Dying Games (Jefferson Tayte Genealogical Mystery Book 6)

by Steve Robinson

  ‘You know me,’ Tayte said with a smile.

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

  Tayte kissed her again. ‘Don’t be afraid. I’ll be just fine. I’ll call you as soon as I land.’

  That was only yesterday, but he missed her already.

  It was just after six in the evening, and night had begun to fall on the streets of DC. Tayte hung up his jacket, switched on the light and the heating thermostat, and made straight for the coffee machine, still ruminating over everything he’d seen and heard that day. Much as he loved to think of Jean and the times they spent together, right now he had other people to focus on, and there were lives at stake—his former clients’ lives, for whom he felt an overwhelming sense of responsibility. There was a small flat-panel television on the kitchen counter, the only set he owned, used just for the news channels. He stared at the blank screen, lost in his thoughts.

  Who’s doing this?

  It was someone he knew, or at least someone who knew him. But who?

  How does he know who my past clients are?

  That had Tayte stumped.

  What do these pieces of genealogical wheel chart mean? What message is the killer trying to send?

  The charts he’d seen were not his own. They had been crudely drawn, and they were far from complete, containing only a handful of names. He needed to have a better look at them as soon as Mavro arrived in the morning. He poured his coffee, strong and black, wondering how he was going to begin figuring out all the answers.

  Why my clients?

  He knew that was where he had to start—with the list of names he’d promised Reese. At some point in his career, as a result of one of his assignments, he’d seriously upset someone. That had to be it. He opened one of the kitchen cupboards and took out a fresh bag of Hershey’s Miniatures to help keep him going through what he imagined was going to be a long night ahead. He tucked the bag under his arm, picked up his coffee, and went into his filing room, where he paused to take in all the tall wall-to-wall grey cabinets he’d collected over the years.

  Tayte had begun his career in the days before digitisation and online access to archives really took off, and although now fully acquainted with the digital world, he’d been slow to adapt. He had some digital files, dating back several years, but in his filing room he also kept paper copies of everything. When it came to his files, he’d always been a hoarder, unable to part with anything in case he ever needed to look something up or cross-reference a name, never knowing when one client’s family history might overlap with another, saving him time. He had so many paper files that he needed an entire room to store them in.

  He drew a deep breath through his nose. He liked the smell of all that old paper inside those cabinets and in the many lever arch files he had on shelves higher up. It reminded him of countless archive reading rooms and old libraries. His files were meticulously arranged in alphabetical order. He figured he just had to work his way through them all, from A to Z, familiarising himself with his past assignments.

  ‘All twenty years’ worth,’ he told himself.

  He whistled, knowing it was going to take time. He wished he could draft in a handful of FBI agents to help out, but no one else knew what to look for. He had made no records of any of the people he might have upset over the years as a result of one assignment or another. Those names were all in his head. He just had to hope that something, or someone, stood out enough to jog his memory.

  He put his coffee and the bag of Hershey’s down on the small desk that stood beneath the window, where a heavy net curtain hid the view of a tree that had grown so tall and so close that it obscured much of the street. He popped one of the chocolates into his mouth and turned to the first cabinet, which had a big letter A on the front. He pulled open the bottom drawer, figuring he’d take a high-level glance through everything first, hoping it would save time. Maybe it would be enough to recall whether he’d upset anyone on that particular occasion.

  He began flicking through the files, starting with Abbot, then Ackerman and Adams, through Arrington and Ashworth to the last file in the drawer, Avery. Nothing stood out. He couldn’t even place half the names and he supposed that was okay. He imagined if he had upset someone during an assignment, he would remember at least something about it. Those others he couldn’t recall had to be run-of-the-mill assignments where nothing particularly memorable had happened.

  As he turned to drawer B and began to flick through more files, he thought back over some of his more recent engagements. Sure, he’d upset a few people, and some of them were now serving prison sentences as a result. But the only noteworthy cases he’d had of late had been in Europe, mostly in England where he’d met Jean. He opened drawer C, reminding himself of what Reese had said about the typical profile of a serial killer.

