Rhodes looked down at the toppled bucket and rake. “She probably never saw him coming.”
The human body contains five liters of blood, and this was where Debbie Lopez had spilled most of hers. It had still been wet when others walked through it; Maura saw multiple footprints and smears across the concrete. “If he attacked her here,” she said, “why did he drag her to the back of the cage? Why not consume her where she fell?”
“Because a leopard’s instinct is to guard his kill. In the wild, there’d be scavengers who’d fight him for it. Lions and hyenas. So leopards move their kill out of reach.”
Blood smears marked the leopard’s progress as he had dragged his prize of human flesh along the concrete path. In that trail of streaks and swipes, one clear paw print stood out, startling evidence of the size and power of this killer. The trail led to the rear of the enclosure. At the base of a massive artificial boulder lay the body, covered with an olive-green blanket. The dead leopard sprawled nearby, jaws gaping open.
“He dragged the body up onto the ledge,” said Rhodes. “We pulled her down to do CPR.”
Maura looked up at the boulder and saw the dried stream of blood that had trickled from the ledge. “He got her all the way up there?”
Rhodes nodded. “That’s how powerful they are. They can haul a heavy kudu into a tree. Their instinct is to go high and leave the carcass hanging over a branch, where they can gorge undisturbed. That’s what he was about to do when Greg shot him. By then, Debbie was already gone.”
Maura donned gloves and crouched down to pull aside the blanket. One glance at what was left of the victim’s throat told her that the attack was not survivable. In appalled silence she stared at the crushed larynx and exposed trachea, at a neck ripped open so deeply that the head lolled back, nearly decapitated.
“That’s how they do it,” said Rhodes, his gaze averted, his voice unsteady. “Cats are designed by nature to be perfect killing machines, and they go straight for the throat. They crush the spine, tear open the jugular and carotids. At least they make sure their prey’s dead before they start feeding. I’m told it’s a quick death. Exsanguination.”
Not quick enough. Maura pictured Debbie Lopez’s agonal seconds, the blood pulsing like a water cannon from her severed carotids. It would also flood into her torn trachea, drowning her lungs. A rapid death, yes, but for this victim, those final seconds of terror and suffocation must have seemed an eternity.
She pulled the blanket back over the dead woman’s face and turned her attention to the leopard. It was a magnificent animal, with a massive chest and a lustrous pelt that gleamed in the dappled sunlight. She stared at razor-sharp teeth and imagined how easily they would crush and tear a woman’s throat. With a shudder she rose to her feet and saw, through the exhibit bars, that the morgue retrieval team had arrived.
“She loved this cat,” said Rhodes, gazing down at Rafiki. “After he was born, she bottle-fed him like a baby. I don’t think she ever imagined he’d do this to her. And that’s what really killed her. She forgot he was the predator, and we’re his prey.”
Maura peeled off her gloves. “Has the family been notified?”
“She has a mother in St. Louis. Our director, Dr. Mikovitz, has already called her.”
“My office will need her contact information. For the funeral arrangements after the autopsy.”
“Is an autopsy really necessary?”
“The cause of death seems obvious, but there are always questions that need to be answered. Why did she make this fatal mistake? Was she impaired by drugs or alcohol or some medical condition?”
He nodded. “Of course. I didn’t even think of that. But I’d be shocked if you found any drugs in her system. That just wouldn’t be the woman I knew.”
The woman you believed you knew, thought Maura as she walked out of the cage. Every human on this earth had secrets. She thought of her own, so closely guarded, and how startled her colleagues would be to learn of them. Even Jane, who knew her best of all.
As the morgue retrieval team wheeled the stretcher into the enclosure, Maura stood on the public pathway, gazing over the railing at what the visitors would have seen. The spot where the leopard first attacked was out of view, hidden by a wall, and shrubbery would have obscured the dragging of the body. But the rock ledge where he’d guarded his kill was clearly visible, and it was now marked by the gruesome trail of blood that had dripped down the boulder.
No wonder people had been shrieking.
