The Wizard Murders

THE WIZARD

MURDERS

A crime-fiction novella

by

Sean McDevitt

The following is a work of fiction.

All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this story are either products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

© 2013 by Sean McDevitt.

CHAPTER ONE

BEAUMONT, CALIFORNIA 

AUGUST 1981

Lifelong residents of Beaumont like to say that every single child who lives there has at least a hundred parents who watch out and care for them.

The chaos and smog of the city of Los Angeles has a very real existence only about seventy miles away, but that buzz and pollution never quite makes it to the quiet neighborhood streets of Beaumont, where innocent enthusiasm arises when the Helm's Bakery truck appears with its long drawers full of chocolate bars and cream puffs. A typical display of teenage rebellion may involve youngsters driving up and down Beaumont Avenue, blasting the latest single from Foreigner's
"4"
album from a ghetto blaster in the back seat. A civil disturbance means cleaning up rolls of toilet paper from the huge walnut trees on Pennsylvania Avenue, and the local police station has only two cells and a small holding tank.

Detective Andrew Pitt. He’s in his mid-fifties, a bit overweight. He's been reminded of his ever-expanding waistline as recently as this morning, when he attempted to run for half a block in pursuit of a teenager who- in a fit of conscience- was actually trying to take down the toilet paper he and a few friends had strung up the night before; it seems he hadn't known the target of their mischief was actually a house that belonged to his P.E. teacher, and the kid had panicked. After Pitt caught a break when the kid tripped and fell while attempting to get away (the detective hadn't even broken into a jog in more than a year), Pitt asked the scrawny youth if he'd ever do something like that again, and the kid replied with a reluctant, meek little "no." Pitt told him he didn't sound too convincing; he then asked the boy what he thought a fair punishment would be for trying to run from him. "Writing sentences?" the kid replied. Upon realizing he'd dealt with this kid before (he'd been caught skipping rocks across the water at Beaumont's "Plunge" swimming pool- while people were in the water), Pitt reminded him his parents had tried that before, but obviously it wasn't working. In any case, he's reasonably sure the kid is going to be grounded for a month when he personally delivers the boy to his parent's front door.

Pitt's sprint is the first bit of real physical activity for him in awhile. Day shifts might bring a petty theft or two, or an occasional outbreak of graffiti in the never-ending acrimony between the Beaumont and Banning high schools. Sometimes youngsters have to be protected from themselves when they attempt a high-speed bicycle race on the sharp descent down Winesap Avenue in Cherry Valley. Most nights the biggest worries on local law enforcement's agenda involves making sure the teenagers don't push their luck out at the Oak Tree, where many a youth has glumly watched as their adult beverages are being dumped into the ashes of an old fire pit under the watchful eye and easy smile of Clarence Caldwell, one of the department's other detectives.

As he sits quietly in his somewhat drab office, Pitt runs a hand through scruffy and rapidly graying hair and frowns with his broad, tanned features as he picks up a new word while solving his afternoon crossword puzzle: Christer.
Christer? Is that even a word?
Pitt thinks to himself.
Pronounced 'Chris' as in 'Christopher Columbus', or 'Christ' as in Jesus? Is it an overzealous Christian? Or is it slang, as in, 'Geeze, we’re having a real Christer of a winter?'
The newspaper's crossword clue only offers "pejorative, Maine."
Maine? My brother lives in Maine,
Pitt thinks. The sound of an electric pencil sharpener fills Pitt’s office as he contemplates the puzzle before him.
Never heard of this dumb expression. Who writes this stuff? Maybe I should call Frank and-

As if on cue, the phone on Pitt’s desk rings. It’s Clarence.

"Andy?" His voice is an octave higher than usual.

"Clarence?" Pitt sets his crossword puzzle aside.

"Where are you?"

Pitt is struck dumb for half a second by the absurdity of the question, then laughs. "Well, you’re calling me at the station, Clarence, so-"

"Never- never mind. We’re... we’re in trouble. This is- where is this house?" His voice fades off the receiver as he shouts to someone in the distance, leaving Pitt to listen to utter chaos for several seconds. Clarence is notorious for prank calling Pitt at the station or even over the radio with cries of "
Help! Emergency! Monster!
" complete with chomping zombie sound effects, so the thought does occur to him that he's having his chain yanked yet again. Clarence finally comes back on the line. "We're south. The house is south of Brookside!"

"Well... what?" Pitt questions him, getting a little irritated at Clarence’s hyperactivity. "A burglary? Teenagers who won’t pour their beer out?"

"A homicide."

Pitt reflexively throws his pencil on the desk, and feels a cold shock run through him.
Not a murder in twelve years,
the thought shoots through his head,
and even that a family argument...

