The Wizard Murders (14 page)

Startled, he stacks them up again, tapping them on the desk, making sure they're in the right order- and wanting to make sure of what he thinks he's seen. He flips through them again, quickly now, just looking at the names, checking and rechecking, making certain that he's not seeing things. He even rubs his eyes and checks a third time to make sure he hasn't gotten the files out of order:

Robyn Marshall

Evelyn Crest

Andrew Williams

Drew Smith

READ. The first letters of the first names spell it.
R-E-A-D.
A well-hidden, cruel hint? A coincidence? But- READ what?

The Wizard of Oz?
No.

He fights with a stack of papers until he finds a glossy of each of the murderer's paintings, along with an artist's rendition of said painting. He looks again at the constellation that Denise apparently picked out, the one on the left side of the painting that's above the wizard's right shoulder. She seemed fairly certain it was the Cygnus constellation, and indeed he'd seen it in the sky on the evening of the 17th.
But again, READ what?
Pitt thinks to himself.
The stars? We've already done that.
He pulls a magnifying glass from the drawer of his desk and examines the pattern again, moving his head back and forth in an effort to avoid the shadow that's being cast downward by the office's fluorescent lights.
It's pretty much consistent, it does seem to be the same pattern on each one. What am I missing here?
He moves slowly, moving the glass left to right, poring over every detail. He's never really paid much attention to the "artistic" quality of the paintings, but Denise is right... they are almost beautiful, captivating in their own sick way.
Whoever this is, they paid attention to the details, even the weave of his beard, the folds in his cloak or cape or whatever the hell it is...
and in looking at the folds of the wizard's cape, in the lower right hand corner of the painting, where it looks like the material is supposed to be folding or billowing behind him, Pitt pulls back a bit, squints, blinks and then stares until his eyes water.

Hidden within those creases, those folds, on what could only be described as wavy, ornate lettering, Pitt makes out what can only be the word, 'swan.'

He rears back for a moment, his hands grasping the lower half of his face. His eyes trace the sequence of letters repeatedly, desperately trying to ensure that what he's seen is not the product of an exhausted mind. He turns his attention to the third photo; it's a close-up of what the killer left behind as a grim epitaph for Andrew Williams- a detail of the wizard's head and shoulders. Turning his head, swan clearly appears on the right side of the painting, hidden within the tufts and curls of the wizard's long beard.

Pitt's office door flies open. "DENISE! GET THE HELL IN HERE!" he bellows, basically scaring the living hell out of everyone within earshot.

Denise comes running, her ponytail bouncing but the front of her hair stays totally unmoved. She looks at Pitt, scared at the volume of his voice, and unsure of how to treat him ever since her pleas to make him stay failed.

"Didn't you tell me that Cygnus means swan?"

"What?" Denise thinks she understands what he asked, but is totally thrown as to why.

"Didn't you tell me that Cygnus means swan?" he repeats, slowly and deliberately.

"Yes."

"It's Latin, right?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Take a look at this." He gestures to her to approach the desk, and hands her the magnifying glass. He points to the picture. She leans forward. As she comes closer, Pitt is fleetingly amused to note that she smells of both perfume and bubblegum.

"What? What is it?"

"Swan," Pitt intones, triumphantly. "See it?"

Denise narrows her eyes. "Yeah, I... yeah, I guess it is! Swan! You think that's on purpose?"

"What are the chances," Pitt begins, "that certain constellations are in the sky over the murder sites and on certain days?"

"Well, the constellations are always out, every night. I mean..."

"No, are they showing up right at certain times over certain places. I saw the Northern Cross on the 17th, the cross, the asterisk or whatever it is you call it..."

Denise tries not to laugh. "Asterism. Not asterisk."

"Whatever it is. I saw that, right above that house. I'd bet you dollars to donuts that's what's going on here. Donuts being the preferred method of gambling around here." Pitt laughs, and it's the first laugh he's enjoyed in awhile. "If we go back, if we've got some sort of a... I don't know, perpetual calendar or something, along with your star chart, I'd bet there's a match. He wants us to pay attention to the swan!
He wants us to pay attention to the swan!
" Pitt is holding his head in his hands, and by this point Clarence has wandered in.

"What's going on, man?" he asks.

"Clarence, take a look at this," Pitt exclaims, taking the magnifying glass from Denise and handing it to him. "Right there, on the wizard's cloak, right there. 'Swan.' You see that? 'Swan' is a part of Cygnus. It's right there, in the folds, look. He wants us to look at the swan!"

Clarence stares carefully for a moment, then exhales. "Whew, man, that's crazy. What the hell is going on here."

"I- I can't believe it." Pitt is stammering. "I've been staring at that thing for more than a month. We all have. It's been photographed. I can't believe no one's noticed it until now. There's no way that can be a coincidence! No way!"

"But..." Clarence sighs, his hands on his hips. "So what? I mean, that matches the name of the constellation, right? But what's that get us?"

