The Butcher (35 page)

“It would be a crazy question,” Matt said. “Except for the tiny little fact that you're a serial killer.”

Edward turned the heat all the way down, and then finally took a seat at the kitchen table. Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out a cherry-flavored cigar. Biting the tip off, he motioned for Matt to sit beside him.

“You can't smoke in my house, Chief.”

“Now it bothers you? So arrest me.” The Chief lit up, and immediately the aroma of sweet cherry smoke filled the air. “Are you going to tell me what's got your panties in a twist? Come on, sit down and talk to me. You and Samantha having problems?”

Matt didn't move. “Did you kill Lola? Yes or no?”

“Your grandmother's dead.” A flicker of pain crossed his grandfather's face. “Leave it alone.”

“After everything I already know, you're not going to answer me?” Matt's laugh was harsh and unfeeling. “Well, I guess that tells me everything I need to know.”

“She was sick,” Edward said, releasing a thin stream of cigar smoke through his nostrils. “Her mind was starting to go. It was just a matter of time before we'd have to put her in some kind of round-the-clock care facility, and you know she would have hated that.”

“
That's
why you killed her?” Matt couldn't believe what he was hearing. “Because she was sick?”

“I put her down, yes. It was time.”

“Lola wasn't a sick cat, Chief.” Matt slammed his hands down on the counter, shaking so hard he thought he might pass out. A faint buzzing started up in his head, and his temples were pulsing so hard it felt like
someone was hammering on them. “She was your wife. She was my grandmother. How could you have done that?”

“It wasn't that hard.” The Chief saw the look on Matt's face and sighed. “You weren't there, kid. You didn't see her. I could never leave her alone. She might have fallen, drowned in the bathtub, or burned herself. Or the house. She was seventy-nine years old, for Christ's sake. Do you know what her quality of life would have been? I was doing her a favor.”

“You were doing yourself a favor.”

“Same difference.”

“How did you do it?” Matt said. The buzzing was growing louder now, like a swarm of bees was inside his head, frantic to get out. “Paint a picture for me. You said she fell down the stairs, hit her head. What really happened?”

“She hit her head.”

“On what?”

“The piano.”

“The piano that's still in the living room?”

“Yes.”

Matt's fists were clenched. “You slammed my grandmother's head into the fucking piano?”

Edward didn't answer. Instead he took another long drag on his cigar.

“Fuck you!” Matt screamed, stepping closer to the old man. “Fuck you, Chief! I fucking hate you. I hope they catch you and I hope they give you the death penalty.” He tried to breathe, tried to calm down, but he couldn't. The rage he felt was so intense, all he wanted to do was lash out. “I hope you fucking die, and I hope you go to hell, where you belong, you son of a bitch.”

“We're all going to die someday,” Edward said, looking up at him. His expression was calm, almost peaceful.

Stepping forward, Matt grabbed his grandfather by the hair with his left hand and yanked his head back. Cocking his right arm, he prepared to strike. He'd never wanted to hit anyone so badly in his life. He wanted to punch the living daylights out of this man, the man who'd raised him, the man who'd killed Sam's mother, the man they called the Butcher.

The Chief smiled. In his eyes, there was no resistance, no remorse, no sadness, no fear, no pain. Nothing. There was no soul inside Edward Shank. Matt saw that now.

“Go ahead,” his grandfather said softly. “Go ahead, kid. It will make you feel better, and it will stop that buzzing I know is in your head right now. It's getting louder and louder, isn't it? So make it stop. Go ahead. Put me down like the goddamned animal you think I am.”

“I wish you were dead,” Matt said, tears streaming down his face. “You're a monster, Chief. I hope they get you and I hope they kill you.”

“Oh, they will,” Edward said. “But do you really want me dead before I can tell you all about your mother?”

“What?” Matt dropped his arm and let go of his grandfather's hair. “What about my mother?”

“I'm not going to be around much longer, Matthew.” Edward took another hit of the cigar, allowing the smoke to trail out of his lips slowly. “So if you want to know about your mother, now's the time.”

