“You said they were hunters, so they would have been armed,” said Frost. “How does a killer take down three men with guns?”
“Good question. One rifle was never found. The other two firearms were still in the men’s tents. The victims must have been taken by surprise.”
Up till now, Jane had looked skeptical. Now she leaned forward, her full attention on Tam. “Tell me more about that woman backpacker in Nevada. What did the ME say about manner of death?”
“In that case, a cougar attack was also considered a possibility. But we’re talking about four backpackers, and two of them were men. The manner of death was left ‘undetermined.’ ”
“Could a cougar take down four adults all by itself?”
“I don’t know,” said Tam. “We’d have to consult with a big-cat specialist. Even if a cougar did kill all four backpackers, there’s one detail that bothered the ME. It’s the reason why the female victim was added to the VICAP database.”
“A sternal cut mark?”
“Yes. And three bullet casings. They were found nearby, on the ground. The backpackers weren’t armed, but obviously someone else in the area was.” Tam looked around the table at the three detectives. “I started off looking at nylon cord, and ended up with a completely different set of common denominators. Evisceration. Elevation. And areas where hunters might be found.”
“What about that petty thief in Maine, the one found sliced open and hanging in a tree?” asked Frost. “You said they identified a suspect for that case.”
Tam nodded. “The suspect’s name is Nick Thibodeau, the victim’s so-called buddy. White male, six foot two, two hundred pounds. He has prior convictions of breaking and entering, theft, assault and battery.”
“So a history of violence.”
“Definitely. And get this: Thibodeau’s an avid deer hunter.” Tam rotated his laptop to show them a photo of a young man with close-cropped hair and a direct gaze. He stood beside his trophy, a partially skinned buck that hung suspended by its back legs from a tree. Even in bulky hunting garb, it was obvious that Nick Thibodeau was muscular and powerful, with a thick neck and beefy hands.
“This photo was taken about six years ago, so picture him a little older now,” said Tam. “He grew up in Maine, knows the wilderness, and knows his way around a gun. Based on this photo, he also knows how to take apart a deer.”
“And maybe other large game,” said Maura. “There’s our common thread: hunting. Maybe deer got boring for Thibodeau. Maybe killing a man gave him such a thrill, he decided to pursue more challenging prey. Consider the timing of these kills. Five years ago, Thibodeau’s buddy is killed, hung, and gutted. Thibodeau vanishes. A year later, four unarmed backpackers are attacked in Nevada. A year after that, it’s three armed hunters in Montana. This killer keeps raising the stakes, making the challenge more exciting. And maybe the risks as well.”
“Leon Gott would have been a challenging target, too,” Frost agreed. “He was armed to the teeth and well known to the hunting crowd. The killer would have heard about him.”
“But why would this hunter go after Jane Doe?” Crowe said. “A woman? Where’s the challenge in that?”
Jane snorted. “Yeah, ’cause we’re such weak, helpless creatures. For all you know, she could have been a hunter herself.”
“Don’t forget Jodi Underwood. She was a woman,” said Frost. “And her murder seems connected to Gott’s.”
“I think Jane Doe’s the one we should focus on,” said Tam. “If she was killed more than six years ago, she might be one of the very first victims. Identifying her could be key to cracking this case.”
Jane closed the folder and regarded Tam. “You and Maura seem to be quite the team. When did that happen?”
“When she asked me to search VICAP for any similar cases,” said Tam. “I took it from there.”
Jane looked at Maura. “You could’ve called me.”
“I could have,” admitted Maura. “But all I had to go on were my instincts. And I didn’t want to waste your time.” She stood to leave. “Thank you, Detective Tam. You covered all the bases, and there’s nothing I have to add. So I’ll get back to the morgue.” The place where I really belong, among the obedient dead, she thought, and walked out of the conference room.
As she stepped into the elevator, Jane slipped in beside her.
“Talk to me,” Jane said as the door slid shut, leaving no escape from this conversation. “Why’d you go to Tam?”
