The Wizard Murders (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

As Pitt feels the texture of a shag rug sinking under his heels, he’s suddenly aware he’s breaking into a cold sweat.

The bedroom is fairly large, with a distinctly feminine flair- it’s obviously a retreat for a young girl. Although a few stuffed animals and teenage magazines are scattered about, there are no obvious signs of a struggle.

The sun is shining through a yellow curtain. A bed rests to the left of it. A young girl- probably in her early teens- lies supine upon the beige bedspread.  She is very beautiful- and obviously very dead.

Pitt has had an extremely peculiar feeling wash over him ever since he stepped foot in the room. Something is very odd and it’s almost as if there’s a cloudy menace that’s watching over the scene. It takes him a moment to remember that although the victim is a young girl, this is not actually her own room.

His eyes are glued to her face. Her throat has apparently been slashed. Red blood collides with the sick, cartoon-like colors so often found in the room of a youngster.

And yet...  somehow the scene looks perfect. Clean. It's almost as if the blood (while still horribly out of place) has been placed in predetermined spots on the bed- not randomly, violently splattered, but in carefully chosen places, almost pooled together, so as not to offend the finder.
It looks like the cover of some damn detective magazine,
Pitt thinks to himself, growing irritated and agitated with every passing second.

He takes a moment to draw in a breath, and realizes he's  been looking only at the brutalized girl. He looks up. He sees it.

It must be four feet in diameter. It's bluish-black. It's fascinating.

It's been painted on the wall above the victim's head. Pitt squints at first, trying to make out what it is, but as he cocks his head to the right it's unmistakable.

A wizard. Complete with floppy hat and long beard. Stars and a crescent moon dot his cloak. A constellation of stars hovers above his shoulders. It's hard to tell if that's malevolence or indifference in his strangely hooded eyes. It's all crammed in exquisite, stark detail into a dark circle. The killer has even apparently taken the time to actually use some of the victim's blood for the borders of the circle, causing dark red rivulets to ooze down from the image and away from the paint.

For the first time in all the years he can remember, Pitt is exhilarated, terrified. He has a sudden, inexplicable desire to know what time it is. Clarence shoots a glance at him as he suddenly moves to check his watch; Pitt mutters something unintelligible as he realizes he must have left his watch on his desk at the station.

The painting must have taken hours to complete. The bottom of the circle is on the bed's pillow, the edge completely smooth. The pillowcase must have been removed first to line it up.

Pitt steps out of the room, and catches himself nervously wiping the edges of his suddenly dry mouth. He hears voices behind him and glances down the hallway, realizing there are at least two other officers in the living room; one of them has taken a potentially disastrous risk by sitting on a sofa while apparently taking notes. "Get your ass off that couch, Leonard!" Pitt snaps. "And J.C., get the hell out of here. They haven't dusted for prints or checked for fibers or anything. In fact, get outside and get Riverside on the radio, now!" J.C., a relatively new recruit, obeys him but manages to sneak in a nervous smirk in response.

Pitt turns to an obviously embarrassed Clarence as the two ashen-faced officers leave. "Get uh... get Officer Munsell in here and have him photograph the scene. And don't, don't let anyone else set foot in the house- Clarence, have you let anyone else in here?" Pitt raises his voice as he realizes that he's got anything but a sterile field on his hands.

"Just myself and those two, Andy. I'm sorry." Clarence swallows as feels a wave of nausea roil his stomach. "Between tryin' to contact the Marshalls and keepin' the neighbors away it's been-"

"All right, all right, all right," Pitt stops him, gesturing at him to shut up. "Just focus on getting Munsell in here, and contact the hospital, and get us some hospital footies and surgical gloves. We don't need anymore cocklespurs or God knows what else getting dragged in here." Pitt, sensing and sympathizing with Clarence's physical discomfort, allows himself a small, quiet burp as digestive fluid rises in his throat. He then lowers his voice to a whisper.

"That Marshall girl- her first name is Robyn, isn't it?"

Clarence nods. "Yeah. I think her sister graduated from Beaumont High last June."

"And she was just housesitting here?"

"Yeah. It took me a few minutes to sort that one out. At first I thought it was the Gillette's girl in there, but they're visitin' family in Victorville right now." He stares down at the top of his shoes for a moment, and then mumbles, "I couldn't get a hold of Chief Stevens. I think he's tied up doin' a background check on a new deputy."

Pitt stares at Clarence for a moment, incredulous. "Clarence, this is our first homicide in
twelve years
. You didn't think it was significant enough to inform the Chief? I don't care where he is or what he is doing, he belongs right here, right now, Clarence! You are really dropping the ball, dammit!"

"Man, I know, I'm not making excuses. But I had to try an' contain the Spauldings, they were just totally out of control after they'd seen the body in there. Jessie Spaulding was throwin' up and babblin' in the front yard when I got here. We had a full blown emergency situation on our hands, and that's why I called you."

Pitt closes his eyes and quickly tries to collect himself, acutely aware that every deep breath he's trying to take is not making him any calmer. Indeed, for a moment he notices what feels like a crushing sensation in his chest. "Well... fine. I appreciate that. But get Chief Stevens on the phone right away. This is a major, major development, it's a big problem, and we're going to need every resource available. So get moving."

