The Butcher (32 page)

JUNE 1987

He watched her scrub down tables, and thought she couldn't be more than seventeen. Her long dark hair was pulled back in a low ponytail that trailed down the back of her brown and beige polyester uniform. The plastic name tag pinned above her small breast read
SARAH
. Despite the
ugly fast-food dress code, she was still pretty, and he'd noticed her as soon as he'd walked in the door.

He'd been in this McDonald's twice over the past week, and had learned a lot about Sarah just by watching. It didn't take a genius to see that she was a hard worker, well liked by her coworkers, and pleasant to the customers. She'd checked twice on the homeless man wearing the ratty clothes sitting quietly in the corner, and had even snuck him some french fries. She knew all the words to the ABBA song currently playing softly throughout the restaurant. Her daughter's name was Samantha.

Edward sat in the corner opposite the homeless man, on his second order of french fries himself, content in knowing he was invisible to the kids who hung out here. Which was fine by him. It was important that nobody remember him at all.

It had been two years since his last kill, and the urges, for the most part, had passed. He no longer allowed himself to look at the mementos he'd kept—videos, hands, locks of hair, panties—because all they did was stir his desires up again. He'd buried everything in the backyard one weekend when Marisol was away on a church retreat because he couldn't bear to throw anything away just yet.

The memories were all he had left, and while they were wonderful, nothing compared to the real thing.

The last person he'd killed had been Rufus Wedge, but there hadn't been much satisfaction in it because the kill had been too quick. There had been no fear and no begging, just the fast death of a man nobody gave a shit about, anyway. Wedge had been the perfect Butcher; Edward had handpicked the guy out of a dozen possibilities. He was a lifelong career criminal with a history of sexual assault and a tendency to never stay in one place longer than a few months, and it had been easy for Edward to choose victims in whatever city Wedge was currently living in.

It had been a long time since his last
real
kill, and Edward missed it. And, fortunately or fortunately, this pretty young girl with the dark hair was stirring up all those old cravings he thought he'd buried two years ago along with the crate.

Sarah was back behind the counter now, manning the french fry station. Edward enjoyed looking at her. Her face was smooth and unlined, the skin supple and unmarred by the pimples that other girls her age were often plagued with.

Good skin was always a bonus. Good skin was more fun to burn.

Edward left the restaurant and sat in his car, parked a few feet away from the bus stop. Her shift ended at 10 p.m. and he assumed that she would be catching the bus home. The last time he'd waited for her she'd been with a friend, and there had been no opportunity to talk to her. He hoped this time she'd be alone.

She exited the restaurant at exactly 10:08 p.m., giggling as she called goodbye to someone over her shoulder. Walking quickly, she kept her head down as she crossed the parking lot toward the curb where the bus stop was, and that's when Edward made his move. She looked up as he got out of his car.

Her eyes were instantly wary, and Edward pulled out his badge, holding it up so she could get a clear look.

“I'm wondering if you could help me,” he said. “My car won't start. I need someone to rev the engine while I look under the hood. Will only take a second.”

She stepped back slightly. “You're a cop?”

“Detective, actually.” He clipped the badge to his outside pocket. “You've probably seen me eat here before, I usually stop in when I work nights. Any chance you can give me a hand?”

“My bus will be here any minute,” she said, her gaze flickering back
and forth between his face and his badge. “Maybe one of the boys inside can help you?”

“I already asked around, but nobody has a break, and the manager won't let anyone leave unless they do.”

She rolled her eyes. “Ugh, that's Alvin. He's such a hard-ass. He's only two years older than me and he thinks he rules the universe.”

“If you miss your bus I can drop you wherever you want to go. I just don't want to have to call roadside assistance. They'll probably get it started in two seconds and then charge me fifty bucks just for coming out. Heck, I'd rather give that money to you.”

The mention of money piqued her interest. “Fifty bucks? I could sure use that money. All you want me to do is rev the engine?”

“That's it.”

“What if you can't get it started?”

