up. Put him in as many garbage bags as you need to.” Edward pushed the saw toward him. “Don't worry about anybody hearing. The garage is soundproofed, remember?”

“I remember,” Matt said, his voice practically a squeak. He grabbed the blue plastic poncho hanging from a hook on the garage wall and put it on. He had several; he wore them to Seahawks games when it
rained. Then he took the chain saw and turned it on. It roared to life and he cringed, almost dropping it.

“Now concentrate,” his grandfather said, plucking his still-lit cigar from the ashtray. Inhaling deeply, the smoke curled around his leathery face and he squinted through it, eyes fixed on the chain saw in Matt's shaking hands. “Remember, you're sawing into bone, and it's gonna get messy. But that's the way it goes, kid.”

“God help me.”

The Chief blew out a long stream of smoke. “Just pretend he's the spider.”

*   *   *

An hour and a half later, it was done.

“What now?” Matt said. The poncho was covered in blood spatter, and his clothing underneath was drenched in sweat. He leaned against the wall, stomach still heaving. On the garage floor to the left of him, in a small pile, were the contents of his stomach. The stench of vomit filled the garage, eliminating any trace of the garbage odors that had been present earlier. Three triple-thick Hefty garbage bags lined the wall, filled with what used to be PJ Wu.

“Now, you put the bags in the van and hand me the keys.” Edward was eerily calm, almost cheerful. “I'll take care of it from here.”

“Chief, I—”

“You can thank me later. And clean up the vomit. It smells disgusting.”

“I was going to ask where you were going.”

His grandfather looked at him. “Do you really want to know that?”

No. The truth was, Matt didn't.

“We have three hours before the garbage trucks come,” Edward said.
“Your job now is to go back to the restaurant and sift through all the waste. Look for anything that might have belonged to your friend and take it with you. The kid was wearing both his shoes, and he had his wallet and phone on him, but he had no keys. Find them.”

“He would have them inside his locker at the restaurant.” Matt took a breath. “When we went out back to talk, he thought he was going back in.”

“Well then, make sure. And spray down the alleyway to get rid of whatever the rain didn't wash away. Use bleach. Then come back and clean this mess up.”

“Chief?”

“What is it?”

Matt exhaled. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” Edward said, looking around. “And when you clean up here, be thorough. You'll find a couple of big jugs of bleach on the shelf.” His grandfather smiled, his white dentures gleaming in the fluorescent lights. “You know, for times like this.”

Sam knew what the look on Detective Robert Sanchez's face meant. It meant he had bad news, and she wasn't sure she wanted to hear it.

They sat across from each other at the noisy, crowded Tully's coffee shop in Ballard, sipping their caffeinated beverages—Americano black with three sugars for him, her usual chai latte for herself. She'd paid. She always paid when he was doing her a favor. The detective looked like he always did, dressed in neatly pressed slacks and a button-down shirt, even though he wasn't working today. She hadn't seen him a few months, and she thought his hair looked a little grayer around the temples.

“You think I should dye it?” Sanchez asked, catching her glance. He rubbed his sideburns. “I think I should, but Vanessa says the gray makes me looks distinguished.”

“I agree with your wife,” Sam said with a smile. “Always listen to your wife.”

“It doesn't make me look old?”

“You're fifty-two. You are old.”

“Gee, thanks.” He laughed and sipped his coffee. “So. I ran the name you gave me.” Pushing a folded piece of paper across the table toward her, he said, “Is this her?”

Sam unfolded it, staring down at an enlarged copy of Bonnie Tidwell's California driver's license. It listed her current address in Sacramento. Date of birth was March 17, 1968, making her forty-five. She hadn't wanted to tell Sanchez about Bonnie, as she'd promised the woman she wouldn't, but Bonnie hadn't been at the Sixth Avenue Inn when Sam had stopped in that afternoon. The desk clerk had confirmed that the woman had checked out, leaving Sam high and dry.

So, not sure what else to do, Sam had finally called Sanchez. Not that she felt good about it. She wasn't one to break a confidence.

“Yep, it's definitely her,” she said. “Did you run a background check?”

Sanchez's brow furrowed. “You realize I don't work for you, right? I really don't have time to be doing checks on random people I don't know.”

“But you do know her,” Sam said. “You don't recognize her? You questioned her on a case.”

Sanchez took the picture back and examined it. “If I did, I don't remember.”

“I thought you'd recognize the name.”

“Bonnie Tidwell?” The detective shook his head. “Doesn't ring a bell. Mind you, I'm better with faces than with names.”

“She was a friend of my mom's,” Sam said. “They were roommates. She was the one watching me when you came to my house the morning after my mother was killed.”

Sanchez's eyes widened, then he took a good look at the picture again. “Well, shit. Yeah, okay, I do remember her. But she was just a kid back then. Hell, so was I. But I'm pretty sure Bonnie Tidwell wasn't
her name. From what I remember, it was like, Joyce-something.” He thought hard for a moment. “I can't remember. I'd have to check my notes, but I'm pretty sure her last name was Polish.”

