The Wizard Murders (4 page)

But then, the Marshalls are gonna need me, and they're gonna need some help,
he thinks.
They're gonna need every ounce of support we can give them to get through this, but we're also gonna have to ask some really painful questions. Like, did your daughter have any weird boyfriends? Any creepy uncles? Any clue as to who this sick bastard might be? Dammit, how am I supposed to do this?

Pitt finally crashes into his usual deep sleep- fast and hard- but his mind is a raging turmoil by dawn when he opens his eyes. He sits down to a disappointingly weak cup of coffee- that jar barely even had a few crystals left- and sets to putting certain mental things in order.

CHAPTER FOUR

The call he places right before applying his aftershave is brief.

"Clarence? Pitt."

"Hey."

"Anything?"

"Nope."

"Okay. Okay, I'll be right down."

The drive to the station is awkward. Pitt is acutely aware that everybody recognizes him, recognizes his car, probably has high expectations of him (especially now) and it feels as though a thousand eyes are on him as he makes his way down Beaumont Avenue. The radio still has more or less the same report going, including that "deranged person" line...
What the hell are they talking about?
Pitt thinks to himself.
What did somebody say, maybe without even realizing it?
Pitt dealt somewhat with the media during a stint at a public affairs office for the National Guard during Vietnam, and he knows that some of those reporters don't miss a trick.

The mood in the office is grim as Pitt walks in.

"Anything?"

Clarence shakes his head. "Not in the past ten minutes, no."

"Very funny," Pitt responds, not really expecting an affirmative answer but feeling disappointed nonetheless.

Clarence tries to make it better for him. "Well, the paint used for the... 'symbol' or whatever the heck you want to call it is latex and lead-based, and could've been bought anywhere. Initial fingerprint tests in the bedroom so far have only turned up partials- the victim's, that's the Marshall's little girl from Cherry Valley- and the Gillette girl who actually lives there. Interviews with the family- and no, they're not doin' so well- don't show any indication of boyfriends, either current or former... the body's been taken to Riverside, autopsy is bein' performed this morning, coroner's office says any toxicology will take six to eight weeks... again, checkin' with the family there's no indication of drug use by anyone in that house, nothin'."

Pitt frowns. "Even if there had been, she wasn't in her own home. That's the part that gets me. So whatever this is, it's something external... it's..." Pitt rubs his eyes and struggles for words. "The girl wasn't with the wrong crowd."

A new secretary- a bleach blond with poofy hair, bright pink lipstick and fake nails- pipes up with a Texas twang. "You mean from the barrio, southwest of 6th, across the tracks?"

Pitt shoots Clarence a quick but significant glance, and restrains himself from pouncing on what he sees as the woman's idiocy. "No, madam, I do not mean... from the barrio."

She shrugs, meekly, silently offering a "just trying to help" expression on her face, and turns back to her work, handling case files with what look like ridiculously fragile fingernails.

"Clarence, what's this I heard on the radio, this 'deranged person' stuff? What exactly did you tell them, the press, aside from that statement I read?"

Clarence sighs. "Yeah, I heard that, too... unless one of the respondin' officers just said somethin' in passing to the neighbors, I really don't know."

Pitt lowers his voice. "Well, until we have an idea of what it is we're dealing with here, Clarence, I want a lockdown on all information. And I'm sure Chief Stevens will agree with me. I don't want people thinking we've got the Manson family on the loose or anything like that." He turns and heads for his office, and sees a stack of eight by ten glossies on his desk. "Jesus, Munsell didn't use the Alpha Beta Fotomat, did he?" They both allow themselves a grim chuckle.

"I don't want to talk to anyone for the next half hour." He closes the door.

Jesus, I appreciate the thoroughness, but it's almost overkill, isn't it?
Pitt thinks as he starts thumbing through at least a hundred black and white photos of the crime scene.
I mean, it's a lot, but it doesn't really have much evidentiary value. He's got 'em marked as long range views and overall views, he’s also got mid-range or medium views, and then he's got other views including the front of the house, with a series of shots that progress to the actual crime scene, ending with shots of the entire bedroom. I know it's the first homicide since '69, but come on- what am I supposed to do with this garbage? Where's the painting?
Pitt thumbs furiously through the stack of photos until he finds what he's looking for- a detail of that menacing wizard.
Dammit, did we get any color shots of that damn thing? Somebody really took their time with the painting, it was done with a really steady hand. The only sloppy part was the blood, the blood dripping down on the edges... they're deliberately trying to creep us out on that one. I've never been able to draw something to save my life... way back in high school, there was always that one kid in class who could really draw. Who did this? Why?
Pitt feels his pulse pounding in anger.
Is this a young person? An adult? Are they trying to mock us with their experienced hand- 'look what I can do, and I can take as much time as I want while doing it.' Is that wizard smiling or smirking? What have we got here... an odd-ball, a lone wolf? Was it even the same person who committed the crime that also did the painting, for Chrissake...?

