There were others before her. You saw how elaborate Sarah’s death scene was, how much planning, how much ceremony was involved. This was a mature crime, by someone who’s had months, even years, to refine his rituals.”
“We requested a VICAP search. We looked for earlier kills.”
“Your search parameters?”
“Dismemberment. Satanic symbols. Yes, a few cases showed up from other states, but nothing that matched to our satisfaction.”
“Then widen the search.”
“Any wider, and it becomes useless. It’s too general, too big a net.”
“I’m talking internationally.”
“That’s a pretty big net.”
“There’s no net too big for this killer. Look at all the clues he’s left. Latin inscriptions. Drawings made with red ocher from Cyprus. A Mediterranean seashell. He’s practically announced to you that he’s lived abroad. And probably killed abroad. I guarantee you, if you search the Interpol database, you’ll find more of his victims.”
“How can you be so…” Jane paused, and her gaze suddenly narrowed. “You already know. You’ve checked.”
“I took the liberty. This killer has left distinctive tracks everywhere. He’s not afraid of the police. He’s utterly confident in his own ability to stay invisible.” He pointed to the photocopies. “Twelve years ago, the killer was living here. Already having his fantasies, already drawing those crosses.”
Jane looked at Maura. “I’m going to stay here at least another night. There are other people I need to talk to.”
“But I need to get home,” said Maura. “I can’t stay away that long.”
“Dr. Bristol can cover for you, can’t he?”
“I have other things I need to attend to.” Maura did not like the look Jane suddenly shot her.
“I’m driving back to Boston tonight,” said Sansone. “You can ride with me.”
TWENTY-NINE
“Detective Rizzoli didn’t look too happy when you took me up on my offer,” Sansone said.
“She’s unhappy about a lot of things these days,” said Maura, staring out at fields covered in a snowy white skin. Although the last light of day had faded, the moon was rising, and its reflection was bright as a lantern on the snow. “Me included.”
“I noticed the tension between you two.”
“It’s that obvious?”
“She doesn’t try to hide much, does she?” He shot her a glance in the dark car. “You two couldn’t be more different.”
“I’m finding that out more and more.”
“You’ve known each other long?”
“About two years. Since I took the job in Boston.”
“Has it always been this edgy between you?”
“No. It’s only because…” She fell silent.
“I’m glad we have this chance to talk in private,” he said. “Because what I’m about to tell you is going to sound absurd. And she’d dismiss it without a second thought.” Again he glanced at her. “I’m hoping you’ll be more willing to listen.”
“Because you think I’m less of a skeptic than she is? Don’t bet on it.”
“What did you think about the death scene today? What did it tell you about the killer?”
“I saw evidence of a severely disturbed mind.”
“That’s one possibility.”
“What’s your interpretation?”
“That there’s real intelligence behind this. Not just some nutcase getting his jollies by torturing women. This is someone with a focused and logical motive.”
“Your mythical demons, again.”
“I know you don’t accept their existence. But you saw that news article, about the barn that was defaced twelve years ago. Did anything else in that report stand out for you?”
“You mean, aside from the crosses carved in the barn?”
“The missing goat. There were four goats released from the barn, and the farmer recovered only three of them. What happened to the fourth?”
“Maybe it escaped. Maybe it got lost in the woods.”
“In Leviticus, chapter sixteen, another name for Azazel is ‘the scapegoat.’ He who assumes all the sins, all the evils, of mankind. By tradition, the chosen animal is led into the wilderness, taking humanity’s sins with it. And there it’s released.”
“We’re back to your symbol of Azazel again.”
“A drawing of his head appeared on your door. You can’t have forgotten that.”
“I know you’re skeptical,” he said. “I know you think this will turn out to be like so many other investigations. That it will lead to some rather ordinary, even pitiful character who lives quietly alone. Another Jeffrey Dahmer, or another Son of Sam. Maybe this killer hears voices. Maybe he’s read Anton LaVey’s
“The children of fallen angels?”
“That’s merely the biblical interpretation.”
“This is all biblical. And you know I don’t believe.”
“The Old Testament is not the only place where these creatures are mentioned. They appear in the myths of earlier cultures.”
“Every civilization has its mythical evil spirits.”
“I’m not talking about spirits, but flesh and blood, with human faces. A parallel species of predators who’ve evolved right alongside us. Interbred with us.”
“Wouldn’t we know of their existence by now?”
“We know them by the evil they commit. But we don’t recognize them for what they really are. We call them sociopaths or tyrants. Or Vlad the Impaler. They charm and seduce their way into positions of power and authority. They thrive on war, on revolution, on disorder. And we never realize they’re different from the rest of us. Different in a fundamental way that goes right to our genetic codes. They’re born predators, and the whole world is their hunting ground.”
“Is this what the Mephisto Foundation is all about? A search for these mythical creatures?” She laughed. “You might as well hunt for unicorns.”
“There are many of us who believe.”
“And what will you do when you actually find one? Shoot him and mount his head as a trophy?”
“We’re purely a research group. Our role is to identify and study. And advise.”
“Advise whom?”
“Law enforcement. We provide them with information and analysis. And they use what we give them.”
“Law enforcement agencies actually care what you have to say?” she asked, with an unmistakable note of disbelief.
“Yes. We are listened to” was all he said. The calm statement of a man so sure of his claims, he saw no need
