Dying Games (Jefferson Tayte Genealogical Mystery Book 6)

by Steve Robinson

  ‘This isn’t the way wheel charts generally work,’ he said, offering the chart up so Mavro could see it more clearly. ‘In the semi-circle beneath the subject, Wilbur Simmonds, you’d usually write his wife’s name, and in each quadrant of the circle you’d write in the parents and grand-parents, and so on for each person, going back in time.’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ Mavro said. ‘The dates on this chart go forward, not back.’

  ‘Yes, and that has to be significant, as must the names themselves, or why fill in only a few?’

  There were five other names on the chart, and Tayte was immediately drawn to one of them. ‘Hutchinson,’ he said, recalling the conversation with Mavro and Reese the day before. ‘You said that someone called Hutchinson was my client for the Edwards murder.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Mavro said. ‘Andrea Hutchinson. She was Randall Edwards’ daughter. She hired you to compile her husband’s family tree.’

  ‘So Randall Edwards and Wilbur Simmonds are connected through Andrea Hutchinson’s marriage.’

  Tayte hurriedly stepped over to the drawer marked H and found the Hutchinson file. He took it to the desk and leaned over it with Mavro at his elbow. There were the usual vital record copies of births, marriages and deaths that he’d collected during the assignment, but for now he was only interested in the family tree he’d put together for his client’s husband. He unfolded it and smoothed it out, scanning it for Wilbur Simmonds. A moment later he saw the name and stabbed his index finger at it to show Mavro.

  ‘This is it,’ he said. ‘The other names on the killer’s wheel chart are here, too.’

  ‘Can we see how Wilbur Simmonds died?’

  ‘Sure, a copy of his death certificate should be right here in this file.’

  Tayte began to go through the file’s contents. He kept his files neat and tidy, arranged chronologically for each ancestor, going backwards from death to birth, which is how he liked to work as it was often easier to find records that were more recent. It took less than a minute to single it out, and as soon as he looked at the cause of death he knew, without a doubt, that his theory was right.

  ‘Gunshot wound to head,’ he read aloud.

  ‘Now we just need to confirm where he was shot,’ Mavro said, the excitement of the chase for this serial killer evident in her voice.

  Tayte went back to his laptop, and knowing the date of Wilbur Simmonds’s death, he was quickly able to find the news article from 1938 he was interested in. It was in the form of an obituary that had been printed in the Evening Star, a former daily afternoon paper of the capital that ran from 1852 to 1981. Tayte expected that if he’d kept looking, he’d have found other reports of the shooting of Wilbur Simmonds, but his obituary was enough to tell him what he wanted to know.

  ‘Gunned down in Lincoln Park,’ he said. He thought perhaps Simmonds had been attacked for his wallet, or maybe he’d offended someone and got into a fight. The reason wasn’t important. ‘There’s no question here that the manner of Randall Edwards’ death was intended to replicate that of Wilbur Simmonds.’

  Mavro was smiling broadly when Tayte looked at her. ‘Good job!’ she said. ‘But we need to be absolutely sure of the killer’s pattern. See if you can do it again for the Masterson twins with the wheel chart the killer left at the scene of the Edwards murder.’

  Mavro handed Tayte the chart, and this time he went straight to his files beginning with D for Delacruz. Wanda Delacruz had been his client, aunt to the murdered Masterson twins. As before, he was soon able to match the Delacruz family tree with the rest of the names on the wheel chart. Ten minutes later, they were looking at another newspaper article, this one from 1951.

  ‘It’s clear now why the killer chose to murder his third and fourth victims where he did,’ Tayte said. ‘The Masterson twins were related to a man who worked at the McMillan Filtration Plant. He died in an industrial accident of sorts. It says here that he drowned in the reservoir while trying to save his brother.’

  ‘I don’t know about you,’ Mavro said, ‘but the fact that our killer just forced the Masterson twins into the same deadly scenario sends a chill right through my bones.’

  ‘Let’s have a look at that last clue,’ Tayte said. ‘I think we can confidently say it’s going to lead us to the next victim, and with any luck you can get to him or her before the killer. It’s not been long since the twins were murdered. This has to give us an advantage.’

