Doctor Grimm: Post Mortem: 1, #1

By Walter T. Byrd Jr.

Jayla Reeds is an Attorney living in Washington. She has had to make her way
through life with uncertain circumstances. She finally finds happiness in the
shape of her husband, Victor Grimm. Victor is a Surgeon at The George
Washington Hospital. Jayla's tranquility is turned over when a series of
murders start in Washington.
The killer is named the masked killer. He goes after the old wealthy people.
Just when Jayla believes she is getting close to catching him, another serial
killer begins their hunt. Jayla feels the murders hit too close to home when
they are committed at her husband's workplace.
With media's and political pressure, Jayla connects the clues to some older
murders with the help of Officer Davenport, the best profiler in the force.
Jayla's personal life also begins to unravel as Victor's past comes back to
haunt them both.
Victor tries his best to shower Jayla with affection, but when the seed of
suspicion is sown, there is not much either of them could do. Javla finds more
information about Victor's troubled past, a past which ultimately connects
itself to her case. The story follows Jayla as she battles stalking, grief, and
mystery. Will Jayla be able to save her heart and life in the crashing waves of
life? Or will she lose it alongside her sanity?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Walter T. Byrd Jr.
• Release date: Feb 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215485125

Walter T. Byrd Jr.

Walter Trivalle Byrd Jr, a native of Minneapolis, Minnesota. He comes from humble beginnings, faced with many obstacles living with a rare disease Tuberous Sclerosis Complex. Walter has always been fascinated with different media forums such as Movies, Writing, and Fine Arts. He loves Sci-Fi, Suspense, Horror, Action, Comedy, and Mafia movies. Despite, Walter's disadvantages growing up, guided by faith, and the support of friends and family. He often uses a motivational quote, "We have dreams, and you need action to fulfill your dreams before they can become a reality. If you talk about your dream, and it becomes unfulfilled, it's just talking." - Walter Byrd He was able to overcome this by focusing on many of his accomplishments obtaining his cinema studies, cinema production certificate, and Film Directing Degree at Minneapolis Community and Technical College. The films to Walter's credit are film capstone projects "The Situation" 2017 and "Lawless" 2018.                                                              He collaborated with animation company Monkey suite, and Byrd's Eye Motion Pictures to form an Independent Film Company Dark Fall Studios based in Minneapolis, Minnesota. They have many developed Screenplays, for live-action, animated films, and several 3D animated projects in preproduction. Walter also became an Author throughout that period by writing his first book in his Blood Oath Series, Blood Oath: Rise to Power. He's currently working on many books, including Blood Oath: The Five Families, Blood Oath: Marked for Death, Doctor Grimm: Postmortem, Vengeance: Realm of Five Kingdoms, Blood Curse: Book of The Dead, Condemned: The Serpent Killer, The Defector: Rogue Protocol, The Papacy: Trojan Horse, Cutthroat: A Gangsters Ambition with several books near completion. He also has comic books in development, with a multitude of characters showcased throughout the storyline of his multiverse exhibit in comic books, Screenplays and Movies

Book preview

CHAPTER 1 —Charmed Life

Dale and Nora Tambor enjoyed a quiet evening at home in their Great Falls, Virginia, mansion. She worked on her e-mail at one end of the living room while Dale played his classical guitar at the other end, a lifelong passion. Not a natural musical talent, Dale had nevertheless become very accomplished with years of practice. Still, he refused to perform in public, playing for no one except Nora now that their three children were out of the house with families of their own. Often asked to play at weddings, bar mitzvahs, and other occasions, Dale always politely refused, stating modestly in every case, I'm not very good. 

Theirs was a charmed life. They met in college—University of Virginia—where she studied Environmental Sciences and he studied Architecture. At first Nora considered Dale safe, a college boyfriend who would not put too many demands on her time-wise or heart-wise, letting her concentrate on her studies. She soon found out how wrong she was. Their slow simmer of a romance blossomed into a full inferno, and by their senior year they were married, living in married-student housing, and expecting their second child.

What Nora never suspected about Dale was that he was a genius. His shapes, as he called them, curves and straight lines and odd oblongs—amoebic, organic—caught on in the early and late sixties, and propelled him to the top tier of architects—well-known and in constant demand by the richest and most demanding of clients.

