The Butcher (33 page)

“Matt, uh . . .” Sam swallowed, unprepared for the questions. “We're actually not together anymore, Vanessa. It ended . . . it ended recently. We're still friends, though.” Instantly her mind flew back to the night before on Matt's kitchen table, and she shook her head, trying to force the images out of her head.

Vanessa must have heard the catch in Sam's throat because she said, “Oh, dear. Oh, sweetheart. Relationships are so tough, aren't they? You know what, I think we definitely need to have dinner. Just us girls, what do you say? I'm not taking no for an answer. How's next week for you?”

They quickly set a date and then Sam hung up, grateful to get off the phone so she wouldn't have to talk about Matt anymore.

Because it hurt. It really did.

If they needed Edward's help on the new Butcher cases, then they could damn well come to him. That was how it worked.

Edward had received a phone call from a younger female detective at Seattle PD, someone who sounded very blond over the phone, and who'd turned out to look exactly the way he'd imagined she would when she showed up at the Village a half hour later. Detective Kim Kellogg had been sent to bring Edward back to the police precinct to consult on the Butcher 2.0, but he'd shooed her away, and not so politely. He wasn't interesting in going anywhere. Frankly, it was goddamned insulting that they'd sent that bubblegum blonde to retrieve him. He was the former chief of police, for Christ's sake. Whatever happened to respect?

An hour later, Detective Robert Sanchez knocked on his door.

Bobby Sanchez was no longer the skinny little rookie Edward remembered. In his early fifties now, the man had grown into a smart, confident, and tenacious cop, and these qualities were the reason the
detective had built a solid reputation over the years. Sanchez's solve rate was impressive, and Edward could see why Bobby had been chosen to head up the newly formed task force to catch the new Butcher.

The younger man stood in the doorway, looking tired but dapper in his suit, a box of cannolis from the Green Bean in one hand and two steaming coffees in the other. Two blue Seattle PD file folders were wedged under one armpit.

“You really do need my help,” Edward said with a grin. “Nice to see you again, Bobby. You're looking good. Come on in.”

“I heard this is the way to butter you up.” Sanchez stepped into Edward's room, handing the former police chief the box of pastries. “Seems like a small price to pay for your expertise. You should charge more. Your time is valuable.”

“That why you sent Froot Loops over to come get me?”

Sanchez winced. “Sorry about that. I was tied up in a meeting, and she volunteered. Kim Kellogg's actually a good cop, though, I promise.”

Pointing the detective toward the sofa, Edward retrieved two plates from the kitchenette and served them each a cannoli. Sanchez dug into his, and in three bites his pastry was gone.

“Man, I haven't had anything that sweet in a long time,” the detective said, sighing. “My wife would kill me if she knew I was indulging. She's put me on a diet.”

“If a man works hard, then a man should eat what he wants.” Edward took a bite of his own cannoli, not remotely interested in what the younger man's wife thought of her husband's eating habits. “Have another.”

“Wish I could, but I'm watching my blood sugar. Diabetes runs in the family.”

“More for me, then. So. Why are you here? The perky blonde said you were thinking of asking me to consult?”

“I'm not just thinking of asking, I'm asking.” Sanchez's face clouded as he dusted powdered sugar off his hands. “It's a mess, Chief. We're reopening all the old Butcher cases and comparing them to the two murders from the past week.”

“So then who are you looking for?” Edward said. “The old Butcher or a new Butcher?”

“Officially, the Butcher two-point-oh.” The detective rubbed his face. “But between you and me, I'm pretty sure they're one and the same. It's a giant mess.”

“That's not a mess, Bobby.” Edward snorted. “That's a clusterfuck. I don't envy Connie when she has to answer questions about that.”

“I don't, either. She mentioned getting in touch with you in the next couple of days. Your phone's probably going to start ringing, too.”

“Already has.”

“Chief . . .” Sanchez shifted on the sofa. “Whatever happens, I hope you don't think anyone over at PD looks at you any differently. You did the best job you could back then. Wedge was a good suspect. It was a good shoot.”