Words, at first, fail him. "Wh-what?" Clarence does not respond. "Who?"

"I can’t tell you over the phone."

"Why not?"

"You’ll just have to come see it, dammit!"

"All right, all right. Br-Brookside and what?"

"Brookside and-" Pitt hears Clarence cup his hand over the receiver on his end, and for a moment all he can hear is more muffled dialogue; finally Clarence returns. "Sunnyslope. Brookside and Sunnyslope."

"All right. I'll be right down."

After placing the phone back in its cradle, Pitt scoots his chair back from his desk- and realizes for a half a second he's not exactly sure what he should do next. He can sense small red splotches forming on his face as his blood pressure skyrockets, and he also realizes that his palms just suddenly became sweaty. He looks at the IBM wall clock in his office: 12:55. Somewhere in the building, someone has a transistor radio playing Rocky Burnette's "Tired Of Toein' the Line."

He grabs his rumpled gray suit coat from the back of his chair, thrusting his hands into its pockets, frantically searching for his keys, another pencil, a notebook...
do I call Riverside? Do I just go down there? Do I have my tie on?
Pitt rolls his eyes at himself for a moment.
What the hell, it doesn't matter how you're dressed at a murder scene... but on the other hand, this is not a situation that is usually addressed by Emily Post...

The drive down Cherry Valley Boulevard, past the smelly chicken farm, seems endless. Pitt finds himself inexplicably distracted with a small notepad and pencil as he tries not to lose control of his ‘65 Rambler. "Dammit, why won’t the damn pages turn!" he mutters as his sweaty fingers fumble through the pages, trying to find a blank sheet without any scribbles.
Clarence has to be mistaken,
he thinks to himself, frustrated
. No one even locks their doors at night in Beaumont...

About a dozen curiosity-seekers are on the corner near Brookside and Sunnyslope when he arrives, held back by yellow police tape.
Two police cars and the damn coroner’s van are in the driveway!
Pitt mentally exclaims, finding himself bewildered and agitated by this sudden turn of events.
This isn’t frigging Watts, why are we making such a show here?
Clarence is waiting for Pitt outside the house, and he’s wiping his brow with a handkerchief.

"Clarence!" Pitt calls out as he exits his car, trying his best to convey annoyance without causing too much of a scene. "The hell is going on here?"

"The body’s still inside." Clarence is built much like Pitt except that he’s balding and happens to be black, and actually seems to have turned a little pale in the hot Southern California sun. "Believe me, it's not goin' anywhere."

"Body? A body?" Pitt clarifies, ignoring Clarence's occasionally warped sense of humor. "Not bodies, but
one
body."

Clarence nods. "The neighbors found her about an hour ago. The Spauldings. They went to check on the Gillettes, but forgot the Gillettes had gone out of town and had a teenager housesittin' for them." He pauses, obviously distressed. "It’s actually the Marshall’s girl that’s in there."

"Marshall? Don Marshall?" Pitt is now consciously whispering, feeling the neighborhood’s eyes upon him. "Doesn’t he own the ice cream store off Beaumont and 6th?"

"I don’t know," Clarence mutters, a little out of breath. He leans in close to Pitt. "Andy, you’ve gotta see what’s in there. I flew helicopter missions in Vietnam, but that’s some messed up stuff in there-"

"All right, all right," Pitt hushes him. Pitt and Clarence have perfected the shorthand nature of their dialogue through years of camaraderie- the kind of relationship where the occasional gruff word doesn't threaten to spark a real conflagration. "What makes you think homicide?"

"The blood," Clarence exhales. "There’s so much blood. And it’s not... it’s not an accident. You’ve never seen anything like this before."

"If we have to call in Riverside, we will. But for now, just calm down." He takes Clarence by the arm, directing him back towards the house, past the front yard’s chain link fence lined with cacti and aloe vera plants. "Let’s go inside."

It’s a one level house with green trim and Pitt recognizes it as being built just a few years ago. The two men walk in the already opened front door and immediately Pitt is struck by the indeterminate smell of dust that always strikes him whenever he enters a stranger’s house. They walk past a curio cabinet or two, loaded with western regalia. The furnishings are rustic. No signs of a break-in.

Clarence leads him towards what appears to be a young person’s bedroom- both men instantly recognizing Beaumont High’s blue and white colors on a pennant on the wall. He places his hand on Pitt’s shoulder. "Hold onto yourself."

Pitt feels a flicker of real annoyance-
I’ve seen people die, you know,
he thinks to himself.
I worked a major traffic accident with a carload of teenagers on the Mesa a few years ago and-

Pitt enters the room, stops dead in his tracks, and gasps.