A shiver rippled across Maura’s skin, like the chill breath of a predator. Turning, she glanced around. Saw Dr. Rhodes huddled in conversation with worried zoo officials. Saw a pair of zookeepers comforting each other. No one was looking at Maura; no one even seemed to notice she was there. But she could not shake the sensation of being watched.
Then she spotted him, through the bars of a nearby enclosure. His tawny coat was almost invisible against the sand-colored boulder where he crouched. His powerful muscles were poised to spring. Silently tracking his prey, his eyes were fixed on her. Only on her.
She looked at the placard mounted on the railing. PUMA CONCOLOR. A cougar.
And she thought: I never would have seen him coming, either.
NINE
“JERRY O’BRIEN’S A BOMB THROWER. OR HE PLAYS ONE ON THE RADIO, anyway,” said Frost as they drove northwest into Middlesex County, Jane at the wheel. “On his show last week, he was ranting about the animal rights crowd. Compared them to grass-eating rodents, and wondered how dumb bunnies got to be so vicious.” Frost laughed as he pulled up the audio file on his laptop. “Here’s the part you’ve got to hear, about hunting.”
“You think he really believes the shit he says?” she asked.
“Who knows? It gets him an audience, anyway, ’cause he’s syndicated all the way to the moon.” Frost tapped on his keyboard. “Okay, this is last week’s show. Listen to this.”
Maybe you eat chicken or enjoy a steak once in a while. You pick it up at the grocery store, wrapped up nicely in plastic. What makes you think you’re morally superior to the hunter who hauls himself out of bed at four A.M., who endures the cold and exhaustion to hike through the woods with a heavy gun? Who waits patiently in the brush, maybe for hours? Who spends a lifetime honing his skill with a firearm—and trust me, people, it is a skill to be able to hit a target. Who on God’s green earth has the right to begrudge the hunter his right to engage in an ancient, honored occupation that has fed families since the beginning of human history? These metrosexual snobs who have no problem eating their steak frites in a fancy French restaurant have the audacity to tell us red-blooded hunters we’re cruel for killing a deer. Where do they think meat comes from?
And don’t get me started on wild-eyed vegetarians. Hey, animal lovers! You got a cat or a dog, right? What do you feed your beloved pooch or puss? Meat. M. E. A. T. You might as well take your anger out on Fluffy!
Frost paused the recording. “Which reminds me, I dropped by Gott’s house this morning. Didn’t see the white cat, but all the food I left last night was gone. I refilled the bowl and changed the litter box.”
“And Detective Frost gets the merit badge for pet care.”
“What’re we gonna do about him? You think Dr. Isles wants another cat?”
“I think she already regrets the one she has. Why don’t you adopt it?”
“I’m a guy.”
“So?”
“So it’d feel weird, having a cat.”
“What, do they steal your manhood?”
“It’s all about image, you know? If I bring home a girl, what’s she gonna think when she sees I have a fluffy white cat?”
“Oh yeah, like your goldfish gives a much better impression.” She nodded at his laptop. “So what else does O’Brien have to say?”
“Listen to this part,” said Frost, and clicked PLAY.
… but no, these grass-eating rodents, vicious bunnies who dine every day on lettuce, they’re more bloodthirsty th
an any carnivore. And believe me, friends, I hear from them. They threaten to string me up and gut me like a deer. Threaten to burn me, cut me, strangle me, crush me. Would you believe this comes from the lips of vegetarians? Friends, beware the lettuce eaters. There’s no one on earth more dangerous than your so-called animal lovers.
Jane looked at Frost. “Maybe they’re even more dangerous than he realizes,” she said.
WITH A WEEKLY SHOW syndicated to six hundred radio stations, reaching an audience of over twenty million listeners, Jerry “Big Mouth” O’Brien could afford the best, a fact made abundantly clear from the moment Jane and Frost drove past the guarded gatehouse onto O’Brien’s estate. The rolling pastures and grazing horses could be on a farm somewhere in Virginia or Kentucky; it was an unexpectedly bucolic setting only an hour outside Boston. They drove past a farm pond and up a grassy slope dotted with white sheep, to the massive log-built residence at the top of the hill. With its wide porches and massive timber posts, it looked more like a hunting lodge than a private home.
They had just pulled up to the building when they heard the first gunshots.
