“So our unsub’s MO is a cultural ritual from thousands of years ago?” I asked.
Zach’s eyes were deadpan when they met mine. “That’s what I’m thinking.” He swept his gaze over the others. “Now, the Mayans had various rituals, but with the heart-extraction ritual, a conquering warrior carried out the sacrifice of his enemy.”
“If our unsub is mimicking this ritual, then it’s likely our unsub is male,” I reasoned.
“I’d lean that way, yes.”
“What exactly happens in this ritual?” Jack asked.
Zach cleared his throat. “Well, the sacrifice would be stripped and painted blue, a color that is now referred to as Mayan blue. It’s a durable dye that has been studied and analyzed extensively. Once blue, the sacrifice would be stretched over a round stone called a convex stone. This would make it so the sacrifice’s chest would be extended for easier heart extraction.”
“Could something like this pull joints apart?” Paige interjected.
Zach just nodded before continuing. “Then the nacom—that’s the conquering warrior—would use a knife made from flint or obsidian to cut out the heart.” Zach pointed to the remains, not that he needed to. The image was seared into my mind. “But that’s not all. After that, the victim’s heart would be given to a priest, who would smear the offered blood on idols’ faces. Sometimes they’d throw the body down the stairs of the temple and then it would be skinned. The officiating priest would then remove his black ritual attire and dress himself in the skin. Sometimes the victim was eaten by other ritual attendees, including warriors and bystanders.”
Zach relayed all this in a way that was completely devoid of emotion. I applauded his ability to detach because my stomach was beyond sour.
He looked at us each in turn again. “The victim’s skin would then be worn while performing a dance—”
“A dance?” Paige interrupted.
“What was their reason for doing all this?” I asked.
“The ritual was often in honor of Huitzilopochtli, a Mayan deity associated with warfare, the sun, and human sacrifice.”
Say that name five times fast…
“Wearing the skin was a way of symbolizing rebirth,” Zach added. He pressed his lips together, seeming proud of his recount of history.
Maybe I should pat myself on the back, too. The bile was staying down.
“How do the feet and hands tie into the ritual, Zach?” Paige asked.
“Ah, good question. Those body parts were the priest’s trophies.”
“In our case, it also makes identification next to impossible.” Jack pulled out a cigarette.
Pike came back to our huddle, slipping his cell phone into a shirt pocket. “Did someone mention the Mayans?”
“I did,” Zach said.
Pike’s eyes lit up. “Some people believe there’s a connection between Georgia and the Mayans.”
“Yes, I was going to get to that.” Zach smirked with confidence. “You seem up on your Mayan history, Lieutenant.”
Pike waved a hand. “Oh, no, not really. Honest to God, my wife is more into all this than I am, but as it turns out, I’m a good listener when she talks about it.”
“Go on,” Jack said drily.
Zach stuck his hands in his pockets and tapped a foot on the ground. His gaze was flitting about as if he was anxiously awaiting his turn to talk.
“Well, there have been remains found in Georgia that show cranial elongation just like the Mayans would do.”
“What else?” Jack’s impatience was tangible.
“They also found stone structures that mimic ones in the Yucatán. But that’s not the most interesting part.” Pike pointed to the torso. “Some people believe that the Mayans got the materials to make their blue paint from the land here in Georgia.”
-
Chapter 15
“OKAY, NOW BEFORE WE GET too carried away with the assumption that the blue paint on the torso is the same as this Mayan blue, let’s focus on what we do know.” Jack was pacing the room back at the precinct while Paige, Zach, and I were seated at the table. We’d been at the crime scene for hours before regrouping here, and the hands on the clock were moving fast.
“Even if the blue isn’t the same, other elements in the unsub’s MO match up with the ritual,” I began. “What if we’re looking for someone of Mexican heritage?”
“Or someone who has studied it,” Paige pitched in.
“It could be a teacher or professor of Mayan culture,” Zach opined.
Pike came into the room then. “I’ve got a lot for you.”
“That’s what we like to hear,” Jack said.
“The search of the public areas near the river came back clean. Same with the officers who took boats down the river. No sign of any graves. But there have been more remains pulled from the river since you left. Teams are still working down there.”
I wondered how many victims we’d get up to.
Pike continued. “I’ve also heard from the anthropologist. The arm found on Monday belonged to a twentysomething white male, so we won’t need Stanley Gilbert’s DNA to rule him out.”
“That’s the same as the victims’ remains found last week,” I said. It didn’t mean Stanley’s remains weren’t going to be found, but with another victim being confirmed as a male in his twenties, Stanley—who was almost forty-one—didn’t fit the mold.
Zach cleared his throat. “What about the blue—”
“The paint will be tested, and as soon as I hear anything, you will,” Pike interrupted.
Paige looked at Jack. “I’d say we’ve found our killer’s type, and it’s another indication that the unsub is a man. It would be hard for an average woman to overpower these victims.” Paige lifted her coffee cup to her lips and paused with it suspended there. “Not that it’s impossible… If our unsub is a woman, she could have used a weapon or be exceptionally strong. We know that there was no evidence of the victim being drugged, though.”
