The Butcher

  “They ran the DNA from both murders, and the killers share genetic markers,” Sam said. “Whoever killed PJ Wu is the son of whoever killed Bonnie Tidwell.”

  Matt froze. “What? Son? What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “It’s true,” Sam said, misinterpreting Matt’s strong reaction. “They’re father and son. Not uncle and nephew, not brother and brother. As Sanchez said, DNA doesn’t lie. They’re definitely father and son.”

  Matt’s heart was pounding so hard in his chest, he almost couldn’t hear her. Teeth clenched, he turned to the Chief. “You raped my mother?”

  “Shut up, Matthew.” Edward’s face was like stone. “Just shut up.”

  “You—”

  “Shut up!” Edward roared, standing up. “Just shut the fuck up. Do you want her to know?”

  Sam’s face was twisted into a frown, and her head was bobbing left and right. “What are you guys talking about it? What am I missing here?”

  “Oh God, I’m going to be sick,” Matt said, his stomach churning. His head felt like it was about to explode. The buzzing was louder now, louder than it had ever been, and he really thought he might throw up. “Sam, the Chief is my father. My fucking father. Oh my God. Oh my God.”

  “Matt, I don’t understand.”

  They were staring at each other, but Matt didn’t know how to explain further. Matt’s head was reeling. Sam seemed confused. Neither of them noticed the Chief moving toward her with something shiny and rectangular in his hand.

  “Matt, what—”

  It was all Sam got a chance to say before a cleaver struck her in the chest.

  39

  Matt watched in horror as Sam dropped to the floor, looking down at herself with as much shock as he was feeling. There was surprisingly little blood. The cleaver was wedged inside her, almost dead between her breasts, at least two inches deep. She looked up at him, her eyes huge and round. Opening her mouth to speak, all that came out was a moan. The whole awful scene seemed to be unfolding in slow motion, and his legs felt stuck, although his brain was screaming at him to do something, anything, to help her.

  He stepped toward her but before he could reach her, there was a hand on his arm. He turned to see his grandfather looking at him with an expression that terrified him.

  The old man’s cheeks were flushed, the rich red color spreading to his chin and forehead, and then his throat. His dark eyes were alight with excitement, and in that moment, the Chief seemed almost twenty years younger.

  “Leave her be, Matthew.”

  Matt shook him off and crouched down over Sam. She was slumped against the lower kitchen cabinets, her feet splayed in front of her. She was conscious but her eyes were glazed, her face pale, her lips parted slightly. Reaching forward, he touched the handle of the cleaver, and she cried out.

  “Don’t,” she said, gasping. “Don’t touch it. Just leave it. Just leave it in, in case . . .” Her eyes rolled back and it took her a second to focus on him again. “It hurts. Call . . . call an ambulance.”

  She was about to pass out, and Matt was terrified that if she did, she might never wake up. He took her hand and was alarmed. It was cool and clammy, and her skin was becoming paler. She was going into shock.

  Matt reached into his pocket to feel for his iPhone, but of course it wasn’t there. It was on the kitchen table where he’d left it, behind his grandfather, who stood above them watching the entire scene with avid interest. And there was no other phone in the house. Matt had canceled the landline when he’d moved in. He didn’t think he would need it, since he was hardly ever home anyway.

  “Hand me my phone, Chief,” Matt said, his voice ringing out clear in the kitchen, surprising even himself. “I have to call nine-one-one.”

  Edward turned and reached for Matt’s iPhone. He slipped it into his pocket. “Leave her be, Matthew. Or better yet, drive the cleaver all the way in. Put her out of her misery. Put her down. You must have thought about it. Don’t fight it. Unleash it.”

  “Give me my fucking phone!” Matt screamed, and on the floor, Sam jolted. His grandfather, on the other hand, didn’t even flinch. “I will fucking kill you, you fucking son of a bitch!”

  He stood and faced the old man. The two of them were the exact same height. Same build. Same eyes. Same square jaw.

  Jesus Christ. How had Matt not seen it? How had he not known? All this time, Edward had insisted that they never knew who his father was. And yet, all along, it was the Chief who was his father.

  It was sickening. It was horrific. It was beyond comprehension.