  They tend to operate close to home or their place of work.

  According to Reese, serial killers rarely travelled interstate to perform their nefarious activities, let alone intercontinental. But perhaps this serial killer didn’t conform to the typical profile. He was killing his former clients, after all. Just his. That made it about him. It made it personal.

  Keep an open mind . . .

  Reese had also said that, and Tayte planned to follow his advice. He couldn’t rule anyone out, and neither was it his job to do so. He went to the desk and took a notepad from the drawer. Then he wrote down all the names he could think of from his recent travels abroad in case Reese wanted to check them out. Against the names he wrote all the reasons why they were on the list. If the people his actions had put in prison were still inside, Reese could rule them out. That only left Tayte’s US assignments. Until recent years, ever since his adoptive parents were killed in a plane crash when he was in his teens, his morbid fear of flying had kept him stateside. It was from those assignments that he expected to find clues to the kind of people Reese was looking for.

  Tayte went back to his filing cabinets, and by the time he’d reached the back of drawer D, he had one more name for his list, but he thought it only a weak possibility. It concerned a middle-aged man who lived in Northwest called Ronald Dorsey. While researching the Dorsey family tree for Mrs Dorsey, Tayte had unwittingly shown her husband to be a three-times bigamist, which, Tayte had learned soon after the end of that job six years ago, had led to their divorce. Mr Dorsey had good reason to dislike Tayte, but it was hardly something to trigger a killing spree.

  Fresh coffee to help keep him awake came and went with the hours that passed as Tayte went through cabinet after cabinet on his trip down Memory Lane, writing names down whenever he recalled an assignment where he felt he might have made an enemy. Tired as he was, and jet-lagged from the flight, he wanted to put that list together for Reese tonight so he’d have something for him when Mavro came by in the morning. He checked the time on his new wristwatch which, although similar to his old timepiece, he was still getting used to because he’d worn his old watch for so long. It was an original 1980s digital watch with glowing red LEDs that Jean had found for him on eBay, an engagement present to replace the watch he’d been forced to part company with in Germany that summer. It was midnight, and the jet lag he’d been trying to ward off with more coffee and Hershey’s Miniatures than he knew was healthy for him was finally winning.

  It was almost one in the morning by the time Tayte had finished compiling his list. There were close to forty names on it, none of which he’d have pegged for a serial killer, but what did he know? He thought he could have added a few more if he’d dug deeper into his files, but these were the names that stood out. And as he’d previously supposed, if nothing did stand out, it was a pretty good bet that the assignment in question hadn’t made a big enough negative impact on anyone’s life to turn them into the monster that had so far killed four members of his former clients’ families. Tayte closed the last of his filing cabinet drawers and sat down at his desk, slumping forward on his elbows, too tired to keep his eyes open. He was ready to call it a night
right there, but something was bothering him. It was Annabel Rogers, the killer’s first victim. Going through his files he’d come across the assignment and it had stirred a memory. He couldn’t quite place it, but he recalled that something very bad had happened in that family bloodline and he wanted to take a closer look before he turned in for the night. However tired he felt, he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep unless he did.

  He rubbed his eyes and forced himself out of his chair, draining back the lukewarm dregs of his last cup of coffee as he rose. He located the file and took it through into the lounge, where he slumped on to an old, beaten-up walnut leather couch, thinking he’d be more comfortable falling asleep there if the sandman came for him while he was reading through it.

  He was halfway through the file when the thing that had been niggling him revealed itself at last. It was triggered by a child’s death certificate from 1920. He gave a deep yawn as he continued to study it and, as his tiredness finally overcame him, a slow smile spread across his face, knowing that he had just worked out a key part of the sadistic game this killer was playing.