Pitt sighs in frustration and tosses the photos back on the desk. His eyes catch a box of Hostess donuts he'd left on the edge of his desk. He feels a twinge of guilt at even allowing himself to think of food. After a moment, he flips up the ragged top of the box that he'd torn open in hunger a few days ago and pulls out a sticky glazed donut, and allows himself a bite of stale but still satisfying sweetness. He stares into space, flicking bits of sugar off his fingers, and then notices a folded-up copy of the
Record Gazette
on top of a file cabinet.
Nobody even mentioned what the paper had to say,
he thinks. He grabs it, turns it over and reads the inch-high headline:

                           
CHERRY VALLEY WOMAN SLAIN

"Good morning, Inland Empire.

"An unidentified young woman was found murdered in a home on Sunnyslope Avenue yesterday and an investigation involving local law enforcement as well as support from agencies in nearby counties is underway."
Well, at least they're no longer reporting it was in her own house,
Pitt thinks.

"A source from the Beaumont Police Department who wished to remain anonymous revealed that 'several bizarre paintings' apparently created by the killer lined the walls of the house..."

Pitt practically feels his stomach melt through his shoes.
Wait 'til I...!

He storms out of the office, paper in hand, shouting "Goddammit! Who talked to the...?"

He's startled to find himself greeted with laughter. Contrary to his immediate thoughts, he's not being ridiculed for his burst of outrage; instead, Clarence has just finished telling the staff his morning joke.

He approaches Pitt, smiling. "Andy, I-"

"Have you read this?"

"No, I haven't."

Pitt points out the offending passage and hands it to him. Within seconds, Clarence's face flushes with disbelief and anger. Pitt moves quickly to keep himself and his partner calm. "Now, let's not focus on why someone talked about this or what this does to the investigation, but we need to know
who
. Clarence, is there even the slightest chance that you or someone you know-"

"Hell no!" Clarence starts stammering. "I- I don't know anything about this, Andy, but I... I..."

"Did Chief Stevens see this yet?" he mutters, urgently.

"I don't know, man! I just saw this!" Clarence hollers back, genuinely angry. "Whoever it was, it couldn't have been one of our boys, I mean it just couldn't."

The secretary with the blond poofy hair walks by, her arms filled with files, and mutters, "J.C."

"J.C.?" Pitt exclaims, incredulous.

"From Riverside," the secretary mumbles again, this time in a knowing, told-you-so singsong tone.

After a fleeting moment, both men nod simultaneously as it occurs to them.

"That son of a bitch."

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

"Dammit, John, this is it."

John Curt, a recent addition to the Beaumont PD after he supposedly couldn't handle it in Riverside, responds to Pitt's exclamation with a sarcastic expression.

"It's not a big deal. It would have gotten out anyway. You know, my stepdaughter lives in Beaumont, and people have got a right to know if some maniac could do something to harm their children."

"That's not your decision to make!" Pitt howls in anger and frustration. "You release something like that and it's only a matter of time until the feds get involved. We need to contain this, and keep whoever it was that did this from getting the sort of attention they're clearly going after!"

Clarence now steps in, and lets John have it. "Are you gonna put up the money for the overtime that's gonna be needed when people start demandin' extra patrols? You gonna? You wanna pull valuable time and resources from the investigation while we try to contain a panic, and this lunatic gets another chance at killin' whoever he wants, whenever he wants?"

"Oh come off it. It's not like the officers on scene were reluctant to talk to the press. Everyone was doing it." John's eyes are two humorless, black little marbles.

"Didn't anyone in Riverside ever tell you about polygraph keys? Details that only the right suspect would know? It's standard procedure since time immemorial to withhold certain information." Pitt's teeth are clenched. "Or is homicide over there too busy getting lollipops from the hookers?"

"Screw you. Besides, the paper says 'several' paintings on the walls, not just one. Maybe false information is a good thing, right? Y'know, maybe some more speculation and second-guessing would be a healthy thing when it comes to this department... this podunk little hellhole. I don't know why everyone says they're so proud to live here. I mean, my God, everyone here is just brainless."

Pitt weighs what J.C. just said, and stares at him incredulously. "Who do you think you're talking to? I'll tell you who-" Pitt grabs John by the collar and presses him up against a wall; Clarence tries to intervene but mostly he's surprised by the strength and speed of Pitt's move. "I'll tell you who, you little S.O.B. I'm the man you work with, but not for much longer if you
ever
pull a stunt like this again. And I don't care if you are Chief Stevens's golden boy, because that's all you are- for now. Is that clear?"

"It's gonna take someone with a lot more balls than you to keep me from talking, Pitt," John snarls, his sweaty hand wrapped around Pitt's wrist. "Face it. You're old guard. Go home. Let someone else take over."

Pitt feels a trickle of sweat roll past his right eye. Struck speechless with anger, he gives John a quick shove against the wall for emphasis and releases him.

"He's not worth it, Andy," Clarence calls out as Pitt leaves the room. "He knows nothin' about respect. Just leave it at that."

"The press is going to be desperate anyway. Don't try to blame it on me," John mumbles as he straightens his tie.