Black Magic Woman (10 page)

"All right, we've gone over the specifics," Van Dreenan said. "What are your thoughts on our case, Agent Fenton?"

"It's not 'our case,' Detective Sergeant. It's mine. You're here purely in an advisory capacity."

"Of course, yes. I was speaking out of old habit. But, in any event, what are your views?"

"For this kind of crime, it's… unusual," Fenton said, frowning. "I mean, BSU has run into ritual murders before. It's not nearly as common as a lot of people think, but it does happen. But this—" Fenton made a gesture toward the files strewn across the desk, "is outside any of the patterns we're used to."

"Not a surprise, really," Van Dreenan said. "Because what you have here isn't ritual murder."

"Oh, come on! Three kids butchered, all in the same exact way. Bodily organs removed and taken away, for God knows what purpose. And the free histamine level in the victims' blood shows that they were all alive when they were cut open, like fucking animals in a slaughterhouse! If that doesn't sound like ritual murder to you, pal, then maybe you better get back on—"

Van Dreenan had held up one hand, palm toward Fenton, in an effort to stem the tirade.

"Please, Agent Fenton, I did not wish to give insult to your intelligence. We are differing over a semantic distinction, although it is an important one."

Van Dreenan leaned forward in his chair. "Please, if you would—define a ritual for me."

A scowl remained on Fenton's face. "Look, I'm not going to play-"

The hand went up again. It was not a peremptory gesture, such as a traffic cop would make, but rather a plea for peace.

"I am not wasting your time with idle chatter, as you will soon see. For the moment, humor me, please. Now, then, what is a ritual?"

Fenton took a deliberate deep breath and let it out slowly. He looked at Van Dreenan for a few seconds before saying, "A ritual is a prescribed action having symbolic value, carried out as part of a ceremony, to achieve some predetermined purpose. That do you?"

"Full marks, Agent Fenton. That is good definition, and one that I agree with in all respects. Now, if you will indulge me just a little longer: what kind of ritual did these murders involve?"

"That's the point! We don't know. I thought that's what you were here for."

"Perhaps," Van Dreenan said. "Perhaps it is. But consider this question: if you do not know what kind of ritual was performed, how do you know there was any ritual involved at all?"

Fenton just stared at him. Finally he said, "Victim profile was the same in each case: kids. Modus operandi was the same: isolated area, kid stripped and staked out on the ground, cut open while still alive, bodily organs removed. That's pretty much the textbook definition of ritual."

Van Dreenan nodded. "In the psychological sense, yes. Any repetitive behavior can conceivably be considered ritualistic. But the religious meaning is somewhat different."

"I'm not sure I see the distinction." Fenton didn't sound angry any more, just interested.

Van Dreenan made a head gesture toward the desktop. "We have both read the files,
ja?
And seen the photos. So, tell me: were any occult or esoteric symbols found at or near any of the crime scenes?"

Fenton didn't have to consult the files. "No."

"Any evidence of candles, torches, or incense being burned?"

"No, none."

"Do we know how many people were present when these horrible acts took place?"

"Hard to say for sure. The people who discovered the crime scenes tended to walk all over them before the police got there. Our best estimate is, two."

"So, we have no symbolism, nothing burned, and the bare minimum of people necessary to do the deed. A strange kind of ritual, wouldn't you say?"

Fenton shook his head in frustration. "So if it wasn't a ritual, then what the hell was it?"

For the first time since he'd started talking, Van Dreenan seemed to hesitate.

"Agent Fenton, have you ever heard of
muti
murder?"

"Did you just say 'multi-murder?'" Fenton asked. "Multiple murders?"

"No, I didn't," Van Dreenan told him. "Although it is true that the one sometimes leads to the other."

"If you're trying to confuse the shit out of me, let the record show that you just succeeded," Fenton said.

"My apologies, it was not my intent."