"It means it's not as random as we thought," Pitt declares. "He's trying to tell us something, he thinks he's like the Zodiac Killer or Manson or somebody." Denise shivers at the thought. "I mean, yeah, it's a... it's a...
bizarre
development, to be sure, but it has to be something," Pitt says, starting to calm down. "I don't know that this brings us any closer, but Jesus Christ, how come none of us saw this?" He pauses for a moment, then startles Clarence and Denise by slapping his forehead with his hand. "That's it! It didn't matter who was in the Gillette's house, it was because the star formation was over it! It had to be, right? That explains why the house sitter died- not because of
who
she was, but
where!
"

"I don't know man, but it could very well be." Clarence looks warily at Pitt, unsure of his sudden enthusiasm. "You gonna tell the FBI?"

Pitt thinks for a moment, his eyes still dancing with excitement. Finally he speaks. "Screw the FBI. Let's see if they notice it too. And yeah, I
am
the jealous type. I'd kind of like to see our little homegrown investigation take this all the way."

Denise and Clarence smile at him. Denise even starts to cry a little. "That mean you're gonna stay?"

Pitt's mouth falls open in horror. "Oh hon, I'm not going anywhere. Come here." To Clarence's amazement, Pitt struts across the office and hugs her, then turns to shake his hand.

"I want to finish this thing, Clarence," he says, firmly, his brown eyes flecked with green starting to water. "I want to finish it."

                                    *************

Pitt arrives back at his apartment near 12th and Edgar later that evening, his mind buzzing, his feet aching, and his bladder screaming. In all of the excitement and adrenaline back at the station, he'd forgotten to even urinate, and now he was paying for it. He closes his door, quickly and clumsily kicks his shoes off of his aching feet, lean his back on the closed door for a moment, and mutters to himself, "That bumping sound you hear is my butt dragging on the floor behind me." He takes a few deep breaths, then heads for the bathroom.

After a moment of straining- the price that you pay if you actually wait too long to pee- there is relief. Pitt closes his eyes and exhales.
Long day. Long, bad, difficult day. Maybe we've got a good clue here but we're not really any closer.
Pitt starts to cough, and it takes him a moment to realize why: once again, his next-door neighbor has his bathroom fan running, and is smoking those damn menthol cigarettes. The stench is making his throat burn and he coughs again.
Dammit, how much do I pay in rent every month for a goddamn no-smoking apartment?
He finishes his business in the bathroom, and starts to head for the kitchen, when he notices that the smell has followed him and is in fact permeating his entire apartment. From the back of his mind comes a memory of hearing his father weeping over the phone- while lighting a damn cigarette for himself- as Pitt's mother cried out in pain in the background, her body ruined by smoking-related cancer. Then comes the fresh recollection of Geoff Stevens's voice, from this morning: "Well, you keep things going on down there." Such a short, poignant statement.
Because I can't, Andy. My time has been cut short. It's up to you now to help keep the world running the way we tried to make it. My number is up. I'm sorry, but I have to go now.

"That does it," Pitt seethes. "That tears it."

A minute later an exhausted and irritated Pitt is knocking on his neighbor's door. He stands impatiently, wondering who his neighbor really is- he's made a point of never interacting with those who live nearby; to him his home is his last retreat. A few moments later, a thin, pale, middle-aged man answers the door. He's got a bit of a five o'clock shadow and his white, button-down shirt is untucked. For a split second Pitt is reminded of the actor Jack Lemmon.

"Hey. My name is Andrew Pitt and I actually work at the Beaumont Police Department as a Detective, but I happen to live next door. I have tried to be patient and ignore things, but sir... this is a non-smoking apartment, and every night when I come home there is the foul stench of your cigarettes wafting into my house. And I have had enough of it. So this is going to stop now, and we're not going to need to get the landlord involved because we're going to handle this between the two of us. We both pay a lot money to live here, and we all have to live by the rules: no loud music, no pets, and no smoking. So from now on, if you feel you've got to smoke you're going to do it outside, or off the property, and you're not going to pollute my house with your cigarette smell anymore. You got me?"

The man stands bugged-eyed for a moment, silent and staring. He then speaks. "All right, I'm... I'm really sorry, it... it won't happen again. You know, I come home from a long day at work, and I just really like to unwind with a smoke-"

"And I usually have a long day at work, too," Pitt interrupts. "But that doesn't allow me to take it out on my neighbors with loud music, barking dogs, or smoking. Especially if it's against the rules."

"I- I- I know, I'm sorry, I'm not saying that it does," the man answers, opening his door a bit more. "It's just me living here, and I meant no disrespect. And I know I'm not supposed to do it inside but from now on I'll do it outside, I promise. Look, see? I've got a sliding glass door and a patio, see? There's no excuse for me not to use it." Pitt glances over his shoulder and sees the man's patio, which looks like it has a few potted begonias and a telescope.

"Well, that'd be good, that'd be a good idea," Pitt says, cooling off a bit but remaining firm. "My mother and my father both died at least thirty years too young from smoking those damn things, so I don't want any of that stuff anywhere near me."

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir. I'm really sorry. I know I really should quit. But I promise you- I promise you I'll either go across the street or smoke out there." He gestures again to his patio.

"So we've got an understanding," Pitt states.

"Yes- yes sir. We do. It'll never happen again."

"Well, I appreciate that." Pitt relaxes his stance and turns a little bit to the side. He can see that the man's sliding-door coat closet is open. "Again, I don't want to involve the landlord, we can just settle this like gentlemen. Right?"