He laughed. “You can still keep the money, I promise. I'll just be waiting for the bus with you.”

She shifted her weight, thinking for a moment, and then her eyes focused on his badge once again. Finally she said, “Okay, let's do it. Do you, uh . . . can I have the money up front?”

He pulled out his wallet and fished out two twenties and a ten. “Hop into the front seat. I already popped the hood and the keys are in the ignition. Don't run me over, please.”

She giggled and got into the car, placing her purse on her lap. Edward lifted the hood.

“All right, start the engine, and then give me the gas,” he called, poking his head around to look at her. She nodded and the engine roared to life. “Keep stepping on it until I say stop.”

She obliged, and he pretended to muck around under the hood for another minute.

Finally, he came around to the driver's side, shaking his head. The window was rolled down and from inside the car, Sarah looked up at him expectantly. “I don't get it,” he said, infusing his voice with just the right mix of annoyance and confusion. “It's just making an awful rattling sound. I may have to leave it here, take it in to the mechanic tomorrow. I don't want to drive it and then it breaks down on me and I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere.”

“It sounded okay to me,” she said. “Want to try again?”

“Yeah, we'll have to. But first let me just tinker around with the alternator. Hey, can you pop open the glove compartment? There should be a small tool kit in there, and I'll need that.”

“Of course.” She reached over and popped it open, digging through the mess of papers inside. “You know what, I don't see anything—”

His hand shot through the window and was around her throat before she could scream. His other hand, filled with cloth and chloroform, knocked her out before she could even register what was happening.

He pushed her straight over onto the passenger side, where she slumped. Then he quickly went around front and slammed down the car's hood, hopped behind the steering wheel, and started driving. Looking over his shoulder, he confirmed there was nothing behind him. Nobody was in the parking lot, nobody had seen anything. Perfect.

Entering the on-ramp for the freeway, he kept the window rolled down, enjoying the warm summer breeze. At this time of night, it would be less than a two-hour drive to his little cabin in Raymond, and she would be waking up by then. The cabin was one of his favorite places on earth. It was in the middle of nowhere, nestled in the midst of two hundred acres of untouched forest that he'd owned for the past twenty years. Sarah would be able to scream all she wanted. Nobody would ever hear her.

Catching someone new, Edward had to admit, was always delightfully sweet, but the best part was always what came after.

The best part was the burn.

*   *   *

“It's your move, Ed.” Johnny was looking at him closely. “Where did you go just now? Thinking about Big Tits Kyla, I'll bet. I do that too sometimes. Just space out, you know what I'm saying? Happens more and more the older I get. One minute I'm concentrating on something important, the next minute I'm forgetting what I'm doing. Sometimes I go into a store and forget what I went in there for. Don't you hate that? This one time I went into the hardware store and I . . .”

Edward stopped listening, but not before he decided that Johnny Langston was officially a waste of space. Who would miss him if he died? Not Kyla, he was certain of that.

There was still some Viagra left. He already knew Langston was on three different heart medications. The drugs would interact nicely . . . or terribly, depending which way you looked at it.

The thought filled him with pleasure. Moving his red checker piece across the board, he jumped over three of Langston's black pieces until he reached the opposite end of the board. He offered his opponent a grin.

“King me,” Edward said.

It wasn't rape, okay?

She'd been totally into it. She was turned on, she kissed him back, she'd helped him take his goddamned shirt off. So maybe he'd pushed things a little too far, and yes, maybe at the end he'd hurt her, but she'd been into it, and it wasn't on purpose, and it wasn't his fault that she'd let it go too far and that he couldn't stop after that.

Sam put her face in her hands and slumped into the sofa, pulling the knit blanket tighter around herself. God, she sounded exactly like a rape victim. How many episodes of
Law & Order: Special Victims Unit
had she watched where the characters who lived in the Land of Denial sounded just like she did right now? But this wasn't television. This was Matt,
her
Matt, and in all the years they'd been together, he had never once physically hurt her. He certainly would never rape her. Things had gone too far, that was all, and it had nothing to do with the fact that their relationship was dissolving and that they both knew it was over. For Christ's sake, they still loved each other;
that
part didn't dissolve overnight.
Matt was a lot of things, but he was
not
a rapist.

