April 16, 2008
“Is it authentic?”
“Looks like it,” the pawn shop proprietor replied, peering through his magnifying glass. “Hard to tell for sure—not like a rifle or sword, where you’ve got provenance papers. But the details give clues. Mostly, I look for something personal. For example, this is pretty unique.” He pushed the glass aside and handed Kestrel a loupe and the lighter. “Take a look yourself.”
He examined the Zippo: a snake coiled around a death’s head, crossed arrows behind it; a banner with the inscription “De Oppresso Liber”; and a unit designation: 7th SFG (A), with service dates 1980–1983. On the other side, etched on a Green Beret dagger, “Occisor Draconum.”
To free the oppressed.
“Yeah, similar to Special Forces Zippos I’ve sold from the Vietnam War.”
“Any idea what the other Latin means?”
“No, but it’s certainly unique. Notice anything else?” the proprietor asked.
“No.”
“The snake, look closer.”
“What am I looking at?”
“Notice the patterns on its skin?”
“Yeah… and?”
“They’re Mayan glyphs.”
“Okay. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. But it’s unusual. In fact, I’ve never seen anything like it—not on a Zippo, at least.”
His phone began to vibrate. He pulled it out.
“Crowe here.”
“Bob.”
“Vik. Good to hear from you. What’s up?”
“You should be receiving all the reports within a couple days. Got time to talk?”
“Let me call you in five—I’m with company.”
“No worries. I’ll be at my desk.”
He hung up.
“I’m stepping out for a bit, but I’ll be back.”
“Can I hang on to this? I want to examine it under UV light to see if the engravings are fake.”
“Sure,” he replied. “Just don’t sell it while I’m gone.”
The pawn shop owner smirked.
“Perish the thought.”
***
Kestrel was seated in the Toyota Land Cruiser with the air conditioning on, communicating on a secure video call with a private forensic lab. Nexus Forensics was located in Boston; they were cutting-edge and discreet, and their lab director, Dr. Vikram Nair, was a personal friend.
“The killer kept the victims in cold storage, for how long, we don’t know, but histological analysis found ice crystal artifacts in the heart, liver, lungs, and kidneys.”
“He froze them to muddle the time of death.”
“Yes.”
“Clever and cold son of a bitch.”
“Quite, but not clever enough for us,” Dr. Nair jested. “We found obsidian microshards in the wounds and an unknown organic compound in all the victims. Means the girls were drugged and paralyzed and their heads hacked off with a stone axe.”
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
“Now that’s a first. A stone-age axe murderer. How many times have you come across something like that?”
“Not too often.”
“Meaning you have.”
“A few years back. Interesting case—all we had were skeletal remains and a stone arrowhead. We were trying to determine if the arrowhead was the cause of death.”
“I’m an avid bow hunter; I know all about arrowheads. Modern ones are made from razor-sharp steel, some with mechanical broadheads. Extremely lethal. But stone? That’s a whole other level of dedication.”
He leaned into the webcam, the lab’s fluorescent hum discernible through his laptop speakers.
“The murder occurred about four thousand years ago, at a Neolithic site in Scotland. Killer didn’t have options.”
“An Ice Age case.”
“Dates off by about five thousand years, but sure.”
“And was it the COD, the stone arrowhead?”
“Yes, we believe so—or at least a large contributing factor. We crafted flint arrowheads to test our theory in that case, and we’ve applied the same rigor here.” Dr. Nair held up a hefty, elaborately carved wooden haft for him to see, its grip wrapped in weathered leather and crowned with a broad, wedge-shaped blade of black, polished stone adorned with carvings. “Nasty piece of work—and beautiful, like a collector’s piece.”
“As a decapitation tool, it’s brutally efficient—sever a major artery with a single, well-placed swing, and cleave a person in two in a matter of seconds; we know because we tested it on pig carcasses, several of them. We took a video of the entire procedure, which’ll be included in the final report.”
“That axe couldn’t have been easy to make?”