Van Dreenan closed his eyes for a couple of seconds, as if trying to organize his thoughts.
"Muti
is derived from a Zulu word referring to a magic potion. That is why it is sometimes called medicine murder. You must remember that in many parts of Africa, magic and medicine are one and the same."

"Just a bunch of ignorant niggers, running around with bones through their noses, huh?"

Van Dreenan's eyes narrowed, although his voice remained mild. "I meant no slight, Agent Fenton, either to you or to your… ancestors. Cultures differ, beliefs differ. People are different. If I describe the beliefs of the tribal religions of South Africa, that does not mean that I sneer at them. It means I know them, and I know them because I deal with them every day."

"Yeah, all right. I'm sorry I snapped at you. It's just that… I used to read stuff in the papers about apartheid when I was younger. See things on TV, sometimes, that just…" Fenton let his voice trail off.

"I understand, I think." Van Dreenan let go a sigh that made him sound old and tired. "Apartheid was what it was. Neither of us can change history. And now it is gone. And neither of us need mourn its passing."

"Okay, look, let's just forget I brought it up, all right? You were talking about magic and religion."

"Yes, well,
muti
murder has been around a long time, quite possibly for centuries. It refers to the killing of a human being in order to obtain body parts, which are in turn used in magical rituals. That is what I meant when I said these murders we have here are not themselves ritualistic. The ritual comes at a later time, and the bodily organs that have been taken are a vital part of it."

"So, the victim isn't being used as a sacrifice at all." Fenton spoke so softly he might have been talking to himself.

"That is correct. In fact, you might say that death is almost incidental. The object is the removal of the organs."

"So there is a ritual involved, just not the kind we thought."

"Oh, there may be a few ritualistic elements to the murder. A special knife might sometimes be used, certain incantations might be uttered as the organs are taken, but that varies from region to region, and seems to be of little significance. Oh, except for two things that are considered important."

When Van Dreenan didn't continue, Fenton said, "You're going to make me ask, aren't you? Okay, mister expert, what are the two ritualistic elements?"

"You've seen them both, even if you did not recognize them as such, at the time. One of the bodies was found on a riverbank,
ja?
Another not far from a creek, the third close to a pond. That is not coincidence.
Muti
tradition holds that the body must be left outdoors, near water."

"That's not going to help us much," Fenton said. "Hell of a lot of rivers, creeks and ponds in this country. What's the other thing?"

"Most unfortunately for the victim,
muti
tradition requires that the organs be extracted while he or she is still alive."

Fenton shook his head. "Poor kids," he said softly.

"Indeed, yes, the poor children," Van Dreenan said. There was something odd in his voice that caused Fenton to look at him closely, but before he could say anything, Van Dreenan went on, "It was once the case that
muti
murder was confined to the outlying villages. But in the last decade or so, cases have been reported in urban areas, as well."

"All the victims children?"

"Not always, no. But some of the
umthakhati
believe that the organs of the young convey more power."

"Um-what?"

"Umthakhati,"
Van Dreenan said. "Zulu for 'witch' or 'sorcerer.' In Sotho, the name is
baloyi."

"You speak Zulu?"

Van Dreenan shrugged. "Not fluently. Enough to get by."

"How about that other one you just mentioned?"

"Sotho? A few words and phrases, no more."

Fenton nodded, as if this made perfect sense. "This
muti
murder, is it unique to South Africa?"

"No, cases have also been reported in Lesotho and Swaziland. There have been unconfirmed reports of the practice in a few other places, such as Nigeria. But it seems to be most common in my country."

"So the killers are all black Africans. How about the victims? Same thing?"

"Not always. Sometimes they are white. Especially in recent years."

Fenton heard that change in intonation again. Then Van Dreenan had a coughing fit that lasted several seconds. Fenton offered to get him some water.

"No, I am all right, thank you," Van Dreenan said, and cleared his throat a few times. "I was about to say that a few incidents of
muti
killings have been reported abroad. They had a case of it in England, a few years ago."

"Same M.O. as ours?" Fenton asked.

