The Wizard Murders (9 page)

CHAPTER TEN

September 15th.

Two weeks have passed, and Pitt is rifling through the tubs of what he's now calling the "wizard files." Desperate for evidence, he and Clarence are seated across from each other in his office, making another effort to scour through their notes taken while speaking with the families of both victims- looking for anything that wouldn't have been apparent on a first review.

"There's nothin' here about no strangers around those girls, no stalkers... nothing," Clarence offers, taking a moment to take a sip from a can of iced tea. "It could be a bum- a transient. Who knows? The nut could be passin' in and out of town by train, maybe he works for Union Pacific."

Pitt shakes his head, runs a hand through his scraggly hair and tries to stifle a yawn. "What throws me off there is the paint. He's got to be a local, so he's got to have his paint stored somewhere. Last I checked, there weren't too many hobos out there with paint cans. Pickle buckets, maybe, but not paint cans."

Clarence laughs, then thinks for a moment. "But wait a minute. There's a lot of graffiti painted onto those box cars."

Pitt again shakes his head. "I'm a step ahead of you there. I had Officer Munsell go down there last week and take photographs and all we got back was a lot of gang-related garbage."

"Damn," Clarence mutters under his breath.

"I know. It occurred to me too, after what we found out at the Oak Tree. But... nothing doing." Pitt rubs his jaw vigorously for a moment, trying to relieve painful tension that's been growing steadily for days now; he suspects he must be grinding his teeth in his sleep due to all of the stress. He then takes a moment to shuffle and re-stack the paperwork on his desk. "Riverside is confirming a match on the paint, though. Between Oak Tree and the crime scenes."

"Yeah, I heard," Clarence replies. "Who makes that paint, is it Sampson's Paint?"

"Don't know the manufacturer off the top of my head. I'd have to check my notes, but the paint did have the same maker. From what I understand, when you get right down to it, 'midnight blue' is really just a color of paint that you can get anywhere."

"I'm pretty sure it was Sampson's," Clarence says, shifting in his chair. "Good paint. Good stuff. I know 'cause I've used it before- used some on the trim of my house last summer. Not the same color, though. But Sampson's got paint of the
finest kind
." He flashes Pitt a goofy, chamber of commerce smile, hoping to elicit a positive response. However, Pitt only quietly grimaces, his teeth feeling on edge as if someone had just scratched a fingernail on a chalkboard.

Both men are silent for a moment, motes of dust visible in the room's air as the afternoon sun starts to peek through the blinds of Pitt's office. The sound of an old Jim Croce song is wafting through the air, coming from someone's transistor radio elsewhere in the building.

"Clarence, we've got a problem."

"Hmmm?"

"It's a side issue, it's not directly related to the case, but it's a problem."

"What are you talkin' about? Chief Stevens?"

Pitt pushes his chair back a bit and stares up at the ceiling, his hands cradling his head. He chooses his words carefully. "People are scared, Clarence. The local sporting goods stores have doubled their sales in firearms. You check the classified section in the newspaper, guard dogs are now selling for about a thousand bucks. The locksmiths are so busy they can't even see straight."

"I know, man... night patrols have been breakin' up more fistfights than ever. I've been door-to-door and I've got almost fully grown men cryin' on my shoulder."

"Clarence, I'm running out of answers. Every time I go to the post office or the pharmacy or whatever, I see about eighty people who all know me by name, and it's always the same thing- 'You make any arrests yet?' I mean how many times can I tell people we're doing everything we can?" He notices Clarences' nervous habit of tapping his own notebook with a pencil. "I'm sorry, I'm just letting off some steam. But I almost don't want to go out of my office or even my apartment because every time I do, someone's bogging me down in about ten minutes of conversation."

"I know, I know," Clarence responds, trying to be reassuring. "I even had somebody- I don't know who it was, some reporter from San Berdoo or somethin'- try to buy me lunch and pump me for information."

"And that's another thing," Pitt exclaims, his voice turning into an agitated whisper. "The leaks continue. Someone is talking to the media, and I want to know who. It had better not be J.C. I got a call from someone in Banning yesterday asking about September 17th."

"You're kiddin'," Clarence responds, urgently.

"Yes. He asked me about September 17th- he wanted to know if he should keep his kids home from school that day. No one's supposed to know about that, and even
I
still don't know what the hell it means." Pitt starts fingering through the papers on his desk until he finds what he's looking for. "I went ahead and checked for the 91781 zip code and it's for Temple City. I called the LASD office there and they didn't have anything for me. So it's... maybe it's a date, but I think it just means this son of a bitch is playing games with us."

Pitt sighs and folds his arms, his toes tapping under his desk in nervous energy. "I don't know. I did ask Denise to help me on Thursday night, but I don't know what to do. 'Look to the sky', like some damn fool? What am I going to do- stand there in the parking lot like some dumb sap, and stare up at the stars with a blond floozy on my arm, with an astrology chart shoved up my ass? Is that what this idiot wants?" Pitt holds his hands up for a moment, then lets his arms fall straight down on his desktop, punctuating his remarks with a loud thump.

Clarence sits absolutely still for a moment, unblinking. Finally he speaks.

"Does someone need a break with his crossword puzzles?"

