“There can’t be two of them,” Hughes said. “We’ve been through this already. We considered that months ago and had to discard it. We’ve got DNA from various scenes and it’s all a match. It’s one guy.”
“You found that DNA because they wanted you to find it,” Jazz explained. “They planted it. To make it look like one guy was doing this. This is a game and there are two players: Hat and Dog. You have Dog’s DNA. So even if you catch him, Hat is still free and clear.”
Jazz could imagine it perfectly, as though he’d been eavesdropping on the phone call. It must have been a panicked call, from Dog to Billy, the games master.
“There’s a problem.” Dog would have done his best to cover his worry with calm and reserve. Because that was how Billy would have taught him to act.
“I don’t like problems.” Jazz imagined Billy saying it jovially, with a slight lilt to his voice. A dad ruffling his kid’s hair after a tough Little League at bat. “Why don’t you fill me in and we’ll see what we can do.”
“I didn’t realize. Until I came home. But… he scratched me.”
“What?”
“I have a scratch. On my hand.”
“Didn’t you wear gloves?”
“Yes. The scratch is high up on the hand. Over the wrist. He must have clawed down the glove. I didn’t expect it. He fought like a bitch, not a man. I didn’t realize until just now….”
And Billy would sigh, resigned to working with amateurs. “Okay. Okay, let me think. Let me think.”
“They have my DNA now.”
“I know. That’s not actually a problem. Evidence is only good when you have something to compare it to.”
“So we make sure they never have anything to compare it to?”
And Jazz could hear the familiar chuckle emanating deep within Billy’s chest, low and rumbly. “No. Are you kidding me? That’s what they expect. No. We want to make sure they have something to compare it to….”
“It’s a game,” Jazz told Hughes. “And Billy’s playing, but he’s not on any one side or another. There are three players, but only two sides, you see? But there’s a game on top of the game—Hat and Dog are playing each other with Billy watching them, but at the same time, Billy’s playing with us. Four players. Three sides.”
Hughes wiped down his face with both hands. “Jasper, our forensic people are really good. Every criminal makes a mistake, and when they do, we find them.”
“Exactly! Don’t you get it? That’s what Billy was counting on. Look.” He held up a sheet of paper on which he’d plotted the evidence found at the various crime scenes. “You had no DNA evidence at all until the fourth victim, the guy found at the subway station on, what was it, Pennsylvania and Liberty Avenues, right? That’s when you found some blood and skin cells under the victim’s fingernails.”
“Right. And then we found semen at the sixth crime scene—”
“But not the fifth! That was a Hat crime. The sixth victim was Dog’s first woman. Raped because he had to make it look like one guy, not two. Hat rapes and Dog doesn’t, but for you guys not to catch on, they occasionally had to mimic each other. Dog raped the sixth victim and was so disgusted with himself that he had to reduce her to something less than human—that’s why he disemboweled her. Then Hat had to keep it up. Every time one of them added something to the signature, the other one had to pick it up and run with it.”
“That’s crazy. He deliberately left evidence—”
“It’s so crazy that it worked. Dog was giving DNA to Hat—hairs, semen samples—and letting him plant them so that you guys would think there was one guy, the Hat-Dog Killer, not two, Hat and Dog.”
“If they’re playing a game, what kind of game is it? And why would Belsamo voluntarily walk into—” He broke off at the enormity of Jazz’s grin. Jazz silently lifted his cell phone and held it up to Hughes. A bright Monopoly board filled the screen.
“Jasper, no!” Hughes groaned. “Park Place… that’s just a name. It’s not—”
“I’ve got it on my phone. I bet Belsamo has it on his laptop, in the folder titled Game. They’re playing Monopoly,” Jazz insisted, now shoving another paper at Hughes. “Hat and Dog. Two of the player pieces in the game. They carve their symbol into the victims to prove they did it. First two victims, remember? Found behind some place called Connecticut Bagel. Well, both killers started at Go and rolled nines. Bang. Connecticut Avenue. Third victim, in an empty parking space. Free Parking. That’s a Hat. They take turns. Fourth victim, first DNA: a rail stop on Pennsylvania Avenue. That’s the Pennsylvania Railroad, man.”
Hughes scanned the paper, but Jazz could tell he was being humored, not believed. “They don’t always alternate. There are two hats in a row.”
“Right. He rolled doubles, so he got to go again.”
Hughes uttered a single syllable of laughter, without mirth or joy. “So let me get this straight: You think your dad has got these guys playing a game of murder Monopoly, killing people or dumping them based on where they land on the Monopoly board?”
“Follow them. Each murder matches a spot on the board in some way. I did the math—every murder is reachable by a roll of the dice from the one before it… if you assume there’s two players. Look—Park Place,” Jazz said, jabbing a finger at the paper. “A murder at the Coney Island boardwalk.”
“I told you—those are just coincidences. Do you know what apophenia is?” Hughes asked, somewhat paternally.
“Yes.” Apophenia was a form of insanity that made people see patterns where there were none, or imbue meaningless patterns with great import. Like crazy conspiracy theorists. “I know what it is. But this isn’t—”
“Finding these ridiculous patterns… stretching this to fit a board game, of all things… I’m worried about you. Maybe we pushed you too—”
“It’s not apophenia if the pattern’s real,” Jazz protested. “Look, it’s not important that it’s Monopoly. It could have been anything. All that matters is that they have some kind of structure. It could have been checkers or chess, but Billy would find that too simple. Cliché. Everyone does chess, he would say.” Hughes shivered, and Jazz realized that—without intending to—he had once again done his dead-on Billy impression. “This is more like… like reverse apophenia.”
“Oh, really?” Hughes folded his arms over his chest.
“Yeah. It’s not seeing a pattern where there is none—it’s hiding a pattern where there doesn’t have to be one. These guys don’t need a Monopoly board to kill people. They would do it anyway. He’s just making them dance.”
In the face of Hughes’s obvious skepticism, Jazz pressed on. “Two murders with the guts left in KFC buckets? Kentucky Avenue. Dog did one, rolling a six to get there. Later, Hat rolled a five and landed on the same spot. One of the other cops even mentioned it. You were there: The nearest KFC was a mile away. Why bring the bucket and do it twice? Hell of a lot easier than transporting the body all the way to the nearest KFC, right? They only move bodies when they have to, in order to comply with the rules of the game.” Hughes said nothing, so Jazz kept going. “He left that body on the S line in Manhattan because—”
“—it’s the shortest line,” Hughes mumbled. “Short Line Railroad.” The detective’s finger skipped down the page. “Saint James… the church. Right…”
“And look at where Belsamo landed right before coming into the precinct.”
Hughes skimmed the list and looked up, puzzled. “Community Chest?”
“He drew the Get out of Jail Free card.” Jazz grinned triumphantly.
“But he wasn’t in—”
“Right. So Billy had to send him in. He had to put him right in the precinct. Remember what he told you guys in the interrogation room? That if he lied he knew he would go directly to jail? It’s right out of the game, a direct quote. Billy sent him in so that he could play the Get out of Jail Free card and keep playing the game.”