Die Again (Rizzoli & Isles, #11)(74)

From the edge of the Table Mountain plateau, Jane stared in wonder as Henk pointed out the landmarks of Cape Town: the rocky outcroppings known as Devil’s Peak and Signal Hill, Table Bay, and Robben Island to the north, where Nelson Mandela was imprisoned for nearly two decades.

“So much history here. So many stories I could tell you about this country.” Henk turned to her. “But now we get down to business. The Botswana murders.”

“Gabriel told me you had a part in the case.”

“Not the initial investigation, which took place in Botswana. Interpol became involved only after Botswana police learned that the killer had crossed the border, into this country. He used the credit cards of two of his victims in border towns, at businesses that didn’t require PIN numbers. The safari truck was found abandoned outside Johannesburg. Although the crimes were committed in Botswana, Johnny Posthumus is a citizen of South Africa. The case spans multiple countries, which is why Interpol was brought in. We issued a Red Notice for the arrest of Posthumus, but we still have no clue of his whereabouts.”

“Has there been any progress at all on the case?”

“Nothing significant. But you have to understand the challenges we face here. There are about fifty murders a day in this country—that’s six times the homicide rate in the US. Many cases remain unsolved, the police are overwhelmed, and evidence labs are underfunded. Also, these murders took place in Botswana, a different country. Coordinating between different jurisdictions adds to the difficulties.”

“But you’re certain that Johnny Posthumus is your man,” said Gabriel.

Andriessen paused, and those few seconds of silence spoke louder than any words that might follow. “I have … reservations.”

“Why?”

“I’ve delved thoroughly into his past. Johnny Posthumus was born in South Africa, the son of farmers. At age eighteen, he went off to work at a game lodge, in Sabi Sands. He moved on to Mozambique and Botswana, and eventually went solo as an independent guide. There were never any complaints. Through the years, he built a reputation as a reliable man. Except for one drunken brawl, he had no criminal record and no history of violence.”

“That you’re aware of.”

“True, there could be incidents that were never reported. Kill someone in the bush, and the body may never be found. It just troubles me that there were never any warning signs. Nothing in his earlier behavior to indicate that one day, he would bring eight people deep into the Delta and slaughter seven of them.”

“According to the sole survivor, that’s exactly what happened,” said Jane.

“Yes,” Henk conceded. “That’s what she said.”

“Do you have doubts about her?”

“She identified Posthumus based only on a two-year-old passport photo, which was shown to her by the Botswana police. There aren’t many other photos of him in existence. Most were lost when his parents’ farmhouse burned down seven years ago. Remember, Ms. Jacobson walked out of the bush half dead. After such an ordeal, and with only a passport photo to go on, can her identification of him really be trusted?”

“If the man wasn’t Johnny Posthumus, who was he?”

“We know he used his victims’ credit cards. He took their passports, and in the few weeks before they were reported missing, he could have assumed their identities. It would allow him to be anyone, to go almost anywhere in the world. Including America.”

“And the real Johnny Posthumus? Do you think he’s dead?”

“It’s only a theory.”

“But is there any evidence to back it up? A body? Any remains?”

“Oh, we have thousands of unidentified human remains, from crime scenes around the country. What we lack are the resources to ID them all. Because of the DNA backlog in crime labs, identifying a victim can take months, even years. Posthumus might be among them.”

“Or he could be alive and living right now in Boston,” said Jane. “He may not have a criminal record, only because he’s never made a mistake until Botswana.”

“You mean Millie Jacobson.”

“He let her escape.”

Henk was silent for a moment as he looked out over Table Bay. “At the time, I doubt he considered that a problem. Letting her escape.”

“The one woman who could identify him?”

“She was as good as dead. If you stranded any other tourist in the Delta, man or woman, they wouldn’t last two days, much less two weeks. She should have died out there.”

“Why didn’t she?”

“Grit? Luck?” He shrugged. “A miracle.”

“You’ve met the woman,” said Gabriel. “What did you think of her?”

“It’s been a few years since I interviewed her. Her name’s not Jacobson now, but DeBruin. She married a South African. I remember her as … utterly unremarkable. That was my impression, and to be honest I was surprised. I’d read her statement and I knew what she supposedly survived. I was expecting Superwoman.”

Jane frowned. “You don’t think her statement was true?”

“That she walked among wild elephants? That she traveled for two weeks through the bush with no food and no weapon? That she survived on nothing more than grass and papyrus stems?” He shook his head. “No wonder the police in Botswana doubted her story at first. Until they confirmed that seven foreigners hadn’t boarded their scheduled international flights home. They spoke to the pilot who’d flown the tourists into the bush, asked him why he didn’t report them missing. He said he got a call that they were all traveling back to Maun by road instead. It took a few more days before it finally dawned on the Botswana police that Millie Jacobson was telling the truth.”