Spiritual Murder Encounters: The Two Doves

By Sannette Viljoen

Residents in the small town of Hermanus live in fear of a serial killer. Warrant Officer Ryella Goode, a promising young investigator, has pursued the killer's bloodthirsty trail for over two years. She also becomes suspicious about her parents' deaths. Ryella remains mystified by a mysterious black crow who appears twenty-four hours before all murders. But the crow's dark omens are countered by a pair of doves, who seem to show a kind spiritual affinity for Ryella. A compelling mystery revolving around family secrets and spiritual growth. The Spiritual Murder Encounters Trilogy examines one woman's journey from personal anguish and self-doubt to inner peace and professional gratification.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9780639958439

Book preview

20—CHAOS

CHAPTER 1—FOURTEEN MURDERS

There is a warm sea breeze, I pick out yet another bloodied crow’s feather from the deceased woman’s entangled hair. A jogger had found her naked body on a deserted beach at Danger Point Lighthouse, near Gansbaai, around sixteen hundred fifteen hours. He had notified the police.

I shake my head while searching for any evidence. The specialists secure the area while a forensic photographer takes photos of the crime scene. The victim’s throat has been slit; her arms and stomach are cut open as well. She is lying face-up in a shallow tide pool, only her head surfacing above the water. She is in her early twenties. Her clothes and handbag—if she had one—are missing, and her nails are cut off severely, culled down to the flesh. Marine life has already begun feasting on her body. She appears to have been murdered in the same way as the other thirteen victims—her nipples have been cut out and removed from the scene: the murderer’s signature mark.

Although the crow had, once again, warned me twenty-four hours earlier of a murder, I still can’t get used to seeing a woman who has been killed in this way. This is the fourteenth woman, found dead on various beach spots alongside the fifty-two kilometer stretch between Hermanus and Danger Point.

Pointing to the rocks around the tide pool, overgrown by seaweed, I say, Sergeant Meintjies, search underneath those plants for the murder weapon, please.

The tall, slender Sergeant nods in compliance. Yes, Warrant Officer Goode.

For the past two years, a serial killer and rapist has been on the loose, and I have been struggling to crack the case. The community and the families of the deceased want the killer to be found—as, of course, do I and the rest of the police force. The frustration and pressure are mounting—I can still not find any clues that will lead us to solve the case. The killer has not slipped up once and clearly knows that evidence—blood, semen, any form of DNA, in fact—when exposed to sun and humid conditions long enough, usually gets destroyed. I suspect the victims were raped and murdered far from where their bodies were found, then driven to the coast and dropped in tide pools: there is never evidence of a struggle, never any footprints, and never any blood trail at all….

Given the scarcity of evidence at the fourteen crime scenes, the criminal profiler had been able to draw only a basic portrait of the perpetrator: the murderer was strong, and therefore probably—but not definitely—male. And, given the method by which the women were mutilated, the killer was certainly pathological.

While spotting a southern right whale mother and her calf breaching some distance away, I suddenly hear a loud commotion above my head. Two doves hover above me, flapping their wings vigorously. I find this very unusual. Then I look back to the body. How much time will it take before her family reports her as missing?

CHAPTER 2—TO DIE OR NOT TO DIE?

Late at night, long after viewing this afternoon’s disturbing corpse, I write down my haunted thoughts in my dilapidated diary:

Death is final. Whenever a loved one has died, I have never felt so powerless…defeated…wrecked…lost….

The irony is: During my life, I wished myself dead a couple of times, but each time, when faced with a near-death experience, my body, mind, and soul kicked in—fighting to survive, wanting to save me. But why? Just to keep me alive, again?

The unanswered ironic question: To die or not to die? Why, each time, when I’ve faced death—why haven’t I really wanted to die? To my surprise, I keep fighting it. Fighting for my survival—beating it, every time. Why do I still fight to survive death if I want to be dead already? Why do I still care? Just to live in this hell on earth? Again?

I feel tired. Putting down my diary, I think of my parents. Again missing them dearly, I drift into a deep sleep.

CHAPTER 3—ANOTHER FEATHER

The next morning, Sergeant Lebogang Legoabe enters the offices of the Hermanus Detective Services Department. Morning, Sergeant Legoabe, I greet the officer.

Morning, Warrant Officer Goode. But the next moment the sergeant notices my face. What’s wrong? Warrant Officer looks down?

Colonel Fikile Nkosi and Sergeant Meintjies arrive.

Yes, I suppose I am feeling a bit blue, Sergeant, I acknowledge. I’m struggling to crack the serial killer case. I wish I was as good as my dad: he could solve murder after murder. I wish I had known him longer, as well as his secret for success.

Sergeant Legoabe nods. Everyone was scared of your father—that’s how good he was. We’re all sorry he died so young.

Thanks, Sergeant. I try to smile appreciatively. I was wondering, was the cold case file ever found in the S-A-P Thirteen evidence store—the one for the murder of Mayor Tom Brummer. My dad was working on that case before his passing?