Clarence turns and leaves. After a moment, Pitt realizes a TV has apparently been left on somewhere in the house, because he can hear what sounds like the
"Family Affair"
theme drifting through the walls.
Ah geeze,
he thinks,
didn't that little girl who was on that show die real young, too? She wasn't murdered, was she?
He stands transfixed for a moment, taking in the horrid contrast between that friendly, cheerful music and what he has just seen.

Pitt glances back towards the girl's bedroom and sees only her stockinged feet- two white socks speckled with blood. Pitt steps forward, confused, not realizing until now that apparently the bloodstains extend well past her neck.

He then feels a twinge of sadness and anger as he realizes he's not looking at blood at all. Her socks are those of a young girl- patterned with glitter and little red hearts.

CHAPTER THREE

There's a brief press conference held shortly after Pitt first views the body. He's made a point of scribbling down a few talking points before speaking to a small gaggle of reporters about a block away from the crime scene. Pitt finds himself self-conscious and unsure as he manages to utter a few very sparse details- also keeping an eye out for Chief Stevens, who has yet to be seen.

Almost every day, Pitt takes at least one phone call back at the station in the early afternoon from a radio reporter making his beat checks, but that's been the limit of his exposure to the press as of late; as a cop he's never had a microphone thrust under his nose. As he lays out the basics in a stammering monotone, he's keenly aware that he's being listened to intently by at least one reporter from the
Press Enterprise
- and perhaps someone from the
Record Gazette
that up until now he's only known socially through the local Lion's Club.

Shortly thereafter Pitt and Clarence find themselves shuffling back into the police station- and at last they discover Chief Stevens at his desk, leafing through papers and chatting on the phone. Pitt rolls his stiff neck around for a moment, then gestures to Clarence that perhaps they should both take a seat, it's apparently going to be awhile. As the Chief rattles on for a few minutes- sparing an occasional "I'm sorry, guys" look over his glasses- Pitt listens to him repeat one "I'm not at liberty to discuss that" after another.
Damn reporters,
Pitt thinks.
Apparently not satisfied with my press release, now they're just trying to cut to the chase and are going straight to the top for more information and we're not going to give it to them. Reporters. They're just like the typical stupid 'let me talk to your supervisor' crowd. A supervisor's gonna tell you the exact same thing, you goddamned idiots.

Pitt's eyes dart around the office in a mix of anxiety and boredom. Chief Stevens has what can only be described as one of the most unique office spaces held by any public servant in Riverside County: the man is an avid Coca-Cola collector. Indeed, it's been the focus of a lot of friendly attention from longtime residents and local newspapers; an article with photos of the display and any new additions seems to find its way into print almost annually. As Pitt takes it all in- realizing this is the first time in many a year he's really looked at the Chief's Coca-Cola menagerie, having seen it almost every single day for years- he feels a twinge of sadness, of something being irretrievably lost; the Chief's eccentric hobby is one of those things that in so many ways creates friendliness, goodwill in Beaumont. Somehow, those green-hued bottles, playing cards, bottle caps, a few clocks, little toy Coke delivery trucks- they always catch the attention and imagination of everyone, especially little kids if they're being given a tour of the station during a field trip. However, as Pitt listens to Chief Stevens patiently but firmly explain yet again to some persistent reporter on the phone that "No, I cannot discuss that with you off the record," and while Clarence's breathing and sighing seem unusually labored at the moment (although Pitt knows he's a smoker), all of the red and white colors seem almost oppressive and sinister, without that warm and fuzzy feeling they usually generate. The hue of red is all too reminiscent of the small lake of blood he's seen earlier.

It becomes obvious this is going to take even longer than expected- the voice on the line, whoever it is, is strident and can be heard from several feet away as the Chief occasionally pulls the receiver away from his ear; they seem to be asking the same question over and over, only in different ways. Pitt leans over to Clarence and whispers. "What is this I hear about them using the coroner's van to pick up another body?"

"What?"

Pitt maintains his whisper but is more deliberate. "Why is Riverside going to use the coroner's van to pick up another dead body?" Clarence sits, blinking and silent. Frustrated, Pitt scoots closer to him and starts over. "The coroner's office said they were probably going to pick up another dead body in Banning before heading back to the morgue- somebody who died from natural causes. That means the Gillette girl's going to be in the back of the van with a second body. What if the family hears about this? 'Oh, sorry, your dead daughter's not important enough, we've got other deliveries to make.'"

Clarence snorts, rubs his tired eyes, and tries to suppress a laugh. "You stab 'em, we slab 'em," he cackles.

"I'm serious, here," Pitt retorts, momentarily surprised to find his own nostrils flaring due to a suppressed laugh. He coughs and clears his throat and then continues. "First homicide we've had in a dozen years, and you're telling me they couldn't spare another coroner's van? Riverside's gonna be in the crosshairs over this one, I'm telling you."

He's interrupted by the sound of Chief Stevens dropping his phone back onto its receiver. "Hello, gentlemen," Stevens offers, trying to convey his usual serene self but not quite succeeding this time.