  ‘Reese is really going to like this,’ Mavro said. ‘These clues—these genealogical wheel charts—have had us confused from the get-go, but you’ve literally cracked it overnight.’

  ‘You couldn’t have known what they meant,’ Tayte said. ‘And even if you did, it would have taken too long without my files, and this.’ He tapped his temple. ‘The important connections are all up here. These are my past assignments—my clients. You’d need to know something about them.’

  ‘That’s worrying.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I mean the killer must have known we’d need your help to work this out. That tells me he’s wanted you on board from the start for some reason. Now we’ve played right into his hands. He’d have known we’d talk to the victims’ families, and he could be sure your name would come up.’

  ‘And that it would keep coming up until you got the message.’

  ‘Right. And now we’ve brought you back to the District. Exactly where, I suspect, our killer wants you.’

  Tayte shivered at the thought. It had been clear to him that this was personal for some reason ever since Reese had first called him, but Mavro had just none too subtly punctuated the reality of the situation—that a cold-blooded killer was prowling the streets of Washington, DC, bent on some kind of revenge against him. But for what? What had he done, and to whom?

  Somewhere in DC, a man was standing in front of a wardrobe, staring at a photograph of Jefferson Tayte, scratching irritably at the scar that cut an angry chasm across his left eyebrow. He was irritable because he was having trouble concentrating again. It had become quite a problem for him.

  He’d worked several jobs in recent months. He just couldn’t seem to hold any of them down. They weren’t particularly rewarding jobs, requiring no skills that couldn’t be taught during the first day, but they had helped to get him back on his feet, and they paid the rent. He knew the problem was in part due to his temper, but that was just the thing that ultimately got him fired. It all stemmed from the fact that he couldn’t stay focused on anything long enough, and the reason he couldn’t focus was because his mind was so often elsewhere, in a very dark place. He was there now and he didn’t like it. He wanted it to stop, and he knew there was only one way that was going to happen.

  He had to kill Jefferson Tayte.

  The man was forty-three years old and in the best shape of his life. He was a little over six feet tall, and while he’d always had an athletic physique, spending the last twenty years in one state prison or another, at the behest of the Maryland Department of Public Safety and Correctional Services, had turned him into a muscle-bound behemoth. In prison he’d had a goatee and used to shave his head, but now, because of the jobs, he was clean shaven with mid-brown hair cut short, but not too close. It was all part of trying to fit in with normal life after prison, his counsellor had told him. He didn’t care much for her advice, but fitting in suited him well enough for now.

  ‘Twenty miserable years . . .’

  He was going to end Jefferson Tayte all right, but Tayte had to suffer first, as he had suffered. He continued to snarl at the overweight cause of his despair—at the photograph he’d taped to the wardrobe mirror to remind himself why he was doing this, as if he needed any reminder. He’d taken the picture through the wire fence as Tayte was leaving the McMillan sand-filtration site with the FBI the day before. Now he spat at it and turned away into a dimly lit flea-pit of a room that was barely more accommodating than the prison cells he’d become so accustomed to.

 
He’d rented the room three weeks ago, just as soon as he’d walked out on his last job, no fuss or fight this time. He just hadn’t turned up one morning. The rent had been paid up front in cash, and he’d given false details because he didn’t want anyone to know where he was, or who he was. There was a single bed against the wall, and a small stained sink by a barred window, which his eyes now wandered over to. He’d come to loathe bars, even if these bars were not there to keep him in, but were to keep out the dregs of DC’s Southeast quadrant; not that he imagined there was anything in the entire building worth stealing.

  Just let them try, he thought to himself, with a degree of relish as he continued to dress.

