Dying Games (Jefferson Tayte Genealogical Mystery Book 6)

by Steve Robinson

  Reese had a folder with him. He opened it on the desk and pulled a few papers out. ‘Okay, let’s get you briefed and up to date with our problem. Our twins back there at the sand-filtration site weren’t the killer’s first victims.’

  ‘Serial killer?’ Tayte said. He’d guessed it had to be something like that for the FBI to be involved.

  ‘I’m afraid so. The twins were murders three and four.’

  Reese slid a photograph across to Tayte of a blonde-haired woman sitting on a sunlit bench with a river twinkling behind her.

  ‘Is that the Potomac in the background?’

  ‘Yes, it is. The picture was taken right here in DC about two months ago. It’s the most recent image her husband had. She was our killer’s first victim—Annabel Rogers, aged thirty-one. Her remains were discovered when the fire department attended a house in Northwest. The odd thing about it was that the fire was barely underway when they arrived. It’s doubtful anyone outside the house would even have noticed it so soon. We can assume, then, that the 911 call was made before the fire was started.’

  ‘By the killer,’ Tayte said, pre-empting Reese. ‘Was the call recorded?’

  ‘Yes, it was. I listened to it myself. All I heard was the sound of a woman screaming. Her killer never spoke. The phone number was quickly traced to the address where Rogers was found. When the fire department arrived, the fire had been going just long enough to kill her, but not long enough to make it too difficult to identify her. We believe it was important to the killer that we knew who she was. The other odd thing about it was that before she was set on fire, she’d been placed inside a doll’s house. Pieces of it were found still intact at the scene, and there was a pile of miniature furniture on a nearby coffee table.’

  Tayte shook his head. It was a gruesome reminder of a story he’d been told while working on his family history in Germany a few months ago. ‘Who would do something like that? Why a doll’s house?’

  ‘Once again, Mr Tayte, I’m hoping you and Ms Mavro are soon going to be able to tell me.’

  Reese slid another photograph towards Tayte. ‘This is the killer’s second victim, Randall Edwards. He was fifty-nine, shot dead five days ago after being gagged and tied to a tree in Lincoln Park.’

  ‘I live near Lincoln Park,’ Tayte said, sounding shocked at the idea that someone had done this so close to his home.

  ‘We know,’ Reese said. ‘The odd thing about this murder is that Edwards effectively shot himself.’

  ‘Suicide?’

  ‘No, most definitely not suicide, assisted or otherwise. Edwards was no willing participant. A log was found at his feet. His arms had been left free so he could hold the log up. Attached to the log was a length of fishing line. The other end was fixed to the trigger of a sawed-off shotgun, mounted on a branch four feet away. When Edwards’ arms became too weak to hold the log up, which I doubt was long given his age and size, and the weight of the log, the gun went off.’

  ‘Long enough for his killer to clear the park, though,’ Tayte said.

  ‘Yeah, long enough. Someone reported hearing the gunshot and Edwards’ body was soon found.’

  Reese slid a third photograph to Tayte. ‘That brings us to murders three and four, our twins, Bobby and Lee Masterson, aged twenty-four. You’ve seen where and how they were murdered. Both were football scholars and were, no doubt, their father’s pride and joy. Their parents’ home was full of trophies of one kind or another.’

  The photograph showed both brothers padded up in their football shirts, bent over towards the camera, arms locked around each other as if they were facing off against their opponents. Tayte only saw the loss the photograph now represented, and with all his heart he did not want this killer to chalk up a fifth victim.

  ‘How do you know these murders were all committed by the same person?’ he asked. ‘I mean, apart from their unusual and clearly premeditated nature, they’re all so different.’ The bizarre nature of the murders, their locations, and close timing was perhaps enough to give the FBI the idea that they were dealing with a serial killer, but there was something about the way Reese spoke that told Tayte he was absolutely certain. There had to be more to it. ‘What else do you have?’

  Reese sat back in his chair. He placed a palm over his cigar case and began rolling it slowly back and forth. ‘This is the part where you come in,’ he said. To Mavro he added, ‘Would you care to show Mr Tayte what you’ve been working on?’

  Mavro reached down beside her chair and pulled her attaché case up on to the table. ‘We know the murders were committed by the same person because he left a calling card at each of the crime scenes.’ From her case Mavro withdrew three printouts. She slid them across to Tayte, placing one beside each of the photographs, indicating the order in which they were found. ‘Family trees,’ she said. ‘At least, they’re sections of family trees. The names are all different, but they were written by the same hand in the same manner, and on the exact same paper.’

  Tayte leaned closer, suddenly aroused by this connection to his profession as a genealogist. His eyes narrowed as he began to scrutinise them. There were several names written on to incomplete genealogical wheel charts, each chart fanning out from a central name that instantly drew Tayte’s attention, as it was no doubt supposed to. None of the names rang any bells for him. They also appeared to bear no obvious relationship to the victims whose bodies they had been left with.

  ‘We began working on these soon after the second murder,’ Mavro said, ‘once the MPD had matched the murders of Annabel Rogers and Randall Edwards to the same killer.’

  ‘Does the FBI always get involved in cases of serial murder?’ Tayte asked her.