Maura stared straight ahead at the floor light indicator. “He was willing to help me.”
“And I wasn’t?”
“You didn’t agree with me about the similarities.”
“Did you ever ask me specifically to do a database search for you?”
“Tam was filing a VICAP report anyway, for Jane Doe. He’s new to homicide, and he’s eager to prove himself. He was open to my theory.”
“And I’m just a jaded cynic.”
“You’re a skeptic, Jane. I’d have to talk you into doing it, and that was too much effort.”
“Too much effort? Between friends?”
“Even between friends,” Maura said and stepped out of the elevator.
Jane wasn’t ready to be shaken off and kept pace as Maura walked out of the building and headed to the parking garage. “You’re still ticked off that I didn’t agree with you.”
“No.”
“Yes you are, or you’d have asked me, and not Tam.”
“You refused to see the parallels between Gott and Jane Doe, but they’re there. I feel it.”
“Feel it? Since when did you start listening to hunches instead of evidence?”
“You’re the one who always talks about instinct.”
“But you never do. You’re always about facts and logic, so what’s changed?”
Maura halted beside her car but did not unlock it. Just stood beside the door, staring at her own reflection in the window. “She wrote me again,” she said. “My mother.”
There was a long silence. “And you didn’t just toss the letter away?”
“I couldn’t, Jane. There are things I need to know before she dies. Why she gave me up. Who I really am.”
“You know who you are, and it has nothing to do with her.”
“How do you know that?” She took a step toward Jane. “Maybe you’re only seeing what I let you see. Maybe I’ve hidden the truth.”
“What, that you’re some kind of monster like her?” Maura had moved so close they were now standing eye-to-eye, but Jane merely laughed. “You’re the least scary person I know. Well, except for Frost. Amalthea’s a freak, but she didn’t pass that on to you.”
“She did pass on one thing. We both see the darkness. Where everyone else sees sunshine, we notice what’s in the shadows. The child with bruises, the wife who’s too afraid to speak. The house where the curtains are always shut. Amalthea called it a gift for recognizing evil.” Maura pulled an envelope out of her purse and handed it to Jane.
“What’s this?”
“Items she collects from newspapers. She saves everything where I’m mentioned and follows every case I’m working on.”
“Including Gott and Jane Doe.”
“Of course.”
“Now I know where this is coming from. Amalthea Lank tells you there’s a connection, and you believe her.” Jane shook her head. “Didn’t I warn you about her? She’s playing you.”
“She sees things no one else does. Spots the clues lost among all the details.”
“How can she? She doesn’t have access to the details.”
“Even in prison, she hears things. People tell her, or write her, or send her news clippings. She sees connections, and she was right about this one.”
“Yeah. If she weren’t a convicted killer, she’d make a great crime analyst.”
“Maybe she would. After all, she is my mother.”
Jane raised both hands, a gesture of surrender. “Okay. You want to give her that powe
r, I can’t stop you. But I know a mistake when I see one.”
“And you’re always so happy to point it out.”
“Who else is going to say it? That’s what a friend does, Maura. She stops you before you screw up your life again.”
Again. Maura could offer no retort and she stared back in silence, stung by the truth of what Jane had said. Again. She thought of all the times Jane had tried to stop her from making the mistake that still haunted her all these months later. As she and Father Daniel Brophy had circled closer and closer, drawn into a love affair with no possible happy ending, Jane had been the voice of reason, warning her of heartbreak ahead. A voice that Maura had ignored.
“Please,” Jane said quietly. “I just don’t want you to be hurt.” She reached for Maura’s arm with the stalwart grasp of a friend. “You’re so smart in every other way.”
“Except when it comes to people.”
Jane laughed. “People are the problem, aren’t they?”
“Maybe I should stick to cats,” Maura said as she opened her car door and slid inside. “With them, at least you know exactly where you stand.”