“It’s not; it takes an enormous amount of experience, skill, and time. That’s why we contacted an outfit in Oregon, the Great Basin Knife Company. They already had a few items in stock that fit the bill, so we bought one.” He laid the axe down with a soft clink on his desk, its polished stone gleaming from the lights above.
“That’s easy enough to purchase.”
“Yes, anyone with a yen could have one.”
He turned squarely to the camera. “The dismemberment tool, however, was more involved; we outsourced the crafting to an artist of the Karuk Nation, who specializes in sacrificial-style knives.” Nair held up the blade. It wasn’t some crude shard, but a delicate twelve-inch blade with serrated edges and a serpentine curve. “This slices through tendon and gristle better than any knife forged from steel. Truly remarkable.”
“How many companies and people out there are capable of making axes and knives like that, would you say?”
“Of this quality? If I were to guess, less than a dozen. Crude versions, well, I think it’s possible for any handy person to make one with a little trial and error. An individual with this person’s M.O., his attention to detail? I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“If he goes to extraordinary lengths to hide the fact that he used an obsidian axe and knife, chances are he didn’t just order them online, and definitely not buy them in person. He probably made them. Not exactly the greatest lead, but it will have to do for now.”
“Well, knowing the type of edged weapon used shrinks the search parameters by quite a bit; more so when we’ve located the source of the microshards.”
“Any idea when that will be?”
“Soon—within twenty-four hours—it’ll be in the report.”
“Okay. What about the compound—can it be identified?”
“I’ve sent samples to a colleague who specializes in organics—he does most of his fieldwork in Africa and Latin America. If anyone can crack it, he will. Early tests say it’s curare-like.”
The lab director referenced a file before continuing. “We also found traces of meth, marijuana, cocaine, and heroin. But no needle scars or bruising. And given their relatively good health, these girls were recreational users—hadn’t crossed into heavy addiction yet. All HIV-negative, too.”
“Hmm. That’s surprising.”
“Yes, considering.”
“Which says to me they hadn’t been hooking for very long. Perhaps months.”
“Sounds about right.”
“But no traces of hair, fiber, or semen whatsoever.”
“Except for the obsidian, the remains were pristine. That suggests the kill site’s environment was sterile—like an OR or autopsy suite.”
“How about a very clean industrial kitchen?”
“Possibly. But where the axe was used? No matter how meticulous, you’d find trace evidence in situ. Butchery like that produces splatter.”
“Which means he might’ve axed them in one place,” he said, “and processed them in another.”
“Yes.”
The lab director yawned.
“Oh boy, excuse me. We’ve been going non-stop since the vics came in.”
“And I appreciate it.”
“It’s what we do. Okay, until my colleague gets back to the compound—that’s all I got.” Vikram perked up. “Oh, before I forget: We analyzed your unsub’s photo. That facial scarring? Third- and fourth-degree burns. Recent, too.”
“How recent?”
“Within the past two or three years. And Bob—you might want to touch base with Professor Sven Hagelin of the University of Arizona for more insight into the murder weapon. He was our consultant on that arrowhead case I mentioned, and the leading expert on Neolithic weapons. Only a stone’s throw from where you are now. Pardon the pun.”
***
Back in the pawn shop, Kestrel approached the counter.
“Alright, you’re pretty sure that’s the real deal?”
The proprietor, not quite ready to let go of the Zippo, swiveled in his seat.
“Real enough to offer you a hundred bucks.”
“No, thanks.”
“Two hundred.”
He plucked the lighter from the proprietor’s hand, slipping it into his pocket.
“Nah, too much sentimental value. But I’ll pay for your time.” He took a fifty out of his wallet and placed the crisp bill on the scarred wood of the shop owner’s workbench.
“Glad I could help.”
Poll reminder!
Don’t forget to vote in the chapter poll! I’m dying to see what everyone thinks that Zippo really means — is it Kestrel’s past catching up, the killer’s slip-up, or something bigger with the Mayan glyphs and dragon-slaying vibe? Your votes and comments genuinely help me know which threads to tug on next.
What do you think is the true significance of the Zippo lighter Kestrel recovered?