Dale was flattered by the attention, and eager to take every advantage of this new-found popularity. Underneath the mild-mannered, guitar-playing, life-of-no-party-whatsoever was an ambitious alpha-male anxious to conquer the world. He and Nora had lived on three continents and visited all but one of the rest—not Antarctica, please, Nora had protested—ending up finally in wealthy and staid Great Falls, VA, close to the power of Washington, DC, but far away from its acrimony.

The house they bought—a mansion, though Dale would never admit that—was built in the mid-1800s, Gothic Revival, and as different from one of Dale's own creations as could be. Although he was proud of his accomplishments, For me and my wife and my kids—this is comfort. This is perfect for us, he once told an interviewer from Architectural Digest. In private, Dale joked, My own houses just never had enough closet space.

With the children graduated from college and on their own, Dale and Nora settled into a quiet semi-retirement life. Nora was active in social causes and environmental issues, and her proximity to Washington gave her ample opportunity for citizen lobbying of all kinds. In fact, that evening she was updating the e-mail and phone list of one group she belonged to.

Dale took on a couple projects a year, but his burning ambition to be the best, the greatest, and the richest was mercifully gone. He had voluntarily surrendered that side of himself, and happiness and contentment had blossomed—he did not miss a minute of his former ambition.  To Nora, this transformation was just another example of Dale's genius.

The two of them had no enemies as far as the local Great Falls, Virginia, police could tell, so the detectives were baffled as to who entered the Tambor home on the night of September 14, 1992, duct-taped and gagged the couple, then shot them each in the head at point-blank range.

Jayla Reed sat up urgently and checked the clock. 6:27 am. Three minutes before the alarm. She reached over and shut it off before it could ring. The bed next to her was empty; Victor was already up.

Making coffee, toast, maybe eggs—what a good husband you have.

Dr. Victor Grimm was a little older, and white, and Jayla’s African American family had doubts about him from the very start, none of which proved valid, as Jayla was happy to report. He was British—very British, actually, with the posh accent to boot—which amused Jayla's family to no end. And if their marriage wasn't all fireworks, that too was okay with Jayla. She had kept her own name—the Reeds liked that—and Victor had not seemed to care, understood even.

I've been teased about it all my life, he admitted in a rare moment of self-reflection. 'Grimm-reaper,' 'Brothers Grimm,' you name it. There's even a comic-book Grimm character, I think.

Already Jayla could smell toast. Is that bacon? She slipped out of bed and put on her robe—it was a chilly DC morning in October. She was hungry and not too proud to admit it. After all, she was entitled. As an Assistant US Attorney, one of the youngest ever at 30, she had seen things in the line of duty nobody should be forced to see, young or not. If food was some solace, so be it. She was not by any means fat; curvy described her to a T.

Or more like an S, Jayla joked to herself as she made her way downstairs. Two S-es she chuckled. The important thing was that Victor liked her the way she was, and that she liked herself, too.

Mmmm, he said, putting down the spatula and taking those curves in hand, kissing Jayla on the lips, taking his time. Smells good, he whispered when they parted.

What—me or the bacon? Jayla laughed.

You, bacon, eggs, toast, Victor enthused, turning back to his cooking. It's all good.

The way Victor turned away made Jayla wonder if there was something bothering him—something' cooking besides breakfast. She would've asked, but they weren't like that—sharing their feelings wasn't their style—and Victor would deny it anyway. He was in a rough business himself, on-staff at an underfunded, over-utilized hospital in a violent neighborhood, a white man married to a black woman—

That all can't be easy on him, Jayla reasoned.

I better get dressed, Jayla said to Victor's back.

Okay, but be quick. Five minutes and this is on the table.

Roger, Jayla said, turning for the stairs.

ASAP! STAT! Victor barked, turning, spanking Jayla's butt a good smack, harder than she cared for, but that was okay, back to normal, at least. She ran up the stairs.

Where are we on the Tambor Murders? Jayla asked her crew as she breezed through the outer office. Stationed inside the US Department of Justice building in Washington, DC. The District of Columbia US Attorney's office was different than the other 93 Chief Federal Prosecutor's offices scattered among the states in that it was responsible for overseeing both the federal government and the capital city itself. At that moment, however, on orders from Congress, Jayla was assigned to a multi-agency task force intended to curb the most violent of crimes. Their job was to stop (if possible), or curtail (if not), the gruesome and sensational murders sweeping the country.