“You son of a bitch.” All the fight went out of Matt then, and he slumped into a chair across from his grandfather. The Chief had him by the balls and he knew it. Matt needed to know. “You asshole. Okay, then. Fine. Tell me. I want to hear it. I want to hear everything.”

“First, go get me a bowl of
champorado
,” the Chief said. “And then you can ask me whatever the hell you want.”

Sam tried calling Bobby again, and the third time was a charm. She had seen the press conference a couple of hours before and had no doubt he was swamped, and of course he'd managed to call her back during the exact three minutes she'd left her phone in the car while grabbing takeout sushi.

“Hey,” he said, picking up on the last ring. “Sorry, it's been a crazy day. Can you hear me okay? I'm driving.”

“What's going on?” she asked. “Did you catch him?”

“Ha.” The word came out like a bark, short and snappy. “I wish. I'm good, my sweet, but I'm not that good. No, I just thought you'd want to know something interesting. Again, this is on the down low.”

“Goes without saying.”

“We got DNA on the killer. There were skin cells under Bonnie/Joyce's fingernail we were able to retrieve. Which would suggest she scratched the Butcher, but he didn't bleed.”

“You're kidding. That's great!”

“Yeah, it would be, but we ran it through CODIS and there was no name attached.” Bobby gave her a moment to digest this piece of information before continuing. “Which means we still don't know who he is.”

Sam knew that CODIS stood for Combined DNA Index System, but she knew almost nothing about DNA. “Well, that sucks.”

“But here's something weird. The DNA of Tidwell's killer? It might not be attached to a name, but it does match the DNA we found on PJ Wu.”

“I . . . what?” Sam frowned, trying to understand what Sanchez had just told her. “What are you saying? The Butcher killed PJ? Why would he do that?”

“No, he didn't kill PJ,” the detective said. “I didn't say it was an
exact
match. But there is family relationship between whoever killed PJ and whoever killed Bonnie/Joyce. The lab tech discovered it by accident—he thought he'd mixed the samples up. Turns out both sets of DNA share certain markers that prove they're father and son. The father killed Bonnie/Joyce. The son killed PJ Wu.”

“Holy shit.” Sam let out a breath, trying to process it all. “Are you sure?”

“DNA doesn't lie,” Sanchez said. “It's definitely father and son. Not uncle and nephew, not brother and brother. Father and son.”

“Do you think they're working together?”

“No idea, but trust me, I'm still trying to figure what the hell this all means, too. I don't see this every day.” Sanchez honked his horn and swore under his breath. “Anyway, I'm heading to the airport to catch a flight to Sacramento. I've been in touch with their PD and I have a warrant to search Bonnie/Joyce's house.”

“Okay, good luck.” Sam's head was still spinning. “Bobby, before you go . . .”

“What is it?”

“Why do I feel we're missing something here? I don't know how to
articulate it, but it feels like . . .” Her voice trailed off. She wasn't exactly sure what she was trying to say. All she knew was that something didn't feel quite right.

“Actually, I know what you mean.” Sanchez sounded as frustrated as Sam felt. “It feels like there's a huge piece of the puzzle we're missing, and it's right there. If I could just find it, everything would make complete sense. Because right now nothing does.”

“Exactly.”

“I'm trying to get a hold of the Chief, but he isn't returning my calls. I've left him five messages. Have you heard from him?”

“No, I haven't.” Sam wasn't sure whether or not to tell the detective that she wasn't exactly on the Chief's good side anymore. “But if you're desperate, I guess I can try calling him. He usually calls me back.”

“I'd appreciate that. You can go ahead and tell him what I told you, too. Whatever it takes to get him to call me. Tell him it's urgent.”

Sam nodded even though Sanchez couldn't see her. “When are you back from Sacramento?”

“Late tonight. I'll only be there for a few hours. Vanessa mentioned the two of you were having dinner soon? I know she's looking forward to it. She misses you.”

“Yeah, we're supposed to,” Sam said, gritting her teeth.
Shit
. She loved Vanessa almost as much as she loved Bobby, but the last thing she wanted to do was discuss her love life when a huge manhunt for the Butcher was going on. “I'll give her a call after I talk to Edward.”