"Only in the most general terms. The body of a child, a black male around seven years of age, was pulled out of the Thames, missing its arms, legs, and head."

"Local kid?"

"Probably not, although the body was never identified. The detectives referred to him as 'Adam,' just to give the poor lad the dignity of a name."

"Did they ever make an arrest?"

"Ultimately, no. Scotland Yard were very interested in a Yoruba woman from Nigeria, but the physical evidence was minimal and the woman refused to admit any involvement. Officially, the case remains open. But something good came of it all: Scotland Yard were prompted to initiate Project Violet, which is designed to investigate witchcraft crime in Britain. They have been very busy, I understand."

"Well, as you might imagine, Behavioral Science has searched every law enforcement database there is, and there's no record of this kind of crime being reported anywhere in North America before. These three cases are the first we've ever had."

Van Dreenan looked at Fenton very steadily as he said, "I wish I could assure you that they will be the last."

"No, Mister LaRue," Libby said. "I think I can assure you that He wasn't responsible for any of this."

LaRue slowly took it all in: the knives and other sharp objects strewn everywhere—except for those protruding from the kitchen door or from the wall opposite; pots and pans all over the floor, having fallen, or been knocked off their wall hooks; the dinette table, which had clearly been used as a battering ram against the kitchen door and was much the worse for it; and the door itself—split, cracked, gouged, and close to coming apart altogether.

The massive damage to the kitchen door was a clear indication to Morris of just how close it had really been for him and Libby yesterday afternoon.
Just a few more hits with that table would have done it,
he thought.
Then the door would've gone and I'd have the chance to see how Davy Crockett felt there at the end, when the Mexican soldiers came at him with their bayonets.

They had explained things to LaRue on the drive over from the Holiday Inn. It would have been cruel to just let him walk into his home to discover this carnage.

After carefully viewing the damage, Walter LaRue took a deep breath, let it out, and said mildly, "Well, it could've been worse."

Morris just nodded. He didn't look at Libby, although both of them had expected an explosion, considering the amount of tension that LaRue had been under lately.

"And if whatever caused this—" LaRue's gesture took in the whole kitchen, "allowed you to make my home safe again, then, goddamn it, it was worth it!"

"Of that I can assure you," Libby said. "The spell that caused those attacks on you and your family will not trouble you again."

"But the job's only half done," Morris said. "We've got to locate the source of the spell, before whoever cast the damn thing finds out what we've done and gets to working on another one."

Alarm clouded LaRue's face. "You mean what you set up here is only protection against one specific spell?"

"No, it's what you might call a broad-spectrum system," Libby told him. "Similar to what Greta had in place, but, if I may flatter myself, somewhat stronger. But no system is completely foolproof."

"As I understand this sort of thing, it's kind of like the arms race during the Cold War," Morris said. "The Soviets would come up with a new missile, and we'd develop a counter to it. Everything's fine—until they invent an even
better
missile."

LaRue ran a hand through his untidy hair. "Christ, just when you've got me thinking it's safe…"

"Besides," Morris continued, "there's no law that says your enemy has to stick with magic. What if he—or she—can't crack Libby's protection and then decides to come over here at 3:00am some night and firebomb the place?"

LaRue spoke calmly, but there were beads of sweat on his forehead. "Look, I want this fixed, for good. I want to be able to sleep at night. I want my kids to start feeling like kids again, instead of hunted animals." He looked from Morris to Libby and back again. "Now, how much more will it cost me to see that done?"

Morris pushed himself away from the kitchen counter he'd been leaning against. "Not a dime," he told LaRue. "You agreed to my fee in Austin, and paid it. Whatever we do now is all part of the service."

Morris paused and took a slow look around the ruin of a kitchen. "Although, you know what? All things considered, I'd probably do it for free," he said, and walked out of the kitchen.

Libby Chastain looked at LaRue for a second or two before saying, "Me, too." She followed Morris out of the room.