“What the hell?” said Frost as they both unsnapped their holsters.
More gunshots rang out in rapid succession, then silence. Too long a silence.
Jane and Frost lurched out of the car and were already bounding up the porch steps, guns drawn, when the front door suddenly swung open.
A chubby-cheeked man greeted them with a pasted-on smile so big it had to be fake. He saw the two Glocks pointed at his chest and said, with a laugh: “Whoa now, there’s no need for that. You must be Detectives Rizzoli and Frost.”
Jane kept her weapon level. “We heard gunshots.”
“It’s only target practice. Jerry’s got a nice shooting range downstairs. I’m his personal assistant, Rick Dolan. Come on in.”
Another burst of gunfire rang out. Jane and Frost glanced at each other, then simultaneously reholstered their weapons.
“Sounds like some major firepower,” said Jane.
“You’re welcome to check it out. Jerry loves to show off his arsenal.”
They stepped into a soaring entrance hall where the natural pine walls were hung with Native American rugs. Dolan reached into a hall cabinet and tossed ear protectors to his guests.
“Jerry’s rules,” he said, slipping a pair of protectors over his own head. “He went to a few too many rock concerts as a kid, and as he likes to say, Deafness is forever.”
Dolan swung open a door that was thickly padded with soundproofing. Jane and Frost hesitated as gunfire thundered up from the basement.
“Oh, it’s perfectly safe down there,” he said. “Jerry spared no expense when he designed it. Basement walls are sand-filled blocks, ceiling’s pre-stressed concrete, topped with four inches of steel. He’s got fully enclosed bullet traps, and the underground exhaust system vents all the smoke and residue to the outside. I’m telling you, it’s the best of the best. You gotta take a look.”
Jane and Frost put on the ear protectors and followed him down the stairs.
Under the harsh glare of fluorescent lights, Jerry O’Brien stood with his back turned to them. He was dressed incongruously in blue jeans and a garish aloha shirt, which generously draped his barrel-shaped torso in flowered fabric. He did not immediately acknowledge his visitors, but kept his focus on the target of a human silhouette as he fired repeatedly. Only when he’d emptied his magazine did he turn to face Jane and Frost.
“Ah, Boston PD’s here.” O’Brien pulled off his ear protectors. “Welcome to my little corner of Paradise.”
Frost surveyed the array of handguns and rifles displayed on the table. “Wow. Quite a collection you have here.”
“Trust me, they’re all legal. No magazine with more than ten rounds. I keep them all in a fully secured storage locker, and I have a Class A CCW permit. You can check with my local police chief.” He picked up another handgun and held it out to Frost. “This one’s my favorite. Care to try it out, Detective?”
“Uh, no thanks.”
“Not even tempted? Probably won’t get another chance to fire one of these babies anytime soon.”
“We’re here to ask you about Leon Gott,” said Jane.
O’Brien turned his attention to her. “Detective Rizzoli, right? So are you into guns?”
“When I need them.”
“You hunt?”
“No sir.”
“Ever hunted?”
“Only people. It’s more exciting ’cause they shoot back.”
O’Brien laughed. “My kinda gal. Not like any of my frigging ex-wives.” He removed the magazine, checked the chamber for any remaining bullets. “So let me tell you about Leon. He wouldn’t have gone down without a fight. Given half a chance, I know he would’ve blown the fucker’s brains out.” He looked at Jane. “So did he get half a chance?”
“How deaf was he?”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“He wasn’t wearing his hearing aids.”
“Oh. Well, that changes the picture. Without his hearing aids, he wouldn’t have heard a moose clomping up the stairs.”
“Sounds like you knew him pretty well.”
“Well enough to trust him as a hunter. I brought him out to Kenya twice. Last year he took down one hell of a nice buffalo, one shot. Didn’t hesitate, didn’t blink. You get to know a lot about a person when you go hunting with him. You find out if they’re just talk and no action. If you can trust ’em enough to turn your back. If they’ve got the spine to face down a charging elephant. Leon proved himself, and I respected him. I don’t say that about many people.” O’Brien set the gun on the table and looked at Jane. “Why don’t we talk about this upstairs? I keep coffee brewing twenty-four seven, if you want any.” He tossed a key to his personal assistant. “Rick, you wanna lock up these guns for me? We’ll be in the den.”