Sergeant Meintjies walks past and greets us.

Sergeant Legoabe shakes her head. That file has been missing since Captain Goode’s passing. We’ve searched everywhere.

Disappointed, I thank her.

A week later, after a long day at the Detective Services Department, I leave to go home. Getting inside my car, I find a black-and-white feather on the passenger seat. Picking it up, I pull the soft, dove feather through my fingers, wondering how it got inside my car. It’s strange because a week ago, I found a white feather inside my small handbag.

Starting the car, I hear a text message come through. It’s my boyfriend, Ruben. He has to work late again. No surprise. I sigh, thinking, I’ll respond later.

Finally, I make my way back home to Gansbaai—a small fishing town on the south coast of the beautiful Western Cape. Forty-two kilometers north of Gansbaai, which is the Afrikaans name for Goose Bay, lies Hermanus, the small and charming tourism town famous for its annual whale festivals, which are held during September and October. I drive alongside my favorite coastline—the ocean waves crashing against the rocks, the endless views across De Kelders when a crow appears right in front of my car.

No! Not again! I scream, slamming on the brakes.

I know what this sign means. Every time I see this crow, with its distinctive white feather in its black tail, I know: someone is going to die within twenty-four hours. Although I never know who the victim will be, I know that this dreaded event awaits me. This has been the case for many of the deaths I’ve been involved with in the past, including the fourteen women murdered and raped by the serial killer. Sitting quietly in my car, I gaze straight into the lonely road, where the black crow disappears into the sky. Frustrated, I think to myself, I wish I knew why this crow chose me, of all people, to warn of deaths still to come? What’s the connection?

More than five years ago, on the day I started my career as a detective at the South African Police Service, the crow made its first appearance. He perched silently on the bonnet of my car. Since then, I’ve had many sleepless nights.

Starting my car again, I slowly make my way home, expecting to receive a call informing me of another death any moment.

Low and behold, at 09:10 the next morning, I receive the call. A woman has been found stabbed to death inside her home. When the officer tells me the address, I am shocked to realize it is my sister’s neighbor. I phone Kellina….and leave for Hermanus.

At the crime scene, we find the body of a naked woman lying on her back on the kitchen floor. Her legs are spread apart. I estimate her age to be around fifty. She has been stabbed multiple times, and her throat is slit. Strangely, only one of her nipples has been cut out; it is missing from the scene. Three of her fingernails have been ripped off—she must have tried to fight off her attacker. A crow’s feather is lying in a pool of blood. And, this time, bloody shoeprints head out of the kitchen.

Our first suspect—the forty-seven-year-old gardener of the townhouse complex, Jantjie Diedericks—was upset and still in shock when we questioned him. He had found the body and alerted the police. Now, he identified the body as Mrs. Fatiema Ismail, but we could not see any blood on his clothes or on his shoes.

When searching the townhouse, we noticed there was no evidence of a break-in. We suspect the murderer must have been someone the victim knew. Her handbag and the murder weapon were missing; her jewelry box is also found to be empty. I cannot help but wonder if this murder is not linked to the fourteen other murdered women, as the body appears to display the serial killer’s signature: the extracted nipples. But only one nipple had been removed from Mrs. Ismail. The other big difference is that the fourteen previous women were all Caucasian, in their twenties, and their bodies were found in tide pools. Why would the serial killer now murder an old Muslim lady and leave her in the kitchen? Was this a copycat killing? The other puzzling thing is, we never released the details of the culled nipples to the media—only the killer would know that. If this murder is the work of the serial killer, I have hopes he slipped up this time and that we can find DNA samples under Mrs. Ismail’s nails, or somewhere—anywhere—on her body, or even somewhere in the house, and get a break in the case.

CHAPTER 4—REUNION

A week later, late at night, I again find myself longing for my parents….

I try to fall asleep but my grief and pain dig deeper into my heart: tomorrow, the twentieth of September, is Kellina’s birthday. She will be twenty-eight years old—old enough, certainly, to be considered a full-grown adult—but our birthdays are always a sad reminder of how much we have matured without Mom and Dad.

The half-drawn lace curtains in the bedroom blow back and forth from the cool sea breeze. The streetlight outside illuminates the windowsill. A beautiful snow-white dove is perched peacefully next to a black-and-white dove, as they do every night: facing me. It is full moon. The dark silence of loneliness is killing me…I wish Ruben was here. The only thing I hear is the loud ticking of the clock on the wall and the sea waves breaking softly on the beach in the background….I can’t sleep, so I switch on the bedside lamp. It is close to midnight.

My two miniature Yorkshire terriers, McGuyver and Feaghor, are fast asleep inside their cozy basket. It’s placed on the floor, next to Mom’s antique wooden dressing table. I recently moved back to my parents’ house here in Gansbaai; and now I look mournfully at Mom and Dad’s picture in the silver photo frame, sitting on the small table, which stands beside Mom’s beautiful Baltic harp. Mom loved playing the harp, and I used to love waking up in the mornings to the sound of her angelic songs. The harp, carved with beautiful old-fashioned patterns, is positioned in front of the window—which has breathtaking views of the sea. In my mind’s eye, I see Mom sitting in front of the harp, tugging the strings and singing along to her favorite songs…so very gracefully singing.

