The Wizard Murders (11 page)

"I would've thought so too," Pitt sighs, deflated, not sure if he sounds convinced. "Let's just hope he survives." For the first time since all hell broke loose, Pitt glances down and catches a glimpse of his own hands, his chest and his pant legs and then finally his shoes. He realizes that they're covered in gore. "C'mon, let's find a restroom, and get cleaned up before someone from the press finds out we were at the scene and interviews us to death."

The two men run hot water in a men's room for ten minutes straight, and practically empty a paper towel dispenser trying to wipe and dab away the blood that's smeared on their clothes. Pitt tries hand soap and furious rubbing, but finally decides that for the time being he's going to look like he walked out of a butcher's shop. Eventually, they wander to the hospital cafeteria, silently dropping quarters into a coffee machine and listening to it brew, knowing that all they can do now is crash somewhere and let things happen.

They do. The man succumbs to his wounds in less than an hour. He never speaks.

Pitt and Clarence can only shuffle into the hospital parking lot, their hopes dashed, their clothes ruined, their transportation back to the station uncertain. As the sun starts to set on the two slow-moving and weary figures, Clarence pulls out a cigarette and lights it.

"You know, those things are gonna kill you someday," Pitt mutters.

"If it's not the smokes, well, something's gonna get us all anyway," Clarence sighs, attempting to blow his worries to the sky through a noxious cloud of smoke. "I've got a fatal disease. It's called life. I've only got thirty or forty years left to live."

By the time men part ways- not until about eleven o'clock that evening- Pitt has a migraine so awful he practically has to crawl into his apartment; with shaking hands he fumbles in the bathroom medicine cabinet for a bottle of aspirin, and winds up downing about six pills, gagging for a moment on both them and the nightly presence of his neighbor's cigarette smoke.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Two days later, the railroad whistle carries its mournful, "going home" sound across town as the third murder victim joins the others, buried near the cypress trees at Sunnyslope.

Pitt and Clarence are trying to search for meaning in this apparent escalation of murderous rage, but so far delving into the third victim's history doesn't seem to be yielding any clues as to why an older man suddenly found himself the unlucky recipient of such a twisted grave marker- that hideous, dark toned face of a wizard. Clarence has written the names of all three victims onto separate columns on a chalkboard in the briefing room: Robyn Marshall, DOB 3/7/1967; Evelyn Crest, DOB 11/17/63; Andrew Williams DOB 7/15/1942. In questioning friends, neighbors and relatives, any interaction between the two young girls was scarce at best- despite the close proximity of everyone to each other in Beaumont, these two probably knew each other by face, but perhaps not even by name. Meanwhile there seems to be even less of a connection between either of the two girls with the third victim, Mr. Williams. Indeed, anyone in this trio- with the possible exception of the girls- may not have known the others existed. In a mildly interesting development, it does seem that Mr. Williams, unlike the two girls, was not especially well-liked.

"He originally come from New Jersey," Clarence declares, fiddling with a piece of a chalk in his fingers. "He moved from there to Palm Springs about five years ago, and then he wound up here. He used to be a real estate agent."

Pitt- about to take a sip of coffee- almost shoots his cup of joe through his nose. "Whoa, whoa, wait. You're telling me... you're telling me that
slob
was a real estate agent?" Clarence nods. "The guy with the filthy house and the cat hair all over? That guy?"

"Yeah- used to be," Clarence explains. "Like I said, he left New Jersey. Seems someone there overheard him on a phone call- talkin' to some client or contractor or somebody- and he was bein' really foul, really abusive to whoever it was he was talkin' to. The word got out, 'hey, don't buy your houses from Andrew Williams, he's a real asshole', and he wound up losin' his business, gettin' divorced and movin' out here. He never really had a steady job again."

"Well, some of those real estate agents can be real pricks," Pitt mutters. "I know. There's a reason I pay rent and not a mortgage. I don't want to give them my business." He takes another sip of coffee. "But something tells me these murders don't have a damn thing to do with real estate."

"Maybe it has something to do with hatred, pure and simple. One of his neighbors done told me he didn't care if Williams wound up jobless, friendless or homeless, eaten up by packs of wild dogs."

Pitt shoots Clarence a 'what, are you kidding me?' sort of a glance. "That's a pretty vitriolic response from just a neighbor..."

Clarence quickly shakes his head. "That's what I thought, too, but I checked. He's got a rock-solid alibi. He's in a bowling league, and that's where he was on Monday the 14th with about forty other people."

At the noon hour approaches, Pitt is seated at a picnic table in Bogart Park, Denise seated across from him. With his gray suit coat ruined by globs of blood from the third victim, he's had to cram himself into an old navy blue polyester coat of his that's now about one size too small for him, causing the material to bind painfully under his arms. After a few uncomfortable bites of a lukewarm baloney sandwich he's brought with him, he decides it's not worth the discomfort and he rises for a moment to remove the jacket and sit instead in his shirtsleeves, placing the coat on the bench next to him. Denise quietly picks at her lunch, a homemade pasta salad. Pitt sneaks a peak at her poofy-yet-always-perfect blond hair, hairspray neatly distributed on top, a maroon ribbon pulling the length of it back in a ponytail. He then notices movement over her shoulder, in the grass in the distance, and allows himself a small mouth-full-of-food chuckle as he realizes that he's spotted a squirrel. He nods his head, gesturing to Denise, encouraging her to look over her shoulder.

"What? What is it?" she asks, a touch afraid. She turns and sees the squirrel about twenty feet behind her, his tail switching around eagerly. "Awww, how cute," she giggles. "My daddy actually used to hunt those things down in Texas and shoot at 'em like it was target practice or something. I told him don't ever do that around me, especially after Grandma died."

