Die Again (28 page)

“Which case was that?” asked Frost.

“It was written by a German missionary doctor working in Sierra Leone.” Zucker paused. “In the year 1948.”

The room went dead silent. Maura looked around the table and saw astonishment in Frost’s and Tam’s faces, skepticism in Crowe’s.
And what’s Jane thinking? That I’ve finally gone over the edge and I’m chasing phantoms?

“Let me get this straight,” said Crowe. “You think we’re dealing with a killer who was doing this in
1948
? Which would make him, what? About eighty-five years old?”

“That’s not at all what we’re suggesting,” said Maura.

“Then what
is
your new theory, Dr. Isles?”

“The point is, there’s historical precedent to these ritual murders. What’s happening today—the parallel slash marks, the evisceration—it’s an echo of what’s been happening for centuries.”

“Are we talking about a cult? Ghosts? Or are we back to Leopard Man?”

“For God’s sake, let her talk, Crowe,” Jane looked at Maura. “I just hope you’ve got more than supernatural woo-woo.”

Maura said, “This is very real. But first it requires a little history lesson, going back almost a century.” She turned to Zucker. “Do you want to give them the background?”

“I’m happy to. Because the history
is
fascinating,” said Zucker. “Around the time of World War One, in West Africa, there were numerous reports of mysterious deaths. The victims were men, women, and children. They were found with what appeared to be claw marks on their bodies, their throats slashed, their bellies eviscerated. Some of them had been partially consumed. These were all hallmarks of big-cat attacks, and one witness saw what he thought was a leopard
fleeing into the bush. Some monstrous cat was thought to be on the prowl, invading villages, attacking people as they slept.

“But local authorities soon realized a real leopard wasn’t behind the attacks. The killers were human, members of an ancient cult that goes back centuries. A secret society that identifies so strongly with leopards, its members believe they actually transform into the animal if they drink the victim’s blood or eat the victim’s flesh. They kill to make themselves powerful, to take on the strength of their totemic animal. To perform these ritual killings, the believer dons a leopard skin and uses steel claws to slash his victim.”

“A
leopard
skin?” said Jane.

Zucker nodded. “The theft of that snow leopard pelt takes on new significance, doesn’t it?”

“Does this leopard cult still exist in Africa?” asked Tam.

“There are rumors,” said Zucker. “During the 1940s, there were dozens of murders in Nigeria attributed to leopard men, a few even committed in broad daylight. Authorities cracked down by bringing in hundreds of additional police officers, who ultimately arrested and executed a number of suspects. The attacks ceased, but was the cult actually wiped out? Or did it simply go underground—and spread?”

“To Boston?” said Crowe.

“Hey, we’ve had cases involving voodoo and satanists here,” said Tam. “Why not leopard men?”

“Those killings by the leopard cult, in Africa,” said Frost. “What was the motive?”

“Some of it may have been political. The elimination of rivals,” Zucker said. “But that doesn’t explain the apparently random killing of women and children. No, there was something else behind it, the same thing that’s inspired ritual murder cults around the world. Vast numbers of people have been sacrificed for a variety of beliefs. Whether you kill to terrify your enemies or to appease gods like Zeus or Kali, it all gets down to one thing:
power
.” Zucker looked around the table, and once again Maura felt that cold reptilian kiss. “Add
up the peculiarities of these murders and you start to see the common thread: hunting as power. This killer may look perfectly ordinary and work at an ordinary job. These things don’t give him the thrill or the sense of power that killing does. So he travels in search of prey, and he has the means and freedom to do so. How many more deaths have been misclassified as wilderness accidents? How many hikers or campers who’ve gone missing were actually his victims?”

“Leon Gott wasn’t hiking or camping,” said Crowe. “He was killed in his own garage.”

“Perhaps to steal that leopard pelt,” said Zucker. “It’s this killer’s totemic symbol, to be used for ritual purposes.”