“You do that. Tomorrow all the kids are with their friends, so she'll have a night to herself. See that she stays out of trouble, you hear?”

Sam managed a small laugh. “If anything, Bobby, she'll keep me out of trouble.”

“I never liked the name Lucy,” Edward said, the smoke from his cigar circling his face. He squinted at Matt. “I always thought it sounded too little-girlish, but your grandmother always liked it. I was hoping for a boy, so when she popped out a girl, I let her pick the name.”

Matt could still see the red marks around the old man's throat from where his fingers had pushed too hard. Maybe it should have made him feel bad, but Edward didn't appear to be angry about it. “Lucy is a family name.”

“Yes, it is. Your grandmother's mother's name was Lucilla.”

Edward stubbed out his cigar, then stood up and went to the stove, helping himself to another bowl of
champorado
. “She was a beautiful baby, your mother. Almost never cried. Was so easy to take care of, until about eight or nine years old, and then her rebellious streak came out.”

Matt allowed a small smile. “I guess that's where I got it from.”

“She was never a bad girl, you understand. But she did require a heavier hand. She acted out a lot. Misbehaved. Didn't listen. Then
when she turned thirteen, she started with the marijuana. By fourteen, she was addicted to painkillers. Skipping school. And there were a lot of boys.”

“One of whom was my father.”

Edward returned to the table, spooning
champorado
into his mouth, his gaze drifting to some place faraway. “When she got pregnant, we were devastated. Obviously. And embarrassed. To have a teenage daughter plagued with drug problems, and now a pregnancy? It made me seem like a terrible father.

“She wanted an abortion,” Edward said. “I would have allowed it. Lucy was in no shape to take care of herself, let alone an infant. But your grandmother wouldn't hear of it, and she insisted she have the baby. Pretty much locked Lucy in her room the whole time to make sure she didn't use drugs while she was pregnant. Then you were born. You were healthy, thank God.”

“You and my mother would have aborted me?” Matt said in disbelief. It was probably the most hurtful and insensitive thing anyone had ever said to his face. “So if it wasn't for Lola, I wouldn't even exist?”

“Oh please.” The old man waved a hand dismissively. “Don't be such a drama queen. You would have wanted the same thing had it been your knocked-up, Vicodin-addicted child. And, anyway, it's water under the bridge. You're here, aren't you?”

Matt slumped in his chair. His grandfather's logic was horrifying. “Why wouldn't she name the father?”

“Wasn't so much that she wouldn't. She couldn't. She didn't know who she'd been with.”

“You never tried to find him?” On the one hand, Matt couldn't believe his grandfather was finally opening up to him about his mother, but on the other hand, this was more painful a conversation than he'd
anticipated, and he wasn't sure how much he could handle. “You were the chief of police. If anyone could find him, you could.”

“Sure I looked.” Edward finally finished his bowl of
champorado
and pushed it away. “But what did it matter? You were fine with me and your grandmother; you had everything you needed. Sure, I asked around, but nobody owned up. She never really had a boyfriend, but she was around a lot of boys. If I knew who he was, I'd have told you. I have never lied to you, Matthew.”

“Except about the part where you're a serial killer everyone calls the Butcher,” Matt said, his voice flat. “Or are you conveniently getting dementia and forgetting that part?”

“Mind isn't quite the steel trap it used to be, but I remember most things.” His grandfather relit his cigar and inhaled. “But sure, sometimes I can't remember. Sometimes a memory pops into my head and it feels like it happened yesterday, when it really happened twenty years ago.”

“So what happened to her? To Lucy?”

“She committed suicide.”

“You told me she died of a drug overdose.” Matt couldn't believe what he was hearing. “You just said you never lied to me, you asshole.”

“That was what your grandmother wanted you to think.” Edward seemed oblivious to Matt's name-calling. “Lucy was a junkie; she could easily have died that way. But she didn't. She hung herself. Here, in this house. In her room, which then became your room. You were three months old. She was high on pills and whatever shit she'd shot into her veins, and your grandmother came home from church and found her, hanging in her closet. She used one of my neckties.”