Twenty
Lobster and moose and wild blueberries. That’s what most people imagined when they thought about the state of Maine, but Jane’s images were far grimmer. She thought of dark woods and murky bogs and all the hidden places where a human being could vanish. And she thought of the last time she and Frost had made this drive north, only five months earlier, on a night that had ended in a mist of blood and death. For Jane, Maine was no Vacationland; it was a place where bad things happened.
Five years ago, a bad thing happened to a petty thief named Brandon Tyrone.
The rain turned to icy pellets as they drove north on Coastal Route 1, Frost at the wheel. Even with the heater blowing, Jane’s feet were chilled and she wished she’d pulled on boots that morning, instead of the thin flats she was now wearing. As much as she hated to acknowledge that summer was over, all it took was a glance out the car window at bare trees and gunmetal-gray skies to see that the darkest season had arrived. It seemed they were driving into winter itself.
Frost slowed down as they passed two hunters in blaze orange, hefting a gutted doe into a parked pickup truck. He gave a sad shake of his head. “Bambi’s mom.”
“November. It’s that time of year.”
“With all these guns blasting away, it makes me nervous crossing the state line. Bang! Bagged another Masshole!”
“You ever hunted?”
“Never wanted to.”
“Because of Bambi’s mom?”
“It’s not like I’m against hunting. I just don’t see the fun of it, lugging a rifle into the woods. Freezing your ass off. And then …” He shuddered.
“Having to gut a deer?” She laughed. “Naw, I can’t see you doing it.”
“Well, could you?”
“If I had to. It is where meat comes from.”
“No, meat comes from the supermarket, where it’s wrapped in plastic. No guts involved.”
Outside their car, bare branches dripped icy water and dark clouds hung on the horizon. It was a miserable day to be tramping in the woods, and when they finally arrived at the trailhead parking lot two hours later, she was not surprised to find no other cars. They sat for a moment, eyeing the gloomy woods and leaf-littered picnic tables.
“Well, we’re here. So where is he?” she said.
“He’s only ten minutes late.” Frost pulled out his cell phone. “No signal. How we gonna reach him?”
Jane pushed open her door. “Well, I can’t wait. I’m going to take a little walk in the woods.”
“You sure you want to go out there? Hunting season?”
She pointed to the NO HUNTING sign nailed to a nearby tree. “This area’s posted. Should be safe.”
“I think we should wait in the car for him.”
“No, I really can’t wait. I gotta pee.” She climbed out and started toward the woods. The wind cut right through her thin trousers, and her bladder ached in the cold. She tramped a few yards into the trees, but November had stripped them of leaves, and through the bare branches, she could still see the car. She kept walking, and the silence of the woods made every snap of a twig sound like a startling explosion. Ducking behind a clump of evergreen saplings, she unzipped her pants and squatted, hoping that no one would hike by and see her in all her bare-assed glory.
A gunshot echoed.
Before she could jump back to her feet, she heard Frost calling her name. Heard footsteps crashing toward her through the underbrush. Suddenly there he was, and he was not alone; a few steps behind him was a beefy man who eyed her in amusement as she yanked up her pants.
“We heard a gunshot,” said a red-faced Frost, quickly averting his eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Forget about it,” Jane snapped as she finally managed to zip up. “It’s posted for no hunting. Who the hell’s shooting?”
“Sound could’ve come from up the valley,” said the heavyset man. “And you folks shouldn’t be out in the woods without blaze orange.” Certainly no one could miss the neon-bright vest he was wearing over his parka. “You must be Rizzoli.” He glanced down at where she’d been squatting and didn’t offer a handshake.
“This is Detective Barber, Maine State Police,” said Frost.
Barber gave her a curt tip of the head. “I was surprised when you folks called yesterday. Never thought Nick Thibodeau would end up in Boston.”
“We’re not saying he did,” said Jane. “We just want to get a better handle on him. Who he is, and whether he might be the guy we’re looking for.”
“Well, you wanted to see where we found Tyrone’s body five years ago. So let me show you.”