Frost said, “We know Gott bragged about the snow leopard in online hunting forums. He announced to everyone that he was commissioned to work on one of the rarest animals on earth.”

“Which again points to a hunter as your suspect. It makes sense, both symbolically and practically. This killer identifies with leopards, nature’s most perfect hunter. He’s also comfortable in the wild. But unlike other hunters, his quarry isn’t deer or elk; he chooses humans. Hikers or outdoorsmen. It’s the ultimate challenge, and he favors wilderness areas to stalk his prey. The mountains of Nevada. The Maine woods. Montana.”

“Botswana,” said Jane softly.

Zucker frowned at her. “Pardon?”

“Leon Gott’s son vanished in Botswana. He was with a group of tourists on safari in a remote area.”

At the mention of Elliot Gott, Maura’s pulse jolted into a gallop. “Just like the backpackers. Just like the hunters,” she said. “They go into the wild, and they’re never seen again.”
Patterns. It’s all about seeing the patterns
. She looked at Jane. “If Elliot Gott was one of his victims, that means this killer was stalking prey six years ago.”

Jane nodded. “In Africa.”

T
HE ELECTRONIC FILE HAD
been sitting in Jane’s laptop for days, sent to her from the Interpol National Central Bureau for Botswana. It was
nearly a hundred pages long and contained reports from the Botswana Police Service in Maun, the South African Police Service, and the Johannesburg branch of Interpol. When she’d first received the file, she’d been unconvinced of its relevance to Leon Gott’s murder six years later, and had only skimmed through it. But the disappearance of the hikers in Nevada and the hunters in Montana had unsettling parallels to Elliot Gott’s doomed safari, and now she settled down at her desk and clicked open the file. As phones rang in the homicide unit and Frost noisily crinkled sandwich wrappers at his desk, Jane once again read the file, but this time more carefully.

The report from Interpol contained a concise summary of the events and the investigation. On August 20 six years ago, seven tourists from four different countries boarded a bush plane in Maun, Botswana, and flew into the Okavango Delta. They were dropped off at a remote airstrip, where they were met by their bush guide and his tracker, both from South Africa. The safari would bring them deep into the Delta, where they would camp at a different location each night, traveling by truck, sleeping in tents, eating wild game. The bush guide’s website promised a “true wilderness adventure in one of the last remaining Edens on earth.”

For six of those seven unfortunate tourists, the adventure had been a journey into oblivion.

Jane clicked to the next page, a list of the known victims, their nationalities, and whether the remains had been recovered.

Sylvia Van Ofwegen (South Africa). Missing, presumed dead. No remains found.

Vivian Kruiswyk (South Africa). Deceased. Partial remains recovered, confirmed by DNA.

Elliot Gott (USA). Missing, presumed dead. No remains found.

Isao Matsunaga (Japan). Deceased, remains found buried at campsite. Confirmed by DNA.

Keiko Matsunaga (Japan). Missing, presumed dead. No remains found.

Richard Renwick (UK). Missing, presumed dead. No remains found.

Clarence Nghobo (South Africa). Deceased. Partial remains recovered. Confirmed by DNA.

She was about to click to the next page when she suddenly paused, her eye on one particular name on that victim list. A name that stirred a faint memory. Why did it seem familiar? She struggled to retrieve the image it conjured up. Saw, in her mind’s eye, another list, with the same name.

She swiveled around to Frost, who was happily devouring his usual turkey sandwich. “You have the Brandon Tyrone file from Maine?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you read it yet?”

“Yeah. Not much more to it than what Detective Barber told us.”

“There was a list of stolen items they found stashed in Tyrone’s garage. Can I see it again?”

Frost set down the sandwich and picked through the stack of files on his desk. “Don’t remember anything worth noting on it. Few cameras. Credit cards and an iPod …”

“Wasn’t there a silver cigarette lighter?”

“Yeah.” He pulled out a folder and handed it to her. “So?”