  He pulled on a pair of faded grey jeans, his muscular thighs stretching the fabric. Reaching down to pick up his blue denim shirt from the bed, he caught the reflection of his broad back in the cracked mirror over the sink behind him. It bore a tattoo, and the sight of it reminded him of the gang he would always now be a part of: Dead Man Incorporated—a predominantly white prison gang. The tattoo showed the gang’s name in bold lettering, arching around the initials, DMI. The letter M was in part made up from the tip of a pyramid into which was set a depiction of the Eye of Providence. The gang was anarchistic in nature, and its members often referred to themselves as Dawgs, an acronym for DMI Against World Government.

  He hadn’t joined the gang to bring down the government, although he imagined his actions of late were tying up more than a few federal resources. No, he had joined DMI for the protection that being part of a gang offered—safety in numbers. He buttoned up his shirt and refocused on the wardrobe mirror in front of him. He scratched at his scar again, something he’d picked up in a particularly bloody fight during his first few months inside. He’d been beaten and raped time and again during those days, but only in the beginning. After joining DMI he’d been left alone, and he’d muscled up. Then it was he who gave the beatings.

  He put on a pair of black leather chukka boots and took another long and hateful stare at Tayte’s image before he made for the door. He had work of another kind to do now—dark work to match the darkness in his mind, and this was a job he would absolutely stay focused on. Making Jefferson Tayte pay for what he’d done was all he could think about.

  Chapter Four

  Excited by Tayte’s solution to the genealogical wheel charts the killer had left at the scene of each of the murders, Mavro strode into SAC Reese’s office on 4th Street Northwest with Tayte at her heels, clearly anxious to give him their news. Reese was hunched over his desk looking at the front page of the Washington Post as they entered.

  ‘Just look at this,’ he said, offering up the front cover for Tayte and Mavro to see. He slapped the front page, angered by the headline. ‘How did it get out so fast?’ He shook his head. ‘They’re calling this killer the “Genie”, for Christ’s sake, because of the genealogy charts he leaves with his victims. Have either of you spoken to anyone about this?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Mavro said. ‘Not a word.’

  Tayte quickly shook his head.

  ‘Probably some rookie cop leaked it,’ Reese said. ‘So what have you got for me?’

  Mavro smiled. ‘Good news. Might even cheer you up.’

  ‘The Lord knows I could use some,’ Reese said, his tone softening. ‘Take a seat.’

  Mavro sat at the desk facing Reese, and Tayte pulled another chair over and sat beside her, setting his briefcase down between them. From her folder, Mavro handed Reese the list of names Tayte had previously given to her, and Reese studied it with wide eyes.

  ‘You appear to have upset a lot of people over the years, Mr Tayte.’

  Tayte gave him a sheepish smile. ‘It’s been something of an occupational hazard.’

  ‘That’s not all we’ve got,’ Mavro said. ‘The really good news is that Mr Tayte has worked out what these charts mean.’

  Reese looked surprised. ‘Already?’

  ‘Yes, and it’s not because I drew up those charts in the first place,’ Tayte said. ‘If that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to insinuate anything,’ Reese said. ‘Tell me what you’ve got.’

  ‘Actually, it was pretty straightforward—for me at least. I literally had all the records I needed right there at my fingertips. It would have taken anyone else far longer.’

  There was a hint of a smile on Reese’s face, as if to suggest that he was coming around to the idea that it was a good thing to have Tayte on board. ‘So, what do these charts mean? What’s our killer telling us?’

  ‘In broad terms, he’s telling us who the next victim will be, and how and where he’s going to kill them.’

  ‘Broad terms?’

  Tayte nodded. He reached into his briefcase and brought out the details he’d put together for the first murder. With Mavro’s permission, he’d made copies of the wheel charts the killer had left for them. He pointed to the name in the centre of the chart that was left when Annabel Rogers was murdered. ‘The name in the middle of the chart indicates from whose family tree the next victim will come. So far, as you know, they’ve all been clients of mine, or a close member of their family.’ He tapped the name. ‘The location and manner of death of the person in the centre of this chart is basically being replicated by the Genie here in the present day.’

  Reese sighed at hearing Tayte use the moniker the press had given this killer, clearly still aggravated by it. ‘So you know who the next victim is going to be?’

  Tayte and Mavro looked at one another, as though for assurance. Then they both nodded.