  “Give me my phone, or I’ll take it from you,” Matt said.

  “Then take it,” Edward said. He smiled.

  Matt lunged.

  40

  Detective Robert Sanchez checked his phone, frowning at the text message he’d just received from Kim Kellogg that was insisting he call her on her cell phone. He was finally checking his messages after making it through the slow security lineup at Sea-Tac Airport, but her message confused him. She was scheduled to be at the precinct all night and he’d told her not to go anywhere. Why was he calling her cell phone?

  “It’s Sanchez,” he said. “Why aren’t you at the precinct?”

  “I am at the precinct,” the younger detective said. Sanchez turned up the volume on his phone. It was loud at the airport and he could barely hear her. “Something just came through on the DNA found on PJ Wu.”

  “We already know it shares genetic markers with the Butcher.” Sanchez hustled his way to the gate, checking his watch. His stomach growled as he passed the food court, but his flight was boarding in a few minutes and there wasn’t time to grab anything.

  “Yeah, but we got a match in CODIS.”

  Sanchez stopped. He could see his gate from where he was, but they hadn’t started boarding yet. Moving closer to the wall, he narrowly avoided being trampled by a frantic mother and her four kids who blasted by. “Shit, that’s fantastic. Send me the report. If we know who killed PJ Wu, we’ll be able to find out in two shakes who the Butcher is.”

  “That’s the thing . . .” Kellogg hesitated. “Bobby, this is crazy. What you’re going to see is absolutely bonkers. I wouldn’t believe it myself if I wasn’t staring at it with my own eyes right now. I suggest you be sitting down when you read it.”

  Sanchez rolled his eyes. He didn’t have time for Kellogg’s melodrama. “Kim, just send it. I’m almost at my gate. I’ll read it on my iPhone while I’m boarding.”

  He disconnected and a moment later, he got the email. Clicking on it, he pulled up the PDF of the CODIS report.

  And almost lost his balance.

  Enlarging the image, he stared at the name.

  CODIS had matched the DNA found on PJ Wu’s body to one Matthew Shank. Current address: 1789 Poppy Lane in the Sweetbay neighborhood of Seattle. Owner of Adobo, located in Fremont.

  What the fuck?

  He called Kim back. “Are you shitting me?” he said when she picked up, again on the first ring. “Tell them to run it again. That can’t be right. I know Matt Shank, he’s a good kid.”

  “I know, I met him the other day. He’s Edward Shank’s grandson.”

  “This is not happening,” Sanchez said, trying to make sense of it. “Are you seriously telling me that Edward Shank, the former chief of police of Seattle, has a grandson who’s about to be arrested for murder? And that his grandson’s father, whoever the hell he might be, is our Butcher?”

  “I can’t wrap my mind around it, either,” Kellogg said, her voice still hushed. “I did try to look for Matthew Shank’s father, but there isn’t one listed on his birth certificate.”

  Sanchez frowned, trying to remember what Sam had told him about Matt’s parents. “As far as I know, he doesn’t know who his father is. His grandparents said they didn’t know, either. This just keeps getting worse and worse. This really is Operation Clusterfuck.” A voice came over the loudspeakers, announcing that his flight was now boarding. “Shit.??
?

  “Are you getting on the plane now? You want me go pick up Matt Shank?”

  Sanchez stood for a minute, debating what to do. “No,” he finally said, turning around. “No, I can’t let you do it. The Chief would flip. I’ll do it myself. This has to be handled delicately. Don’t say anything to anyone until I call you, you understand? This can’t get out until we figure out how the hell we’re going to handle it.”

  “That’s why I told you to call my cell,” Kellogg said. “I knew you wouldn’t want anyone here to know.”

  “Smart girl.”

  “Who’s telling Shank? Not the one who killed Wu. The older one, the one you used to work for.”

  “Guess that would be me.” Sanchez gritted his teeth as he walked back the same way he’d just come. “How do my kids say it nowadays? FML. Fuck my life.”

  41

  His grandfather—his father, goddammit—wasn’t as strong as Matt was, but that didn’t matter, not when the Chief had a gun in one hand, and Matt’s iPhone in the other.