“I think we’re looking for a male unsub, too,” Zach said. “In Mayan culture, women were important to society, but they didn’t get involved with the heart-extraction sacrifice.”
“I don’t know how long the Mayans took with their sacrifices, but we know that this torso was covered in a blue paint or dye. If they followed the ritual, they would have painted the entire body blue,” I said. “And if this guy is working by himself—we have no reason to believe otherwise right now—that would take awhile. Probably enough time for any drugs to leave the victim’s system.” I agreed with Paige and Zach, but playing devil’s advocate was part of the job.
“True,” Zach said, but then changed the subject. “For the Mayans, only select individuals were offered for sacrifice. In the case of heart extraction, it was conquered warriors of high station. By extension, our unsub is likely being very selective about his victims. We can already tell that he sticks to the ritual…at least mostly.” He took a sip from his coffee cup.
“What do you mean mostly?” I asked.
“Well, if he’d adhered to the ritual strictly, then the skin would have been removed from the torso, but it wasn’t.”
“Maybe he decides in the moment whether he’s going to skin them or not,” Paige suggested.
“If that’s the case, he’s not adhering strictly to the ritual,” Zach stated.
“So he’s either not completely educated on it or he’s choosing to make exceptions,” I added. No one said anything, so I continued. “He doesn’t seem to be making exceptions when it comes to his criteria for picking his victims, though. All the remains so far were from twentysomething males. Did someone that age wrong the unsub or did something pivotal happen to him as a young adult?” I was just thinking out loud now.
“Not sure if we can take that leap, Brandon,” Zach stated soberly. “If he is performing the ritual, t
he gender and age of the victims can’t be used as a basis for profiling. The unsub would be picking young men in the prime of their lives because they were worthy adversaries, worthy sacrifices.”
“The question is, how do these young men go missing without anyone noticing?” Paige asked. “Do we really think they’re all homeless or estranged from family, without friends?”
Zach shook his head. “The more I think about it, I don’t think so. Men like that wouldn’t strike our unsub as worthy adversaries.”
“And if there are no recent reports of missing people from Savannah, it’s safe to say he’s picking his ‘adversaries’ from another area,” Paige said.
“That means the unsub is hunting elsewhere and bringing his sacrifices back to this area where he does his thing and then kills and disposes of the bodies,” I summarized.
“And he’s likely not selecting his victims from the same vicinity or the similarities would get flagged in the system,” Zach noted.
Not targeting the same vicinity…
“Our unsub must have a means of travel, then. A long-distance truck driver who likes to bring his victims home, maybe?” I suggested.
“Hmm. I’ll call Nadia to check on any individuals in the area who drive rigs,” Jack said. “I’ll have her examine any drivers’ routes, too, and see if any missing persons matching our victimology intersect.”
“There’s something else the anthropologist told me,” Pike chimed in. “The arm found on Monday was broken in the past.”
“Does she know how long ago the injury happened?” Jack asked. “That could help us find his identity.”
Pike nodded. “Around ten years ago.”
I did the math based on the age range of the victim. “He would have been between ten and nineteen.”
Pike turned to leave the room but stopped and spun around. “Actually, one more thing. Garrett Campbell will be conducting the autopsy on the torso first thing tomorrow morning. I figure you’ll want to be there.” Pike spoke as if Jack was the only one in the room. “Feel free to bring your team.”
“Wait,” I called out to Pike.
He came back into the room and cocked his head.
Everyone else seemed so fixated on the fact that we had a victimology type, there was someone else who was slipping through the cracks. “Where does this leave Stanley Gilbert?”
They all looked at me.
“His phone was in the river and he’s just seemingly vanished,” I continued. “What if he is the killer? Pike mentioned he doesn’t have a backbone. If he was that way all his life, he could have been bullied. Often kids who are bullied grow up to become involved in serial crime, sometimes killers, just to assume some control over their lives.”
“Statistically speaking,” Paige said.
“Which we rely on heavily,” I fired back, and then I addressed Pike. “I’d like a full background on Stanley.”
“Be my guest.” He gestured for me to follow him. He led me through a bunch of hallways and finally pointed to a desk with a computer. “Use this one.”
I sat down, and he leaned over the desk and brought up the database. I typed in Stanley’s name, and within seconds, his face was looking back at me. The address on file matched where Jack and I had spoken to his wife. I suddenly remembered how the property backed up against the river.
I shook my head. I’d need more to substantiate a warrant for the property.
“You all right here?” Pike asked me.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Pike left.
I went back to the screen, and my eyes landed on Stanley’s previous address: Lansing, Michigan.
A northern accent…
A closer look at the report told me the Gilberts had moved to Savannah five years ago, but I was wondering about something else. I picked up my phone and dialed Nadia. “I need a favor.”
“Brandon?”