“Do I look like it's keeping me up at night?” Edward said, and then offered the detective a grin. “I'm fine, Bobby. I can handle the heat.”

“Damn right you can.” With that awkwardness out of the way, Sanchez leaned back, visibly more relaxed than he'd seemed a moment ago. “When word gets out, though, I'm sure it'll just be a matter of time before somebody from Rufus Wedge's family comes forward to file suit on his death.”

“Don't you worry about that.” Edward waved a hand. “Wedge had no family.”
I
made sure of that before I chose him
.

The detective nodded. “Anyway, any input you have on these current murders would be appreciated. Don't worry. You'll be an official consultant. We'll pay you an hourly rate.”

“Goddamned right you will, but I'll donate it to the Police Kids charity. I don't need the money.”

Sanchez smiled.

“Those the files on Tidwell and Chavez?” Edward asked, gesturing toward the blue folders Sanchez had placed on the coffee table.

The detective nodded and pushed them over. “Everything we have so far is in there. Take a look, let me know what you think.”

Edward looked down at the files, making no move to open them. He didn't trust himself to look at the photographs he knew would be inside, not while was Sanchez was watching him. He didn't trust himself to contain his excitement at the sight of their dead bodies. “Can I keep these?”

“Yes, those are your copies.”

“I'll need some time to read through it all. Why don't I give you a call later?” Edward stood up.

Surprised, Sanchez stood up as well, understanding that he'd just been dismissed. “Of course. I look forward to hearing from you. Thanks, Chief.” Reaching for his coffee cup, he paused before taking a sip. “Actually, before I leave, there is something I wanted to ask you about.”

“Certainly.” Edward glanced at the folders again. “Make it quick, though. I got somewhere to be.”

Sanchez stood beside the door but made no effort to reach for the handle. “Back in the day, when you were investigating the Butcher, you opted to keep some things from the media.”

“Sure. Standard police investigation tactic.”

“Right, I understand that.” Sipping from his coffee cup, the detective shifted his weight again, which meant he was feeling uncomfortable again. “But I'm wondering why you left the hair out of the reports.”

“What hair?”

“The missing hair from the back of each of the victims' heads.” Sanchez cleared his throat. “I know it was a long time ago, but do you recall telling the medical examiner not to put that information into his reports? Cam Bradbury was his name.”

“I remember Cam,” Edward said, appraising the detective coolly. “Good ME, very thorough. We worked together on a lot of cases. But I can't say I remember anything about that.”

“I spoke to him yesterday.” Sanchez's face was neutral, but his eyes were fixed on Edward, not missing anything. “He said that each of the Butcher victims had a lock of hair missing. He said you advised him to leave that out of reports, because you were concerned about leaks. You were already dealing with two copycats and the media was creating a frenzy.”

“If I did, then I did.” Edward shrugged. “Like you said, it was a long time ago. What's your question?”

“I guess what I'm confused about is why.” Sanchez cleared his throat again. “I mean, after the cases were closed, why wasn't the missing hair included in the reports?”

Edward stared at the younger man. “Check the reports, Bobby. I'm sure it was. Cam was an excellent medical examiner. He wouldn't have missed a detail like that.”

“He didn't miss it. He left it out. On purpose, at your request.”

“Okay then.” Edward frowned. “So then it was added afterward.”

“Was it?” Sanchez sipped his coffee. “We can't confirm whether it was, because the ME's reports are all missing from the Butcher files.”

“I wouldn't know anything about that,” Edward said. “My job was to catch criminals, not ensure the files of closed cases were complete. Why don't you ask Records what happened? Though I'm sure you already did.”

“I did.”

“Can't help you, son.” Edward shrugged again. “Like you said, it was a long time ago.”

“It's just . . .” The detective met his gaze with a cool one of his own. “That information was pretty important. The hair was part of the Butcher's signature, which nobody other than you and Bradbury knew about. If we had known, we might have been able to link future murders to the Butcher. Such as the murder of Sarah Marquez.”