  Behind him on the floor, Sam wasn’t moaning and he could no longer hear her wheezing, but he didn’t dare turn to look to see if she was still conscious. He didn’t want to take his eyes off the Chief for a second, despite how much he wanted to go to Sam, and comfort her, and save her.

  But he couldn’t think about that now. He couldn’t do anything until he got his goddamned iPhone out of the Chief’s hand. Sam had a fucking cleaver stuck in her chest, and there was no way to help her without calling 9-1-1. Getting rid of the house’s landline, which at the time had been a cost-saving decision, now seemed like the worst idea in the world. His cell phone was the only link he had to the outside world, and if he couldn’t get his phone back, Sam would die.

  How had it come to this? He couldn’t be sure Sam wasn’t already dead on the floor behind him. He couldn’t be sure about anything anymore, because nothing made sense. The only thing he did know for sure was that his grandfather, the man who’d raised him and given him everything, was now standing in front of him with a gun pointed at his head.

  “I don’t want it to be like this,” Matt said. “Please, Chief. I don’t give a shit who you really are or what you did, okay? I just want to call nine-one-one for Sam. She won’t make it if I don’t. Please, Chief. Give me my phone.”

  “Have you ever thought about how you wanted to die, Matthew?” Edward said. His cheeks were rosy, his eyes shining with excitement. The gun, something small and black, rested in his liver-spotted hand easily. Matt hadn’t even been aware that his grandfather was carrying it. “Because I know I think about it all the time.”

  “Please. Chief, please.” Beads of sweat were dripping down Matt’s temples and he swiped them away. “I will do anything you want, okay? Anything. Just give me the phone so I can call for help.”

  “There’s no point, because there isn’t enough time.” Edward said this pleasantly, as if the words weren’t completely horrific. “She hasn’t got much longer, Matthew. There isn’t a lot of blood on the outside, but I heard and felt something break, so I know she’s bleeding internally. Do you want to say your goodbyes? I don’t mind. I’ll wait.”

  “No!” Matt felt nothing but sheer panic. “No, I’m not saying goodbye to her, Chief. I love her. She is the love of my life.”

  “You certainly have a strange way of showing it.” Edward looked down. “Doesn’t he, Samantha? Didn’t you just tell me the other day that Matthew was a lousy boyfriend to you? Or did I misinterpret?”

  Behind him, Matt heard nothing, because of course Sam didn’t respond to the question.

  “See?” his grandfather said. “We’re losing her. Sorry about that, kid.”

  “Why?” Matt said. It seemed like a pointless question but it was all he could think of to say, and he needed to buy time. “Why hurt her? Why the gun? I’m your . . . son, for Christ’s sake. If I wanted to turn you in, don’t you think I would have done it by now?”

  “You were going to turn me in. You thought about it, don’t lie. It was just a matter of time.” Edward sighed deeply. “And that’s not how I want to die, Matthew. I don’t want to die in prison. Have you ever seen the inside of a men’s prison? It’s inhumane. That’s not how I want to die. But neither do I want to die in an old folks’ home, rotting away like yesterday’s discarded supermarket produce.”

  “So then how do you want to die?” Matt asked.

  “Spectacularly,” the Chief said with a smile. “In a blaze of glory.”

  Matt couldn’t even begin to understand what the hell that meant.

  “Tell me, would you kill me to get the phone to save Samantha’s life?” his grandfather said.

  “I . . .” Matt stopped. Oh God. Oh God what a horrible question. How could the Chief ask a question like that? What kind of answer was he expecting to hear? Taking a deep breath, he said the first thing that came to mind. “Yes. I would.”

  “Even though I’m your father and she’s just a girl you never wanted to marry?”

  Goddamn him. “Yes.”

  “Why?” Edward asked. His grandfather’s eyes bored into him. “Explain it to me.”

  “Because you’re old,” Matt said. “And you’re a fucking monster. Sam’s young. And a good person. She deserves to live.” His eyes welled up with hot tears, but he blinked them back. He didn’t want to show weakness around the Chief.

  Edward nodded. The satisfied look on the old man’s face told Matt that he’d just said the right answer, whatever “right” was in this scenario. “So you’re saying it’s time to put me down.”