"Why, what happened?" Pitt is trying to swallow a portion of his lousy sandwich and fighting to ignore the growing, throbbing pain in his jaw.

"Well, when I was a little girl- I know this is gonna sound strange, but- I used to like to go for a long walk in the cemetery." Pitt cocks his head, curiously. "There was a really old one right by Grandma's house. I know it sounds strange, but I liked it- I liked the quiet, I liked the really pretty fresh little flowers that were always showing up year round, when people would come and visit their loved ones." She pauses. "I used to go there and sit by my Grandpa's grave. I never really had the chance to know him, I've got only a few vague memories, but I used to go by his grave all the time. And Grandma and I never missed a Memorial Day- we were always there on Memorial Day, 'cause Grandpa served in the army during World War Two." She puts her fork down, her face becoming dreamy-eyed and reflective. "Then when I was a teenager and all moody and depressed, I'd force myself to go back there and walk through the cemetery and visit each and every grave, telling myself, 'These people don't have problems anymore. Consider yourself lucky.' So I used to go there all the time, especially in the summer- it was so sweet 'cause that was when the ladybugs would come out and cover all the graves, just teeming with dozens of little ladybugs.

"Well anyway, about six years ago, Grandma died. We all took it pretty hard, even though she was eighty-four. It wasn't enough. We all wanted her stay for another eighty-four years." Denise rubs her nose for a moment, then continues. "So a couple days after the funeral, right before I came here to California to be with my stepsister- I went out to the grave one last time, to say goodbye, and... I'm standing there, and her grave is covered with flowers. Just covered. There wasn't a headstone yet, just tons and tons of flowers. And I remember thinking, 'Grandma, it's me. Can you give me a sign, something, anything to let me know that you're here.' Then about ten seconds later, right behind a tree stump just a few yards away- up pops this little squirrel. And looks right at me. And I said out loud, 'Grandma, is that you?' And this little squirrel just looks at me, and rubs its face for a moment. So when daddy would go hunting and killing those poor little things I said 'Don't ever do that around me! Don't ever set traps, don't you ever do anything like that around me!' So when- where is the little guy?" She turns and looks over her shoulder again, trying to find the squirrel; he's made a few bounds across the grass and is now eating something. "There he is, hi sweetie! So when daddy told me he'd quit doing it, I wasn't ever sure if I believed him, I think maybe he was just trying to get me to shut up." Denise sighs for a moment, then continues. "You know, the really weird part of that story is that in all the times I'd visited that cemetery, every single time, for years- not once did I ever see a squirrel. Ever. I'd never seen one there before, and I've been back but I've never seen one since. So I think maybe Grandma was trying to tell me, Hello, here I am, everything's going to be okay. I wasn't too sure about death, I'm still not. Part of me thinks there's something more, and part of me thinks you just go into the ground and the worms eat you." She bursts out laughing.

"Well, maybe it's both," Pitt replies. Time and space have been utterly erased for him while listening, captivated, to Denise's story. There is a long, quiet moment between the two of them.

"Good idea to get out of the office," he finally mutters, wiping his mouth carefully with a napkin- making extra sure no mustard is clinging to his moustache. "Even if it is a bit warm. Couldn't take the noise anymore."

"I know," Denise responds, her eyes downcast for a moment. "I didn't think the phone was ever gonna stop ringing with all of those newspaper reporters calling in."

"Yeah," he sighs wearily, glancing up briefly as a small breeze rustles the live oaks that surround them. "I mean, I know they've got a job to do, but dammit... I don't want to sit there just reading the same damn press release on the phone, over and over again. I've got investigation teams who want to show me their diagrams, the coroner's office with next-of-kin info, good God almighty..." His voice trails off as he feels the waves of frustration mounting inside. "I've got three sets of families who want answers and they want them now. And what do we got? We got a whole lot of
nothing
." He says those last few words with sarcastic precision.

"I really wish I could do more," Denise offers. "I could maybe take another look at those star charts, but I really don't know what good it would do..."

"I think that's what he wants," Pitt grumbles. "He wants us to be distracted. I mean, he had us so focused on September 17th, it was a classic bait-and-switch. Now, maybe today there'll be something else- it is, now, the 17th- but I still don't know what the hell it is." He fumbles into his coat pocket on the seat next to him, his keys falling to the ground, his elbow almost knocking his soft drink over. He pulls out the notepad and rapidly flips through to the "LOOK TO THE SKY" portion of his notes. "I've been staring at this for weeks now, and I'm still not even sure if that's necessarily a reference to a date or not. I'm just assuming it's a date. It could be anything." He taps his finger impatiently on the "paseniw" section.

"Could it be a prankster?" Denise asks.

"No, no, we-" Pitt catches himself illogically looking over his shoulder for a moment- "we've got a preliminary match between the paint at the scene and what we found at the Oak Tree."

Denise's eyes widen. "You do? I didn't know that!"

"Oh yeah," Pitt nods. "Same manufacturer, same color. It's called 'midnight blue'."

"Well can't you just- I don't know- subpoena all the hardware stores?" Denise blurts out, then after a split second giggles at what she knows is her own ignorance. "I mean, I don't pretend to know the fine points of law, I'm just a secretary. I don't know what you men do."

"That paint could be bought anywhere. It's not a unique brand, other than just the name. Listen..." Pitt stops for a moment, very carefully weighing his words. "Tonight... I don't know what to expect. I really, really don't. What I do know is that I don't want to look like some idiot gazing up at the stars tonight. Now, Clarence says he's gonna need some family time after end-of-shift. I guess what I'm asking is, would you..." he gestures to her, hoping she'll fill in the blanks. "Would you..."