  Chapter Three

  Tayte awoke the following morning with a stiff neck and a mild pain in his lower back. He was still on his couch, having fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep, or so it seemed because he couldn’t recall anything beyond reading the assignment file for Annabel Rogers. He rolled on to his side and saw it on the floor beside an almost-empty bag of Hershey’s Miniatures. He picked up the file, noting from the light at the window that the day had already begun. At that moment his door buzzer sounded and he drew a sharp breath, realising that had to be what had awoken him. He checked his watch: it was just before eight.

  Ms Mavro.

  ‘Just a minute!’ Tayte called.

  He sat up, still in the tan suit trousers and shirt he’d been wearing when he’d flown in the previous day. He swung his legs off the couch and stood up, stretching as he rose. He straightened his unkempt hair as he went to the door, thinking there was nothing he could do for the rest of his appearance, which was as creased as an old bank note. When he opened the door, Mavro greeted him with a perky smile. She had a folder tucked under her arm—her case file, Tayte supposed—and a paper bag in her hand. She held the paper bag up.

  ‘You like bagels?’

  ‘Sure, who doesn’t?’

  Mavro didn’t look much like a member of the FBI today, Tayte considered, and he imagined that was because she didn’t want to draw attention to herself in the field. She was wearing blue jeans and a navy polo shirt beneath an olive-green army-style parka. Her coat was open and he could also see that she was carrying a sidearm, reminding him of the seriousness of the situation—as if any reminder were needed.

  ‘Agent Mavro,’ Tayte said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. ‘Come in.’

  ‘I’m not an agent,’ Mavro said as she stepped inside. She sounded far more chirpy than Tayte felt. ‘I’m an analyst, remember?’

  ‘Right,’ Tayte said, fighting a yawn. ‘I thought all you people were called agents.’

  ‘It’s a common misconception.’

  ‘Do you all carry guns?’

  ‘No, and I don’t usually get to carry a badge any more, either, but Reese insisted. Special circumstances. You just woke up?’

  Tayte nodded. ‘I couldn’t wait to get stuck into that list I promised Agent Reese. It turned into a longer night than I’d expected.’

  ‘How did you get on?’

  ‘Great, I think. I’ve got around forty names.’

  ‘Forty!’ Mavro whistled at hearing the number.

  ‘As I said, I stayed up awhile. It was a good thing I did, too—apart from finishing the list, I mean.’

  ‘You found something?’

  ‘I think so. Let me fix you a coffee to go with those bagels. Then I’ll explain.’

  Tayte led Mavro into the kitchen. He still had the Rogers file in his hand, which he set down in front of her as she made herself comfortable on one of the two stools at the breakfast bar. He tapped the folder. ‘I found an interesting coincidence in here. See if you can spot it while I freshen up. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  He was only gone ten minutes, during which time he’d hurriedly showered and changed into a fresh shirt and a lighter shade of tan linen suit from the selection of similar garments he kept in his wardrobe. Mavro was chomping on a bagel, eyes buried in the Rogers file, when he went back into the kitchen.

  ‘Here’s that list, before I forget,’ Tayte said, handing it to her with one hand as he continued to comb his damp hair back with the other. Mavro took it and placed it inside her folder.

  ‘Did you spot it?’ Tayte asked. ‘The coincidence?’

  Mavro shook her head. ‘I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to be looking at.’

  Tayte poured himself a coffee and sat beside her. ‘This,’ he said, singling out the certificate of death from 1920 that he’d found the night before. ‘It’s not easy to see it amongst all these records. I doubt I’d have made the connection myself if this had been someone else’s assignment file. Note the cause of death.’

  ‘Smoke inhalation.’

  Tayte nodded. ‘It could have been due to a number of reasons, but I know from memory that it was because of a house fire. Up until 1999 the majority of fire deaths were put down to smoke inhalation, whether the deceased also died of burns or not. I remembered as soon as I saw the record. It was widely reported by the press at the time, and I’d read an article in the newspaper archives. A nine-year-old girl was killed. The fire was thought to have started in her bedroom. I can’t recall the precise details, but I remember reading that it quickly raged out of control. By the time the little girl’s parents knew anything about it, it was too late to save her. It was a tragic accident.’