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

Christ. Lock the doors. Clarence is right, just give me an hour, people. I'm so tired I can't even hardly see straight. Where are my damn reading glasses? They're in my briefcase. Great. Scratched up and covered with dust. Well, that's what you get for not using them. I wonder if I can trust Clarence to keep J.C. out of here. Of course I can. What am I saying? Clarence has got me covered. But all I need is that upshot waltzing in here and seeing me doing a crossword puzzle while some maniac tears up the city. God, my hands are shaking. Sometimes it feels like my upset stomach has slipped into my hands, they hurt so much.  Is there such a thing as nauseous hands? If so, I've got 'em. Nauseous hands. I'll just use my shirt here and see if I can clean these glasses. I need a break. Where's the damn newspaper? Great. Front page article on Neighborhood Watch, and how it's doubled in membership since this crap started. Who's that they've got in charge of it now? Mrs. Sinclair? Well, sweetheart, it's going to take a hell of a lot more than peeking out your kitchen window and listening to your police scanner and calling us every ten minutes when it comes to this creep. Trust me, I know. He's not letting us see anything, he's only letting us see what he WANTS us to see. My God, those girls had their throats sliced like a side of ham in a deli. Awww, c'mon man, stop it! Find the crossword puzzle. Don't let yourself think about it for awhile. Where is it? Section A, page 7. All right. All right. Here we go. 1 across. "Snow runner." OK. 1 Down. "Health Club."

Shoot. Three letters. "Snow runner." They're not being cute here, are they? It's not s-n-o, is it? No, wait. Of course. Ski. S-K-I. I can't write. Damn US Government-issued ballpoint pens, I hate these things. Where did we get all of these? Who unloaded of all them on us? The ink is always gumming up right at the tip of the pen, and- yep. There we go. Tore the paper a bit. Dammit. Try to keep the tear small, Andy, try to keep it from spreading. Don't wreck the puzzle. OK. Now...1 Down. "Health club. Three letters. Starts with an s..."spa", of course. OK.

Why am I hearing traffic outside? It's an afternoon flurry. 7 across, "road curves." 5 across, "help." Help? That's it? I wonder where Denise is? She better not come walking in here, I'm just not in the mood. She's kind of cute, though. Nice person. She was right about the Oak Tree. Still don't know what that "paseniw" bullshit is. Or the date. Christ, what if that IS a date? Nine seventeen eighty-one. September 17th, eighty-one, that's Thursday. Jesus Christ, Thursday. What's he gonna do? What does he want us to do? "LOOK TO THE SKY." Why? Is he just stringing us along?

No. It means something. This guy means business. He wants to control this, all of this. Well dammit, I don't want to be controlled. All I want to do for five minutes -for five frigging minutes- is finish my puzzle. My puzzle, I want to solve my puzzle. Yeah... it's a damn puzzle, all right. 11 down. "Opposite of NNW." North Northwest? South South East? S-S-E. Yes, 3 letters. Wait. Does "paseniw" have something to with-

GOD! I cannot get that thing out of my mind! Civilization... is crumbling. I'm desolated, destitute. Everything that matters to me anymore is gone. Chief Stevens is at Loma Linda, getting chemo. I can just forget all about Maine for the time being. Sorry, Frank. Sorry, Boothbay. The cabin will have to wait. There's no chance of me moving out there anytime soon. I just have to keep working, working and slaving on this damn case, and maybe I can manage to save a little bit more money if I go ahead and work until I'm sixty-five. If I even live that long. God. And speaking of God, 15 across. "Church walkway." Five letters. Why am I doing this? Because I need to relax. My blood pressure is making my ears ring. I wonder if I should just partially complete this puzzle and save it for later. I wonder-

Suddenly the phone rings with a seeming vengeance, and snaps Pitt out of his reverie. It's Clarence.

"Andy?"

"Yeah? God, where are you calling from? The connection is terrible."

"From a pay phone. We've got another one."

Pitt turns pale. "...
What?
"

"Near 6th and Massachusetts. We need you."

Pitt throws on his suit jacket and leaves his puzzle behind- or, more accurately, flings the newspaper so hard that sections of it go flying across the office. He doesn't see the vertical phrase that he's just completed with horizontal letters:

T-H-E M-O-O-N

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The coroner's van is already slowly edging its way past four police cars, each of their warning flashers flickering angrily in the late afternoon light, as Pitt arrives, slamming the door of his Rambler in frustration. The usual spectators- reporters from both local papers and retirees who spend entirely too much time listening to police scanners- have gathered behind a barricade set at least half a block from the scene. Pitt's jaw starts to painfully clench as the predictable cries of "Sir! Sir! Andy! Over here!" fill the air. The sound of his keys rattling on his belt reaches a frantic pitch as he starts to half-run toward what looks like a small stucco house with brown trimming.

He spots Clarence, who is about ten feet from the front door with his hands on his hips and a look on his face that can best be described as a thousand-yard stare. Two policemen with rifles drawn stand guard, their eyes darting at the half dozen juniper bushes that tower around the house. For half a second, Pitt ponders the absurdity of their vigilance- obviously, what's already happened here can't be prevented or avoided- but he feels the hair stand on the back of his neck as he realizes that perhaps the killer is actually watching all of the commotion, and not from far away. The sensation passes in an instant, however, as he approaches Clarence.

"What happened?"

"Welfare call, about twenty minutes ago," Clarence mutters, wiping the sweat off his brow. "Didn't think nothin' of it until I tried the door and then saw the blood."

"And?"