She flipped through the file until she found the list of items that Brandon Tyrone and Nick Thibodeau had stolen from tents and cars at the Maine campground. Scanning down the list, she came to the item she’d remembered.
Cigarette lighter, sterling silver. Engraved with name: R. Renwick
. She looked at her laptop. At the names of the victims in Botswana.

Richard Renwick (UK). Missing, presumed dead
.

“Holy shit,” she said, and reached for the phone.

“What is it?” said Frost.

“Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.” She punched in a phone number.

After three rings a voice answered: “Detective Barber.”

“Hey, it’s Jane Rizzoli, Boston PD. You know that file you gave us on Brandon Tyrone’s murder? There’s a list of items that you recovered from Tyrone’s garage.”

“Yeah. The stuff he and Nick stole from the campground.”

“Did you track down the owners of all these items?”

“Most of them. The credit cards, stuff with names attached were easy. After the news broke that we’d recovered stolen goods from the campground, a few other owners filed claims.”

“I’m interested in one item in particular. A sterling silver lighter with a name engraved on it.”

Barber said, without hesitation: “Nope. Never found the owner.”

“You’re sure no one claimed it?”

“Yep. I interviewed everyone who came in to claim property, just in case they’d witnessed something at the campground. Maybe saw Nick and Tyrone at the scene. No one ever came for the lighter, which surprised me. It’s sterling silver. Someone obviously paid a lot of money for it.”

“Did you try tracking down the name engraved on it? R. Renwick?”

Barber laughed. “Try doing a Google search on R. Renwick. You’ll turn up about twenty thousand results. All we could do was put it out on the news and hope the owner would call us. Maybe he didn’t hear about it. Maybe he never noticed he’d lost it.” Barber paused. “Why’re you asking about the lighter?”

“That name, R. Renwick. It turned up in another case. A victim, named Richard Renwick.”

“Which case?”

“Multiple murders, six years ago. In Botswana.”

“Africa?”
Barber snorted. “That’s a stretch. Don’t you think the name’s more likely to be a coincidence?”

Maybe, thought Jane as she hung up. Or maybe it was the one thing that tied all these cases together. Six years ago, Richard Renwick was murdered in Africa. A year later, a cigarette lighter with the
name
R. Renwick
turned up in Maine. Did it come to the US in a killer’s pocket?

“You want to tell me what’s going on?” said Frost as she dialed the phone again.

“I need to track someone down.”

He looked over her shoulder at the page displayed on her laptop. “The Botswana file? What does it have to do with—”

She held up a hand to silence him as she heard her husband’s usual brusque greeting. “Gabriel Dean.”

“Hey, Mr. Special Agent. Can you do me a favor?”

“Let me guess,” he said with a laugh. “We’re out of milk.”

“No, I need you to put on your Bureau cap. I want to find someone, and I have no idea where in the world she is. You’ve got that buddy at Interpol, in South Africa. Henk something.”

“Henk Andriessen.”

“Yeah, maybe he can help me.”

“This is an international case?”

“Multiple murders in Botswana. I told you about it. Those tourists who vanished on safari. The problem is, it’s been six years and I’m not sure where this person is now. I’m guessing she’s back in London.”

“What’s her name?”

“Millie Jacobson. The sole survivor.”

SOUTH AFRICA

E
VERY MORNING FOR THE PAST FIVE DAYS, A CARMINE BEE-EATER HAS
been visiting the bottlebrush tree. Even as I step into my back garden with a cup of coffee, the bird sits unruffled, a bright red ornament perched among the cheerful tangle of shrubs and flowers. I have worked hard on this garden, digging and composting, weeding and watering, transforming what was once a patch of scrub into my own private retreat. But on this warm November day, I scarcely register the summery blooms or the visiting bee-eater. Last night’s phone call has left me too shaken to think of anything else.

Christopher comes out to join me, and wrought iron scrapes across the patio stones as he sits down with his coffee at the garden table. “What are you going to do?” he asks.