“That’s me. Listen, I need to know if Stanley Gilbert and his wife, Darla, own any other property besides their home.”
“One minute,” she said. Keys were being clicked in the background, and I envisioned Nadia madly typing away. A few minutes later, she said, “Other than their house, there are no other deeds in either of their names.”
“Thanks, Nadia.”
“Sure, don’t mention it.” She hung up before I could say good-bye.
I tapped my fingers on the desk in front of me, then brought up the backgrounds for Stanley’s parents—Cecil and Arlene—starting with the mother.
The address staring back at me was in Lansing, Michigan, and her face was one I’d seen before in Shane Park’s photo. I printed everything off and brought it back to the room.
Jack had Nadia on speaker.
“I didn’t find any criminal cases in Savannah similar enough to get my attention, Jack. Solved or unsolved,” she said. “But Missing Persons came back with a hit from five years ago here in Savannah. His name was Colin West and he was twenty when he was reported missing by his parents. That information is coming to all of you now.”
Our phones chimed.
“Good job, Nadia,” Jack said before ending the call and looking at me. “What have you got?”
I shared everything that I had learned and passed around the paperwork.
“Could be a coincidence,” Jack said.
I stared at him blankly. “You don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Okay, Brandon, let’s say these things don’t look good for the guy,” Paige started. “He’s not of Mexican heritage and he’s not a truck driver. How can we connect him to Mayan culture? How would he transport the bodies?”
I didn’t like the answer that immediately fired in my head, and I looked at Jack. “We’ve got to speak with Darla again.”
“Agreed, and while we’re doing that,” Jack said, addressing Paige and Zach, “you two speak with the parents who reported their son missing five years ago.”
-
Chapter 16
IT WAS ABOUT SEVEN AT night and it had been about twenty-four hours since Jack and I had visited Darla the first time. And, here, we were back again. Lucky us… But this time we’d approach things as if Stanley was our unsub.
She greeted us with, “Did you find him?” Sadly, I sensed she wasn’t too concerned about Stanley’s welfare but, rather, missing her lackey.
Jack stood with his back straight, his hands clasped in front of him. “We’d like to come in as we have a few more questions about your husband.”
She stared at Jack for a few seconds, but then let us in. We returned to the living room where we had sat the day before.
“We don’t believe your husband is one of our victims,” Jack began. “In fact, your husband is now wanted for questioning in regards to the murders themselves.”
Darla didn’t so much as blink slower, shift her body, or give any indication that she’d heard what Jack had said. Either she thought Stanley was capable of murder and mutilation, or she was hard of hearing. Maybe she was in shock, though it seemed a stretch for her.
“Did you hear me, Mrs. Gilbert?” Jack paused. “He’s a suspect for the murders.”
“I heard you. I’m not deaf.” Heat licked her voice.
Jack pursed his lips. “You don’t seem too surprised.”
Darla shrugged. “Should I be? And yesterday you believed he might have been a victim.” There was no emotion as she nonchalantly discussed her husband’s potential murder.
Jack glanced at me, and I assumed I was to take the conversation from here.
Stanley likely had little need to travel as an investment banker, but there was a question that we needed to ask anyway. “Did your husband’s job ever take him on the road?”
“Why would it?” she spat. “He had a desk job.”
I took a few paced breaths to calm my redheaded temper. “N
o conferences or work events?”
“No.”
“What about for pleasure? Did he go away for—”
“No. I’m telling you, this is the longest we’ve been apart—from Monday until tonight—since we got married seventeen years ago.”
Stanley might be our unsub, but in a way, I felt sorry for the man. “He never took a vacation and went somewhere without you?”
Darla jabbed a pointed finger toward me but addressed Jack. “His ears need to be checked.”
Heat laced down the back of my neck, and I tried to calm myself down with the sentiments that she wasn’t worth losing my temper over and that we’d soon be gone. “It’s important that you cooperate with us,” I said.
“I am, but I’m also telling you we weren’t ever apart except for when he went for work or ran errands for me.”
“What kind of errands?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes. “You know, groceries, other odds and ends that needed buying or doing.”
We didn’t have proof that Stanley traveled without his wife’s knowledge, but he could have beefed up the time it took for him to run errands. “Did he ever take an extraordinary amount of time with any of these activities?”
Both Jack and Darla looked at me. I would’ve sworn that Jack seemed impressed by my question.
“Not that I can recall.” Darla eyed me critically. “Why? Do you think he chopped up people between grocery runs?”
Yes, that’s exactly what I’m wondering…
“You said that Stanley spent all his time with you”—looking at Darla, it was easy to see what could cause the guy to snap—“but did he have any friends?”
“How the hell would I know?”
I don’t know… You were married to him for seventeen years!
We were going to have to speak to Stanley’s boss and coworkers. Hopefully, we’d be able to get some names from them.
“When did you meet Stanley?” Jack inserted himself back into the conversation.
“We met in college. I just saw something in him.”
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