  ‘More or less,’ Mavro said. ‘We know it will either be Tayte’s former client, a Mrs Jennifer Walters, who lives in Northwest, or a member of her family.’

  ‘And the manner and location of death?’

  Tayte brought out the chart that had been left at the scene of the Masterson murders and slid it across the desk to Reese. ‘As you can see, the wheel chart left at the scene of the Masterson murders contains a woman’s name, the names of her three children, and a question mark alongside those three children, suggesting a fourth child. It was clear from this that I had to work out how and where the mystery fourth child died. I found the corresponding file I had for this family, and at first I wondered how on earth I was going to work it out because I had the exact same information in the file—three names and a question mark.’

  Reese looked intrigued. ‘How did you work it out?’

  Tayte produced another piece of paper and handed it to Reese. ‘Turns out I already had. At the back of the file was this newspaper cutting.’

  Reese looked at it. He read out the headline. ‘Infant remains found in Georgetown attic.’

  ‘The baby had been wrapped in newspaper and sealed inside a cardboard box,’ Tayte said, saving Reese the trouble of reading the full article. ‘The newspaper in the box was printed in 1935, during the Great Depression. It was thought that the child had been the result of an unwanted pregnancy and had become one too many mouths to feed. The discovery was made during the redevelopment of the Georgetown slum area where the family lived.’

  Reese looked incredulous. ‘My God. I’ve come across some things in my time.’ He shook his head. ‘So you believe the killer is planning to murder his next victim at the same address?’

  ‘That appears to be the pattern,’ Tayte said.

  ‘Only the house is no longer there,’ Mavro added.

  ‘Right. Area redevelopment. Do we know what’s there now?’

  ‘Generally speaking, yes,’ Tayte said. ‘Before we came to see you we checked with the Library of Congress Geography and Map Division. They have a freely available online map collection.’ Tayte paused and reached into his briefcase again. He took out a current map of the city and indicated a section to Reese. ‘I marked an X here in Georgetown, roughly where the house was in 1935.’

  ‘The satellite image on Google Maps shows a large structure there now,’ Mavro said. ‘Using Google Street View we were quickly able to
determine that it’s a parking garage.’

  Reese sighed. ‘So how on earth are we going to pinpoint the location of the house?’

  ‘We haven’t figured that out yet,’ Mavro said.

  ‘Maybe we should visit the location,’ Tayte added, keen to get involved beyond looking at records. If he could work out exactly where the house was in 1935, he figured they would have a much better chance of catching the killer.

  Reese gave a nod. ‘Okay, you two get on it. It’s probably too soon to expect another body. In the meantime, I’ll send a team over to talk with your former client, Jennifer Walters.’ A satisfied expression washed over Reese as he sat back in his chair. ‘Mr Tayte, I believe myself to be a fair man, and it seems I owe you an apology. It’s a habit of the job to be suspicious of people, but my early instincts about you were clearly wrong. I’m sorry, and I want to thank you. As of right now, I believe we’re ahead of the game for the first time.’

  Reese reached inside his jacket pocket and took out his cigar case. He opened it, put his nose to the open end, and drew a long breath through his nose. He offered the open end to Tayte. ‘Take a sniff.’

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t smoke.’

  Reese pushed it closer. ‘I don’t want you to smoke it. Just take a sniff. Go on. It won’t bite you.’

  Tayte leaned closer and drew in the aroma. It smelled like tilled soil after rain, of barnyards and old leather.

  ‘You know what you’re smelling right there?’

  Tayte screwed his face up, as if it were obvious. ‘A cigar?’

  Reese shook his head. ‘No, that’s not a cigar in there.’

  ‘It isn’t?’ Tayte offered, feeling somewhat bemused.

  ‘Not to me it isn’t. It’s a symbol of success, and its aroma is the smell of success. I don’t smoke as a rule, either, but at the start of every big case like this, I buy myself a fine cigar and put it in this case. I’ll smoke it, and I’ll savour every breath of it, but only when I’ve earned it—once this killer sees the justice that’s coming to him and the case is closed.’