He led the way, tramping confidently through the underbrush. Within a few steps, Jane snagged her trouser leg on a spiky blackberry cane and had to stop to disentangle herself. When she looked up again, Barber’s blaze-orange vest was already bobbing far ahead, beyond a tangle of bare branches.
Another gunshot thundered in the distance. And here I am wearing black and brown, just like a bear. She scrambled after Barber, anxious to reach the safety of that neon orange. By the time she caught up, Barber had steered them onto a groomed trail.
“Pair of campers from Virginia found Tyrone’s body,” said Barber, not bothering to glance back to see if she’d kept up. “They had a dog with ’em, and he led ’em straight to it.”
“Yeah, it’s always the dogs who find ’em out here,” said Frost, suddenly sounding like an expert on bodies in the wilderness.
“It was late summer, so the trees were leafed out, hid it from view. Might’ve smelled it themselves if the wind was blowing the right way. But things are always dying out in the woods, so you expect to come across a dead animal now and then. What you don’t expect is some guy hanging upside down with his belly slit open.” He nodded ahead at the trail. “We’re coming up on the spot.”
“How do you know?” said Jane. “These trees all look alike to me.”
“Because of that.” He pointed to a NO HUNTING sign posted alongside the trail. “Past this sign, it’s just a few dozen paces into the woods.”
“You think the location’s significant? Was this sign meant as some kind of message?”
“Yeah. It’s a big fuck you to authority.”
“Or maybe this is the message: No hunting. Because one of our victims in Boston was a hunter and we’re wondering if the killer is making a political point.”
Barber shook his head. “Then you’re looking for the wrong man here. Nick Thibodeau was no animal rights nut. Hunting was his thing.” He headed off the trail, into the woods. “Let me show you the tree.”
With every step, the cold seemed to deepen. Jane’s shoes were damp, and the chill was now seeping through the leather. The dead leaves were calf-deep here, and they hid mud holes and ankle-snagging roots. On that warm day in August five years ago, the killer would have had a far pleas
anter stroll through these woods, although mosquitoes might have swarmed, stirred up by his passage. Was the victim still alive, walking willingly beside him, unaware of his companion’s intentions? Or was Brandon Tyrone already dead, slung like a gutted deer across the killer’s shoulders?
“This is the tree,” said Barber. “He was hanging upside down from that branch.”
Jane looked up at the branch where a few brown leaves still clung quivering to the twigs. She saw nothing to distinguish this particular oak from any other tree, no hint of what had dangled from that branch five years ago. It was an ordinary tree that told no secrets.
“Tyrone had been dead about two days, according to the ME,” said Barber. “Hanging up there, the only wildlife that could reach him was birds and insects, so he was still in one piece.” He paused. “Except for the guts, which would’ve been scavenged right away.” He stared up at the branch, as if he could see Brandon Tyrone still suspended there, shaded by the summer canopy of leaves. “We never found his wallet or his clothes. Probably disposed of, to make him harder to ID.”
“Or he took them as a trophy,” said Jane. “The way hunters take an animal’s skin, to remind them of the thrill.”
“Naw, I doubt he meant it as any kind of ritual. Nicko was just being practical, as usual.”
Jane looked at Barber. “You sound like you know the suspect.”
“I do. We grew up in the same town, so I know him and his brother Eddie.”
“How well?”
“Enough to know those boys were trouble from way back. At twelve, Nick was already stealing loose change out of the other kids’ jackets. At fourteen, he was breaking into cars. At sixteen, it was houses. The victim, Brandon Tyrone, was the same story. Nick and Tyrone, they’d come out here together, steal stuff out of campers’ tents and cars. After Nick killed Tyrone, we found a bag of stolen items hidden in Tyrone’s garage. Maybe that’s why they had a falling-out. There was some nice stuff in that bag. Cameras, a silver cigarette lighter, a wallet full of credit cards. I think they got in a fight over how to divide it, and Tyrone lost. Mean little bastard. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”
Die Again: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel Page 18