  “Chief, please. Just give me the gun.” Matt’s tone stayed even. “Please. If you don’t, I’ll have no choice but to take it from you.”

  “I expect nothing less from you, Matthew.”

  Matt took a step forward. Edward gave him a small smile and raised the gun higher.

  “You want me to shoot you in the face or in the heart, kid?”

  “You won’t shoot me, Chief.”

  Matt reached forward and grabbed Edward’s arm. His grandfather resisted a little, but not nearly as much as Matt expected him to, and a few seconds later he got a hold of it. He forced it out of the Chief’s iron grip, fully expecting the gun to go off.

  It didn’t.

  Matt pointed the gun at his grandfather. “Give me my phone, Chief.”

  “Kill me first, kid. Then you can take it.”

  “What?” Matt said, not sure he heard the old man correctly. “What did you just say?”

  Edward sighed again, and this time it was heavier. “Put me down like the dog I am, kid. I’m tired. And this is how I want to go. Go on. You can do it. One shot. It’ll be over in a second. The safety’s off. All you have to do is pull the trigger. You can say it was self-defense. It’s my gun, registered to me. My prints are on it, just like they are on the cleaver. They’ll believe you.”

  “I . . .” Matt didn’t know what to think, how to feel. “What? No. That’s ridiculous. I can’t do that.”

  “You’re not getting your phone unless you do it.” Edward’s voice was steel. “So you have no choice but to do it. Do it to save her.”

  Matt squeezed the trigger ever so gently, but he couldn’t bring himself to press it all the way.

  “One quick squeeze and it’s done,” the Chief said, somehow managing to sound reasonable. “Come on now, don’t be a pansy. Think of all the people I’ve killed. Think about how much you hate me.”

  “Shut up,” Matt said. “I can’t think.”

  “You don’t have time to think. Come on, hurry now. Samantha’s still breathing, but she doesn’t have long. You need this phone, don’t you? So go on. Do it. Shoot me. Remember, I raped your mother.”

  Matt squeezed the trigger and the bang was louder than he expected.

  42

  Sanchez heard a sound ring out from inside the house as he was about to get out of his car, and there was no mistaking what it was.

  “Christ,” he swore under his breat
h, pulling out his phone. He dialed 9-1-1. “This is Detective Robert Sanchez,” he said when the dispatcher asked him what his emergency was. “Badge three-two-four-two-seven. I’ve got shots fired at one-seven-eight-nine Poppy Lane in Sweetbay.”

  “Roger that, Detective, we’re sending backup.”

  Stepping out of his car—his own Nissan, as he’d headed straight here from the airport—Sanchez drew his weapon from his holster. The gun felt a little foreign in his hand, even though he carried it every day. Despite what those shows on TV claimed, homicide detectives rarely had cause to draw their weapons, because usually by the time they arrived at the scene, everybody was dead. The only time he ever handled his gun was when he practiced at the gun range or cleaned it. He’d certainly never been in a situation like this before. Grimacing, he moved quickly up the porch steps of Matt Shank’s house.

  Peeking through the side window, he could see that the kitchen lights were on. He detected movement. Trying the doorknob, he found the front door unlocked. Sanchez entered the house quietly.

  Reaching the kitchen a few seconds later, he froze at the scene before him.

  Samantha was sitting propped up against the kitchen cabinet, jean-clad legs splayed in front of her. Her head was lolling to the side at an awkward, uncomfortable angle, and her eyes were partially open, her lips parted. Sanchez couldn’t tell if she was breathing, and wouldn’t be surprised if she wasn’t, considering the huge stainless steel chef’s cleaver stuck dead in the middle of her chest.

  Matt Shank was crouched beside her, and he looked up at Sanchez. “Oh, thank God,” he said, his voice cracking. His eyes were wild, and he was shaking violently all over. “Thank God you’re here. I don’t—”

  “Step away from her.” Sanchez aimed his gun at Matt’s chest. “Step away from her, Matt.”

  “But it wasn’t me. I didn’t do this. I—”

  “Step the fuck away from her right now, Matt,” Sanchez said, his voice only one decibel lower than a shriek. “Don’t make me ask you again.”