Jayla took the job seriously, even if some of her colleagues in the Justice Department thought it was all political—crime rates had actually gone down in recent years. But the President and Congress were getting flack, and threatened with losing elections if the murders didn’t stop. The public was frightened, and when the public was frightened, all reason went out the window, Jayla noticed.

The Tambors... Jayla repeated to the room of lawyers, investigators, and clerical personnel. She tried not to think the reason she was so often ignored was because she was black, or a woman, but here it was, right in her face.

Great Falls police found a mask, DC Detective Donald Martin, on loan from the local force, spoke up, hurrying in from the copy machine alcove. Unlike the others, Martin was an eager-beaver, thrilled to be working with the feds and not out on the streets of DC. Jayla liked that, and liked him.

Show me, she said, signaling him into her not-so-private, glassed-in office.

They sent pictures, Martin told Jayla, handing over the still-warm copies.

The first photo showed a Halloween mask of sorts, covering the entire face—Zorro, some said. Martin gave Jayla another picture: a roll of duct-tape.

Mostly gone, Jayla noticed.

Excuse me?

Most of the duct-tape is gone, Jayla pointed. Used up.

Yeah, Martin agreed, not sure of the significance.

So maybe this isn’t this guy’s first duct-tape caper, Jayla wondered.

That’s a lot of killings if that’s what he’s using it for.

Jayla looked up at Martin—was he kidding?

No, he’s not kidding.

So, let’s say he bought this tape long ago, Jayla started musing again, "and used it for all sorts of things, including the unlikely task of actually taping a duct of some kind..."

Jayla trailed off, not sure of the conclusion.

Even so, you’re right—we should see who stocked this brand in the immediate vicinity, Martin offered.

That hasn’t been done? Jayla asked, shocked.

No, they just got this today—

But there was tape on the victim’s mouths, right?! Jayla burst out in frustration.

That’s with the FBI. They’re doing DNA, fingerprints—

Well, get it back! And track down the mask, too. Who sold it? When? We should have been on that on day one from the security shots in the house. They show the guy in the mask, don’t they?

Yessir— Ma’am, Martin corrected himself.

Jayla tried not to be angry with him—he was in way over his head and the others on the task-force weren’t helping him much.

I’ll get right on that, Martin said, gathering the photos—

Stop.

He turned back.

Where’d they find this stuff? Jayla asked.

In the woods behind a filling station, convenience store.

Security camera?

Already on it. They got the date and time—local police are retrieving it and sending it right here.

Good work, Martin.

Thanks, he replied, holding back his joy at the compliment.

Now where is this convenience store? Jayla asked, moving to the large map on her wall of the Maryland/Virginia area.

Martin found the spot twenty miles west of the Great Falls crime scene, in the direction of Leesburg, along the Potomac.

Headed to Pittsburgh? Jayla wondered. There wasn’t much else for a long way in that northwest direction. Or maybe he’s going to double back to Baltimore.

Not a lot of places to cross the Potomac along here, Martin stated, drawing his finger along the river on the map.

Yes, yes, Jayla said, grabbing a felt-pen, drawing a line from the Tambor’s house to the convenience story. Then with one fingernail she started tracing the veins of roads north and west. Go here, every truck-stop, every convenience store, every cop-shop and liquor store. Did he buy gas here or just dump the evidence? You got the Tambor video—

Jayla almost ran to the other wall, where stills of the killer from the Tambor’s living room were posted.

—see if you see this guy again.

Got it.

Martin turned on one foot and hustled out.

Jayla lingered. She remembered the speech her supervisor gave her when she first became a detective, how she spoke for the victims now. There they were, at least partially—knees and feet tied to chairs with snow-white rope, the rest of their bodies, including faces, off-screen. On the video itself, the mask man would soon take his weapon—Glock G19—and blow the Tambor's heads to bits, again (mercifully) off-screen. The chairs would fall backwards and only the feet would be seen—loafers for him, slippers for her—tied to the chairs' heavy, hand-turned, Gothic Revival legs—the genuine article.

Jayla, reminded, hurried to the glass window of her office. Martin was just running out the door with his partner, another DC Detective: Amber Thyer, solid, reliable, only slightly more worldly. Jayla picked up her phone.

Detective Martin.