  ‘Not always, but often. In this particular case, apart from the extra manpower and the advanced forensic science the FBI can provide, it was clear that specialist skills would also be needed to bring this killer to justice.’

  ‘Because of the connection to genealogy?’ Tayte said, glancing down at the wheel charts again. ‘What have you learned?’

  Mavro shook her head. ‘So far we don’t have much. We’ve looked into the names in the middle of each chart, and we’ve been focusing on trying to make a connection between them.’

  ‘But the only connection we’ve made is you,’ Reese said.

  Since Reese had first called him, Tayte had been wondering when he would get around to telling him specifically what this had to do with him. It appeared that now was the time. Reese had his full attention.

  ‘When we spoke to the families of the victims and showed them what had been left for us at the scene of each murder, indicating a possible connection to family history, your name came up every time. Annabel Rogers’ husband told us she’d once hired you to compile her family tree. Randall Edwards’ daughter, Mrs Andrea Hutchinson, said she’d asked you to work on her husband’s ancestry. With the Masterson twins, their mother said that her sister, Mrs Wanda Delacruz, was into family history. Mrs Delacruz was able to confirm that she’d also used your services in the past. It appears, Mr Tayte, that someone is killing your past clients, or close members of their family.’

  The revelation knocked Tayte back into his seat. ‘Why?’ he said under his breath, utterly confused. ‘How does this killer even know who my past clients are?’

  ‘Those are two very good questions,’ Reese said. He leaned forward, crossing his arms in front of him, his muscles stretching the sleeves of his shirt. ‘I’d love to have you answer them for me, but I don’t suppose you’d know anything about it, would you?’

  There it was: the body language and the tone of voice that confirmed to Tayte that Reese still had his doubts about him, even now, after he’d voluntarily flown all the way from England to see him.

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘You think I’m somehow involved in this, don’t you?’

  ‘Right now, Mr Tayte, I don’t know what to think. Excuse my frankness, but if it was down to me, I’d keep you at arm’s length until I was sure.’

>   ‘I told you before—I was in England with my fiancée when these murders took place.’

  Reese picked up his cigar case and pointed it at Tayte. ‘We’ve satisfied ourselves that you were out of the country,’ he said, waving the case like a baton as he spoke. ‘And believe me, if you didn’t have such a strong alibi we’d be having a very different conversation right now. So tell me—just how does our killer know so much about your past clients?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Tayte said honestly. ‘But I’ll find out if you’ll give me the chance.’ He didn’t like to think that Reese suspected he had anything to do with these murders, whether he was out of the country at the time or not. He wanted to set that right if he could, and above all, he wanted to help stop whoever was doing this.

  Mavro spoke then, cutting through the tension. ‘Do any of the names on these charts mean anything to you, Mr Tayte?’

  Tayte drew a deep breath and turned to the charts again. ‘Two of the surnames you just mentioned are here,’ he said. ‘Hutchinson is on the chart that was left at the scene of the Rogers murder. Delacruz is on the chart found with Randall Edwards.’

  ‘We worked that much out,’ Reese said.

  ‘The names match your clients,’ Mavro added, ‘but they’re not your actual clients.’

  ‘No,’ Tayte said. ‘The first names are different and the dates against them are too far back.’

  ‘Does anything else stand out?’

  Tayte shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

  ‘Maybe?’

  Tayte tapped the centre of the chart that had been left at the scene of the Rogers murder. ‘Simmonds seems familiar, but I can’t place it. I guess if I’ve worked on the ancestry of these families, that could be why, but I look at so many names in my line of work. It’s all about names and dates, and I’ve been a professional genealogist for more than twenty years—over half my life. During that time, I’ve had hundreds of clients, most of whom have lived in or around DC.’

  ‘You asked why anyone would want to murder your past clients,’ Reese said. ‘Do you have any idea, however remote it may seem?’

  The thought made Tayte feel sick. He wanted some fresh air.

  ‘Do you piss many people off in your line of work?’ Reese continued.

  Tayte almost dismissed the notion out of hand. He did good things for people. He connected them with their wider families, with their ancestral past. How could that possibly upset anyone enough to make them want to kill his former clients? But he had upset people. In uncovering the past, as he so often did, he’d come across those who would rather the past remained buried. Some of those people had forcibly tried to stop him, while others had taken a more passive approach and simply refused to help with his research. One way or another, he’d certainly upset a few people over the years.

  ‘This is clearly personal, Mr Tayte,’ Mavro said. ‘The killer must have known that sooner or later we’d link the victims to you.’

  That worried Tayte. ‘I don’t know why my clients are being murdered,’ he said, thoughtfully, still a little shell-shocked. ‘Yes, I’ve upset people from time to time as a result of my work. But no, I don’t know who would do this.’

  ‘Can you think on it?’ Reese said. ‘Let me have a list of names? It’ll give us somewhere to start.’

  ‘Of course,’ Tayte said. He eyed Reese seriously. ‘I want to do everything I can to help.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it, because you can be damn sure our killer is at the very least already looking for his next victim. We may not have much time. The current pattern is every five days, but let’s not take anything for granted. We need to work fast, starting with your list. Ms Mavro will call by your apartment to work on the charts with you first thing in the morning.’