O’Brien led the way, moving slowly and ponderously up the stairs in his garish tent of a shirt. By the time they reached the hallway, he was wheezing. The den was where he’d said they were headed, but the room he led them to was no mere man cave; instead it was a two-story cavern with massive oak beams and a fieldstone fireplace. Everywhere Jane looked she saw mounted game animals, the taxidermied evidence of O’Brien’s skill as a marksman. Jane had been startled by Leon Gott’s collection, but this room made her jaw drop.
“You shot all of these yourself?” asked Frost.
“Almost all,” said O’Brien. “A few of these animals are endangered and impossible to hunt, so I had to get ’em the old-fashioned way. By opening my wallet. That Amur leopard, for instance.” He pointed to a mounted head with one badly tattered ear. “It’s probably forty years old, and you won’t find them anymore. I paid good money to a collector for that sorry specimen.”
“And the point would be?” asked Jane.
“What, you never had stuffed animals as a kid, Detective? Not even a teddy bear?”
“I didn’t have to shoot my teddy bear.”
“Well, this Amur leopard is my stuffed animal. I wanted it because it’s a spectacular predator. Beautiful. Lethal. Designed by nature as a killing machine.” He pointed to the wall of trophies facing them, a gallery of heads bristling with fangs and tusks. “I still take down the occasional deer, ’cause there’s no better eating than deer tenderloin. But I really prize the animals that scare me. I’d love to get my hands on a Bengal tiger. And that snow leopard was another one I really wanted. Frigging shame the skin’s gone missing. It was worth a lot to me, and obviously worth it to the asshole who killed Leon.”
“You think that’s the motive?” asked Frost.
“Sure. You police need to watch the black market, and if a pelt comes up for sale, you’ll have your perp. I’d be glad to assist you. It’s my civic duty, and I owe it to Leon.”
“Who knew he was working on a snow leopard?”
“Lots of people. Very few taxidermists get to handle such a rare animal, an
d he was crowing about it on Internet hunting forums. We’re all fascinated by big cats. By animals who can kill us. I know I am.” He looked up at his trophies. “This is how I honor them.”
“By hanging their heads on your wall?”
“No worse than what they’d do to me if they got the chance. That’s life in the jungle, Detective. Dog eat dog, survival of the fittest.” He looked around his trophy room, a king surveying his conquered subjects. “It’s in our nature to kill. People don’t acknowledge that. If I so much as take a slingshot to a squirrel here, you can bet that my loony granola neighbors will squawk. Crazy lady next door yelled at me to pack up and move the hell to Wyoming.”
“You could,” observed Frost.
O’Brien laughed. “Naw, I’d rather stay and be a thorn in their side. Anyway, why should I? I grew up in Lowell, right up the road. Crappy neighborhood next to the mill. I stay here because it reminds me how far I’ve come.” He crossed to a liquor cabinet and uncorked a bottle of whiskey. “Can I offer you some?”
“No sir,” said Frost.
“Yeah, I know. On duty and all that.” He poured a few fingers’ worth into a glass. “I own my business, so I get to make the rules. And I say cocktail hour starts at three.”
Frost moved closer to the display of predators and studied the full-body mount of a leopard. It was poised on a tree branch, its body coiled as if ready to pounce. “Is this an African leopard?”
O’Brien turned, glass in hand. “Yeah. Shot that a few years ago, in Zimbabwe. Leopards are tricky. Secretive and solitary. When they’re up in the branches, they can take you by surprise. As cats go, they’re not all that big, but they’re strong enough to drag you up a tree.” He took a sip of whiskey as he admired the animal. “Leon mounted that one for me. You can see the quality of his work. He also did that lion, and that grizzly over there. He was good, but he didn’t come cheap.” O’Brien crossed to a full-body mount of a cougar. “This was the first one he did for me, about fifteen years ago. Looks so real, it still gives me a start when I see it in the dark.”
The Rizzoli & Isles Series 11-Book Bundle Page 319