  ‘You think that’s why our killer used a doll’s house in the killing of his first victim? Because one of her ancestors—a child—died in a house fire?’

  ‘It’s a pretty big coincidence, don’t you think? The girl had a brother. He was several years older and he was away from home at the time of the fire. He was Annabel Rogers’ great-grandfather. Can you tell me where in Northwest Annabel Rogers was murdered?’

  ‘Columbia Heights,’ Mavro said, not needing to check her files. ‘The house was on Otis Place.’

  Tayte fetched his laptop, helping himself to a bagel as they waited for it to boot up. ‘I don’t recall the address, and I don’t appear to have kept a copy of the newspaper report, but I’m sure it must have been noted at the time.’

  He logged on to the Library of Congress digital newspaper archive, which contained over ten million newspaper pages from 1789 to 1922. Using the information from his assignment file he was soon looking at the report.

  ‘There it is,’ he said, hovering his index finger close to the screen so that Mavro could see the match. ‘The house fire was also at Otis Place. That’s where the little girl lived. It can’t be a coincidence.’

  ‘No, it can’t,’ Mavro agreed. ‘The killer rented a room at the house where he killed Annabel Rogers. He used an alias and gave false details so we wouldn’t be able to trace him.’

  ‘Did anyone get a good look at him?’

  ‘Sure. The landlady told us she saw him briefly when he first came to the house. She said he paid upfront in cash. After that, he kept to himself.’

  ‘So what did he look like?’

  Mavro smiled to herself. ‘Big man, dark hair, tan suit. He looked just like you in sunglasses. It’s easy to see it now for the disguise it was.’

  Tayte frowned. ‘He looked like me? No wonder Reese was suspicious of my involvement.’

  ‘I’ve heard he can be a bit of a bear,’ Mavro said. ‘I shouldn’t take it too personally. I’ve worked with a few ex-military agents in the past. They’re not always the easiest to get along with.’ She opened her folder and took out the piece of genealogical wheel chart that had been left at the scene of the Rogers murder. ‘If this is the pattern,’ she sai
d, moving on, ‘then the killer is as good as telling us who he’s going to kill next. He’s left these charts at the scene of each murder to let us know where and how he plans to kill again.’

  ‘If we can’t stop him in time,’ Tayte said. ‘We should be able to prove the pattern easily enough.’ He took a big gulp of coffee, collected his laptop and stood up. ‘Would you care to follow me with those wheel charts?’

  Tayte led Mavro into his file room, where he set his laptop down on the desk.

  ‘My, my. You have been busy,’ Mavro said as she took in all the cabinets and stacked shelves.

  ‘You’re looking at my life’s work,’ Tayte said. ‘I guess I’ve had little else to do.’

  ‘Right. Unmarried and no kids. I read that in your file.’ Mavro laughed to herself. ‘Same here, more’s the pity.’

  ‘Maybe it’s not all it’s cracked up to be,’ Tayte offered, thinking about Jean, hoping he was wrong and knowing he was soon going to find out.

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ Mavro said, somewhat unconvincingly.

  Mavro handed Tayte the wheel chart from the first murder. ‘Here. See what you can do with this.’

  Tayte studied the name in the middle of the wheel. ‘Wilbur Simmonds,’ he read aloud. ‘Born March 1895. Died August 1938.’

  ‘That makes him forty-three years old at the time of his death,’ Mavro said, taking no time at all to work it out.

  ‘Right. I guess I must have come across him during my research at some point. He’s the subject of the chart, so let’s suppose for now that this is who the killer wants to draw our attention to.’

  ‘And if we’re on the right track,’ Mavro said, ‘if this theory about the first victim and the little girl who died in the house fire is correct, we should find that Wilbur Simmonds was shot dead in Lincoln Park back in 1938.’

  Tayte nodded, thinking that by choosing a victim whose name couldn’t be directly associated with one of his assignment files, as it was with Annabel Rogers, it made the puzzle a little more complicated, which was just how he imagined the killer had planned it. He studied the wheel chart further. Something struck him as odd.