Slowly climbing from my bed, I wipe the tears off my face. I light the two, white rose-engraved candles on the silver candleholder. The holder is shaped in the form of an angel’s wings, placed next to my parents’ photo: the candles are in their memory. In the background, behind the two doves, the beautiful, silver moonlight glitters on the dark ocean. What would Mom and Dad look like now? I wonder.

I sit down in front of the harp. Slowly, I rest the solid wood on my right shoulder. I sit up straight, placing my hands in the correct position alongside the strings—exactly how Mom taught me as a little girl. I have to wait a few seconds…to clear the knob in my throat, fighting my ever-longing emotions. I slowly pluck the harp strings, my hands moving back and forth. I wrote this song for my parents on my twenty-first birthday. The melody subsumes the silence of the night as I sing along to the heavenly strings….

If only my tears will speak

will they explain why you had to leave?

Two white-glowing angels picked you up, slowly

softly looking at your face.

I saw you smile.

May you be my angel…

May you be my angel…

May you be my angel…

Everyone will be visited on their day

and leave here on angel wings….

May you be my angel.

Now staying behind is not that kind

hoping you can miss me too?

Life is less of the same without you

but why are the memories more?

If only my tears will speak

will they explain why I need the pain?

If only my tears will speak

will they help roll away the pain?

May you be my angel…

May you be my angel…

May you be my angel…

Hurt, drowning in my tears

If only my tears will speak.

May you be my angel….

May you be my angel….

May you be my angel….

As I finish the last few notes of the song, the snow-white dove on the windowsill suddenly flies inside and perches on top of the harp, right above my shoulder. Startled, I look the dove straight in the eyes. My heart beats faster as my skin turns to goose bumps. Suddenly, I feel Mom’s presence: a warm, loving companionship—a familiar feeling I have missed for many years.

Then, unexpectedly, I hear Mom’s voice.

I miss you too, my beautiful Ryella. Know that I am always with you in spirit and will always show you the way. Just follow me as your guiding light in dark times, wherever you go….

I’m in complete shock and disbelief. My mom’s voice is coming through the dove. The dove is speaking to me!

Can this be?

Mom? I say, looking the beautiful snow-white dove directly in the eyes. Is it you? Are you really talking…to me?

While I’m still figuring out if I’m imagining things, the white dove hops off the harp and flies towards my parents’ photo. I’m flabbergasted. I remember the picture being taken a week before my parents suddenly died twelve years ago, the day of their nineteenth wedding anniversary. It was the last photo taken of the four of us as a family, celebrating my twelfth birthday.

The white dove carefully hovers over the photo. Then it perches on the table, right beside the photo—the side Mom is on—and begins constantly tapping its beak at my Mom’s picture on the glass.

I suddenly realize. "It is you, Mom!"

I hear Mom’s voice clearly in my head: Yes, my beloved child—it is me, your mother, speaking to you in spirit. Know that we will always be here for you. Dad and I have never, ever left your or Kellina’s side, even though you may have believed so.

Still trying to take in exactly what is happening, I hear another dove’s wings flap at the window. The beautiful black-and-white dove looks straight at me. I immediately feel Dad’s strong and protecting spirit. As I look at my mom in awe, she flies back to the black-and-white dove on the windowsill. I move the harp away and slowly walk towards them. The black and white dove is perched right next to Mom. I lean over to get a closer look.

Dad…? I whisper.

The black and white dove looks deep into my eyes and nods.

Yes, Ryella, it’s me, your father.

I’m shocked to hear my dad’s deep familiar voice for the first time in twelve years. As the dove slowly steps forward, I see the white moonlight glowing on his back.

I’m so glad to be able to finally speak to you, my child." My dad speaks clearly in my head, in the most loving and endearing way. "You need to know, we are protecting you and Kellina all of your days. We will always love you and be with you in spirit—always. Remember that. We will see you soon."

Still in shock, I say, Yes, of course. Thank you, Dad.

Turning around, the dove looks back at me. It bobs its head as though to say good-bye’ then flies off towards the ocean, gliding out into the moonlight. Still leaning over the windowsill I see the white dove up close. Closing its tiny blue eyes, it touches my cheek with its soft, white-feathered head, moving it lovingly up and down my cheek. I feel Mom’s intense longing and love….

Ryella, please tell Kellina, we love and miss her too. Then, looking over my shoulder at the harp, Your music brings light, keep playing your songs—they bring healing—exactly how I remembered Mom’s voice.

The white dove’s eyes look sad when it turns around.

I have to go. I love you.

Flying off, the dove follows Dad’s path into the beautiful moonlight, stars shimmering over the big, dark sea. As I