Or . . . was he? He didn't stop when she'd said stop. If anything, he'd gone harder, wrapping his fingers around her throat, causing her to lose consciousness for a few seconds.

She was so confused.

Forcing it out of her mind for now, Sam grabbed her laptop and clicked on the
Seattle Times
homepage, craving some kind of distraction. It worked. As soon as she saw the headline, she grimaced—it was clearly designed to shock.

BUTCHER 2.0?

The Seattle Police Department, in conjunction with Marysville PD, confirmed this morning that they are now hunting for a serial killer responsible for the deaths of two women in the greater Seattle area this past week. Both women were raped and murdered in similar ways, prompting Seattle PD lead detective and spokesperson Detective Robert Sanchez to announce that the city now has a new serial killer at large, dubbed “Butcher 2.0” by the media.

While specific details of both crimes have not been released, a source from the police department has confirmed that the murders bear a strong resemblance to those committed by the serial killer popularly known as “The Butcher” back in the late '70s and early '80s. Rufus Wedge, age 37, was the prime suspect in those murders. Wedge was shot to death outside his apartment building in Beacon Hill by a task force headed up by former Chief of Police Edward Shank, who at the time was a captain and the lead detective on the case.

The article went on to give what little background information there was on Wedge.

Edward Shank was appointed the chief of police in 1985, having received a commendation from the mayor for the Butcher case. It is the duty of the Times to mention, however, that Rufus Wedge was never arrested, tried, or convicted for his crimes. However, the murders did appear to stop after Wedge's death, and these most recent two murders are the first to resemble the crimes Wedge was accused of committing.

Detective Sanchez would not confirm whether Seattle PD is searching for the original Butcher, or the Butcher 2.0, a copycat serial killer.

Former Chief of Police Edward Shank, who retired from the police department in 1998, could not be reached for comment.

Sam reached for her phone and tried calling Sanchez. He didn't answer. Instead, a robotic voice said, “The mailbox you are calling is full. Please try your call again later.”

Shit
. She tried a different number.

“Hello?” Another female voice, not robotic, was in her ear.

“Hi, Vanessa, it's Sam. How are you?”

“Oh, hello, my dear.” Sanchez's wife seemed pleased to hear from her. Sam could make out the sounds of video games being played in the background. “I'm pretty good. You know, busy with the kids and all. They need to go off to college already, because Lord, I'm due for a break.”

Forcing herself to be patient, Sam asked how the kids were doing, and the two women made small talk for several minutes. Yes, Jacob had
started high school, Christian was on the soccer team, and Dominic had a girlfriend who seemed a little slutty. Yes, Sam's new book was going well, Matt was working hard at the restaurant, of course she'd pass along a hello.

Unable to stand it any longer, Sam finally said, “Vanessa, do you know where Bobby is? I tried calling him a few minutes ago on his cell but he didn't pick up, and his voicemail box is full. He's also not answering his phone at the station.”

“Oh honey, I've given up tracking my husband's whereabouts ages ago.” Vanessa didn't sound the least bit concerned. “I know him, though. He always calls when he can. Did you try texting him?”

“I did.”

“Well, I'm afraid that's about all you can do. But hey . . .” Vanessa paused, muffling the phone. She yelled something into the background, and when she came back on the line, the volume of the video game being played was considerably lower. “He did mention he was meeting with Matt's grandfather this afternoon.”

“The Chief?”

“The one and only. I believe they're going to ask him to consult on the new Butcher cases. After all, nobody knows the old Butcher better than Edward Shank. I'm sure Bobby will call you back as soon as he's done. Say, anything new with you and Matthew? That boy put a ring on it yet? I'm waiting for my wedding invitation. It would be a great excuse to buy a new dress.”