Don't forget the rope, Jayla told him. We have pieces of the rope. New. Bought somewhere. Maybe near where he bought the mask. The tape was old but the rope was new. Why?

Jayla paused, trying to answer her own question.

That's all, she said, hanging up. There was no answer.

She sat at her desk. This was Jayla's method, and it wore her out sometimes. She'd ask questions, brainstorming, always with another person there, musing, coming up with an answer on the fly. Dialoguing, she also called it. The Socratic Method, somebody once told her, but she didn't know anything about that and hadn't bothered to look it up. Of course, it depended on a partner—Martin had been perfect that morning—who'd help the process along, respond to the subject without going off on a tangent, but mostly by subjugating ego, understanding this was Jayla's method, not theirs. It was a performance, a duet, an improv, but only Jayla could be the star. There could be no right answers, no arguing, no winning with this method. If somebody wanted to play that game, well, it just wouldn't work.

Jayla sighed, letting her mind rest for a moment. It was going to be a long day.

She noticed Special Agent Frank Davenport standing outside the office, pacing, trying to decide, like a kid on the sidelines of basketball game he'd like to get in on. Eventually, Davenport noticed Jayla watching him, forcing him to act. He signaled he'd like to talk. Jayla waved him in.

Davenport literally wrote the book on the profiling of violent offenders— a required reading at almost every police academy across the globe. He was considered the world's greatest expert—

But that doesn't make him any less creepy in person, Jayla had decided long ago.

He stepped into the office only a couple of steps, keeping the door open, apology all over his body-language.

What is it? Jayla asked, impatient with the man.

Sorry to disturb you— Davenport began.

You're not, Jayla shot back. What is it?

The Scorpion Killer.

Yeah? What ya got?

If...if I could show you in the room... Davenport suggested, leaning out the door again.

Absolutely, Jayla said, getting up, moving quickly, showing Davenport how it was done, how a little self-confidence could be a real asset—

She slowed in the hall. Davenport was nearing eighty, after all. He'd sailed through mandatory retirement—Act of Congress, Jayla vaguely remembered—and was considered a national treasure for his insight into the criminal mind. Most law-enforcement officers became hardened and cynical by a lifetime of living with blood, body fluids, violence, death, greed, revenge and destruction; Davenport, on the other hand, seemed to have become more sensitized to the depravity of human existence. On a bad day, he could be a twitchy mess—

Like that guy in the movie, that math whiz who was otherwise autistic or something—counting cards...Jayla couldn't remember.

It would be a mercy to let Frank Davenport retire, everybody knew, but they also understood the agent, as fidgety as he was, was vital to the war on violence.

They entered The Room, a small, windowless space under lock and key, dedicated to the murders currently under investigation by the task force. The walls were covered ceiling to floor with erasable board. Marker lines connected taped-up photographs to other photos, to maps, to clipped police reports. File cabinets formed an island in the center, and a couple of computer monitors with keyboards sat on a desk to one side. The effect was overwhelming—20 murders so far dedicated to this room, all violent, all twisted, all unsolved, and all believed to be just the tip of the iceberg, with perhaps hundreds of untimely deaths buried just under the surface.

The Scorpion Killer was just one example.

CHAPTER 2 —Twisted Love

Carol Richly wasn't the best college student, and she wasn't the worst. The semester she died she was struggling through Organic Chemistry, the bane of every pre-med student, especially at the University of Kansas, where the course was taught by Professor Noel Menchin, a known monster, capable of failing every single student—all 50—in his three classes. Dozens of students skipped the course every year, enrolling at another college for the summer or a semester, taking only Organic Chemistry, then taking advantage of the reciprocal transfer of credits between universities. Recently, some medical schools had been noticing the practice, and rumor among undergraduates was that trying that ruse would get you shut out at admissions at some of the better med-schools. So, Carol braved the course, a requirement for pre-med, facing Dr. Menchin head on. If she had any chance, it would be because of the tutoring from Hank Neumeyer, a tall, awkward senior with a passion for young co-eds that exceeded even his most lecherous cronies.

If Carol had to sleep with Hank Neumeyer to pass Menchin's class—so, be it. Small price to pay on the path to becoming Dr. Richly, brain surgeon, (or Pediatrics, or Oncology—she hadn't decided).

I just want to help people, she'd told Hank with sweet,