Sam bit her lip. Great. So Bonnie Tidwell wasn't the woman's real name. Maybe Jason was right, maybe Bonnie wasn't on the up-and-up and did have some weird agenda after all.

“Now for the inevitable next question,” Sanchez said, his dark eyes boring into hers. “Why are we talking about this? Has she contacted you?”

Sam avoided the detective's gaze and took a sip of her latte, trying to figure out how to respond.

“Samantha.” Sanchez sighed, pushing the piece of paper back to her. “You had me look into this for a reason without telling me why. So I did you a favor and I looked into it, and I didn't ask questions. But now I know that she was a friend of your mom's. What I want to know is why
you
know her, and why she told you her name was Bonnie Tidwell when it's Joyce Kubacki.” A grinned crossed over his face. “Ha! See? I knew it would come to me. Joyce Kubacki. There you go.”

“I promised her I wouldn't say anything.”

“She got in touch with you?” he asked again.

Sam hesitated. “Something like that.”

“Okay.” Sanchez shrugged. “So what? That doesn't surprise me. You and your mom lived with her for a while and I'm sure she's always wondered how you were doing, and where you ended up. And it's not like it's illegal to change your name. People do it all the time, for lots of reasons. I wouldn't be surprised if the murder spooked her and she decided to leave and start over somewhere else. Bonnie Tidwell has no history prior to 1988, so I'm guessing that's about the time she changed her name.”

That made sense to Sam. Bonnie had fled Seattle in 1987 and had probably hid out for a year before assuming a new identity.

“And what did you find out about Bonnie after 1988?” she asked.

Sanchez reached into his pocket and pulled out another piece of paper. Consulting it, he said, “Nothing of note, really. Bonnie—or should I say, Joyce—seems to have lived a pretty boring life, just like the rest of us. Worked steadily at a few different places. Took some courses in photography part-time through an art school. Got married, got divorced, got married again, got divorced again. Now she owns her own studio doing commercial photography. 'Bout it. Nothing too exciting . . . except for the fact that you're asking me to look into her.” The detective's stare was unwavering. “So are you going to tell me why now?”

“I told her I wouldn't talk about her with anyone.”

“Samantha, my sweet.” From the tone of his voice, Sanchez was running out of patience. “I really don't have time to pry it out of you. You might have told her you wouldn't say anything, but here we are, talking about her. Might as well tell me everything.”

Sam sighed. He was right, as usual. “She didn't exactly contact me. We sort of . . . came across each other.” She told him about the website, TheSerialKillerFiles.com, then told him about Bonnie's reaction when the woman first saw her in person.

Sanchez frowned. “Well, isn't that something? The Internet is indeed a strange and wonderful place. And scary as hell, too.” He looked at her sternly. “I can't believe you'd go and meet with some perfect stranger you met from a serial killer website. Are you out of your mind?”

“I went during the daytime,” Sam said defensively. “And I brought Jason with me.”

“Oh really?” The detective raised an eyebrow. “I'm surprised you didn't bring your boyfriend with you.”

His words hung in the air. Sam didn't know how to respond to that, either. Frankly, she was tired of making excuses for Matt and how busy he was. He was always busy. So was she. So was everybody. It was starting to get old.

“Anyway,” Sanchez said. “So it was a social visit? She just wanted to catch up?”

“Not exactly,” Sam said, hesitating again. “She believes my mom was killed by the Butcher, and that she knows the Butcher's real identity. She knows I'm writing a book about it. That's why she wanted to meet in the first place.”

“Jesus Christ, now I've heard everything.” Sanchez threw his head back and laughed. “And who is the Butcher? That is, according to our friend Bonnie/Joyce?”

“She hasn't told me yet.”

“Of course she hasn't,” the detective said, laughing so hard that a patron at the next table glanced over with a smile. “Of course.”

“Bobby, she was dead serious.” Sam couldn't help but feel annoyed. “I believe she knows exactly who he is.”

Sanchez leaned in toward her, his laughter fading. “Have you brilliant conspiracy theorists forgotten that the Butcher is
dead
? And has been since 1985?” He shook his head in frustration, then took a long sip of his coffee. “My sweet, I know you're searching for closure on Sarah's murder, and you know that if I could have solved the case and made an arrest, I would have. Nobody wants her killer found more than me.”

Sam gave him a look.

“Other than you, of course,” he amended, softening his tone.

“Will you just listen for a minute?” Sam said. “Bonnie knows the identity of the Butcher because he tried to kill her, too. A couple of days after Sarah died, the same guy who was watching Sarah at the McDonald's grabbed Bonnie.” Taking a
deep breath, she told Sanchez everything that Bonnie had told her, from the chloroform to the bear. “It's why she left town.”