  Tayte nodded. ‘I’ll go through my files as soon as I get home. I’ll put something together for you.’

  ‘Good. Just bear in mind that while around seventeen percent of serial offenders in the US are female, our killer on this occasion is most definitely male. The nature of the Masterson murders in particular also suggests that we’re looking for a man with greater than average physical strength. And don’t make the mistake of thinking that serial killers belong to any particular ethnic group, as the entertainment industry might have you believe. Serial killers are not all Caucasian. They do, however, like familiar territory—a comfort zone. They tend not to kill interstate unless their work happens to take them farther afield, but that’s rare with pattern killers. So far, these killings have all taken place in DC, so I suspect that’s where our killer lives. They often operate close to home, or near their place of work. You’re probably not looking for some weirdo or misfit—not on the outside at least. Our killer is more likely to be the friendly family guy next door who always helps his old neighbour take her trash out. Or the working mom sitting next to you at the office. Fitting in so well with the rest of society is often why serial killers go undetected for so long, so keep an open mind. Right now, our killer could be just about anyone.’

  Reese stood up, indicating that the brief was drawing to a close. ‘If you find anything,’ he added, ‘anything at all, I want to be the first person to know about it. And I don’t want either of you acting on your own initiative, putting yourselves in harm’s way. I’ve got plenty of highly trained field agents ready to do that.’ He paused. Then directly to Mavro, he said, ‘I’m well aware that you used to work in the field, Ms Mavro, but that was a while back. I want you to stay in the background. Help us find out who’s doing this.’ He turned to Tayte. ‘Given what we have here, I’d say our killer is someone you know, or at least someone who knows you.’ Reese handed him a card. ‘Anything you need, just let me know.’

  Someone I know . . . It was an unnerving thought, and one that made Tayte all the more keen to go outside for some fresh autumn air. Stay in the background, Reese had said, and Tayte fully intended to do just that.

  Chapter Two

  So many questions preoccupied Tayte’s mind as he opened the door to his one-bedroom ground-floor apartment on tree-lined North Carolina Avenue Northeast and stepped inside. He hadn’t been home in months, not since the summer, and he had to concede that he hadn’t much missed the place. He’d made it a loner’s paradise, sparsely decorated with off-white walls and hardwood floors, and no room for guests to sleep over, not that that had been a problem. The doormat was tellingly covered with junk mail. He kicked his way through all three months’ worth, knowing he’d have to sort through it all at some point just in case there was anything important. There rarely was. He set his briefcase and suit carrier down, thinking that it made the decision of where to live with Jean once they were married all the more straightforward. He’d happily live wherever she wanted to, and in any kind of home she wanted them to make for themselves.

  But that was all for some other day.

  As was the research he’d been conducting into his own family history since discovering the names of his biological parents. All his plans had come to a shuddering halt when Special Agent Reese had called. He remembered exactly what he’d been doing at the time. He was with Jean at her apartment in London, part way through helping to clear the table after the romantic meal they had shared. He even remembered the smoochy love song that had been playing on the stereo, courtesy of Luther Vandross.

  ‘Mr Jefferson Tayte?’ Reese had said when Jean came in from the kitchen and handed him his phone.

  ‘Yes, I’m Tayte. Who’s this?’

  ‘My name’s Jordan Reese. I’m with the FBI.’

  ‘The FBI? How can I help you?’

  The music stopped playing at that point, and suddenly Jean was holding his arm, listening in. Her concerned expression matched his own.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I need to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘I’ll get to that. First, can you tell me if you’ve been in England long?’

  ‘How do you know where I am?’
>
  ‘Your cell phone. Have you been there long?’

  ‘A few months.’

  ‘Can anyone confirm that?’

  Tayte didn’t like where this conversation was heading. ‘Yes, my fiancée. She’s right here beside me. Do you want to ask her?’

  ‘No, that’s okay for now.’

  ‘For now? Look, are you going to tell me what this is about or not?’

  ‘Mr Tayte, I’m in charge of a murder investigation that concerns you. That’s as much as I can say for now. We’d appreciate it if you could come in and talk to us.’

  ‘In DC?’ Tayte couldn’t quite believe it.

  ‘Yes, in DC. I can get you on a flight tomorrow.’

  Tayte paused, looking into Jean’s eyes before he spoke again. He was supposed to be going to Scotland with her for the week-long Scottish monarchy seminar she was attending. They had a double room booked. He’d planned to spend the evenings with her. How could he do that now? If he didn’t go back to DC to help the FBI with their enquiries, it would only serve to implicate him in whatever was going on. He also wanted to know why the FBI thought this concerned him.

  ‘Let me have the details,’ he said, sighing as he spoke. He could already see the disappointment in Jean’s eyes. He felt the same way.

  When the call ended, Tayte kissed her and went over to the CD player. ‘At least we have tonight,’ he said as he pressed the play button. Then as Luther Vandross’s silky tones filled the air, he embraced her and they danced in slow circles, two bodies entwined as one.

  ‘You will be careful, won’t you?’ Jean whispered in his ear.