“Who?”

“Samantha's mother. She was missing a swatch of hair, too. We're looking at her as another Butcher victim. Had we known about the hair, we would have figured out that Wedge was the wrong man.”

“Samantha's mother was murdered two years after Rufus Wedge was killed,” Edward said. “What would we have done, Bobby? Raised that piece of shit from the dead so we could apologize to him?”

“No, but Sarah's murder would have told us that the Butcher was still out there. Which would have prevented two more murders, one in eighty-eight, and one in ninety-three. Not to mention the two that just happened this past week.”

Edward narrowed his eyes and stood up straighter. “I'm not sure what you're getting at, son, but I sure as shit don't like your tone. Are you suggesting I fucked up?”

“Not at all, Chief,” Sanchez said, and while the younger man seemed tense, his voice remained calm. “I'm just saying it's unfortunate that the information we had on the Butcher was incomplete. I know you're close
to Samantha. I am, too. I just feel bad that it's taken her this long to get closure, something we could have given her a long time ago had we known everything about the Butcher that we should have. Plus, Wedge was innocent.”

Edward sighed. “You still have a lot to learn, son, and you'll understand what I mean by that by the time this is all done. Police investigations are never perfect. You're working with very little evidence, limited resources, unreliable witnesses, and a ridiculous amount of pressure from the public to solve the case. Things get missed, things fall through the cracks. We thought Wedge was our guy. If it turns out he's not, then that's too goddamned bad. But am I sorry he was shot? Hell, no. He was still a piece of shit, still a career criminal, still a pus-filled pimple on the ass of society. Nobody cried over his death, and it's nobody's loss that he's gone. I won't be losing any sleep over it, and I suggest you don't, either. Now if you can find the real Butcher”—Edward crooked his fingers, making air quotes—“then fantastic. I'll be the first one to congratulate you. But I did my job back then. We did the best we could with what we had. And all you need to worry about, son, is doing your job
now
. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal.”

“I'll call you if I have any insights. Thanks for the cannolis.”

Edward showed the younger man out, closing and locking the door behind him. When he heard Sanchez's footsteps retreat down the hallway, he let out a long breath and leaned against the door.

Condescending little shit.
But a good detective, certainly.

It was all coming together.

It was time to end the charade. It was time to do the right thing.

Matt took a deep breath and cut the engine to the utility van. The clock on the dashboard showed 6:16 p.m., and he should have been at the restaurant for prime dinner hour, because the place would be hopping. Nothing that his well-trained staff couldn't handle without him, of course, but he knew the Fresh Network crew was there right now. Being on camera was the last thing Matt wanted to do today.

Except for this.

His phone pinged again and he glanced down. It was another text from Bernard the producer, who had to be the pushiest guy Matt had ever known. He'd already told the man twice that he had an urgent personal matter to attend to—what the fuck more did they want from him? They produced reality shows, for fuck's sake. This was reality. Shit, maybe he should have invited them all to come along. What he was about to do would undoubtedly make for great television drama.

Leaving his phone on the front seat, Matt got out of the van and
headed toward the building. He hadn't been here in years, not since he was very young, and it looked much different than he remembered. It had clearly been renovated since the early nineties, and everything was gleaming and polished.

Kind of swanky for a police station.

Squaring his shoulders, he stepped through the glass doors and into the bright lights of the East Precinct.

The overweight uniformed officer manning the front desk looked up. Matt wondered randomly if the man's weight was why he was stuck manning the front desk, then he shook the pointless thought out of his head. He needed to focus. Willing himself not to shake, he stepped forward.

“Can I help you?” The officer's name tag identified him as a
SGT M. COSTA
. He was munching on a leftover slice of pizza that looked cold and dry.

“I'm looking for Detective Robert Sanchez.” Matt's voice cracked a little on the last word.

“He expecting you?”