The Wizard Murders (5 page)

John's insubordinate prediction actually turns out to be correct. The next few days bring more media-related activity to the Beaumont Police Department than it would normally see in a year. Reporters from as far away as Los Angeles pile up on top of each other in the station's parking lot, only to be dismissed with one brusque "Sorry, no comment" after another. Pitt's drab gray desk finds itself buried under an avalanche of "eyewitness" accounts, all bogus and bizarre; the phones are tied up with calls from mediums and mystics. He finds himself stuck on the phone for thirty minutes with an evangelical minister from Cherry Valley, who insists that Pitt take down all of the details regarding his theory that the murder was probably the tragic consequence of a supernatural accident involving the Dungeons & Dragons game and a Ouija board- because, as the man tells him,  “Everyone knows both of those games are the tools of Satan.” Pitt listens to all of them politely, and whenever he hangs up the receiver, he sighs and promptly dismisses their suggestions as absurd.

Suddenly there's a lull. Nothing. The apparent reason for the media's sudden lapse in excitement? President Reagan seems to have grabbed all of the attention of print, radio and TV by firing the nation's air traffic controllers.

At odd moments, Pitt glances at the close-up detail photograph of the killer's “signature,” pinned up on a bulletin board in his office.
That damned bearded wizard or magician or whatever the hell it is
, Pitt thinks.
And it looks like he's got either dark scars or wrinkles all over his face. I'm still unable to tell if that's a smile or a smirk on his face... so far, it's the only form of communication from the killer- or killers... and that's just assuming the killer and the painter really are one and the same... there have been no phone calls from anyone with details even remotely close to accurate... and no letters with body parts wrapped up in them
, Pitt chuckles to himself ruefully.

However, the perp will soon break the silence in his own macabre way.

CHAPTER FIVE

It's August 15th, it's 6AM, and Pitt's radio alarm clock is going off with a vengeance. There's an electronic "pop" followed by a burst of AM radio static.

"We have an extremely urgent news bulletin... the news is sad... another murder apparently took place in Beaumont overnight... police say another young woman is the victim."

Pitt flies out of bed, at first disoriented and then furious. He dives for his phone, cursing at Clarence for not contacting him, regardless of the hour- only to find no dial tone. The line's dead. He throws on his perpetually rumpled gray suit coat and a dress shirt (with yesterday's tie still wrapped through the neck), frantically wets a comb and pulls it through his hair, and gives no thought to going anywhere near a razor. He does fleetingly notice on his mirror's reflection that some of his moustache is starting to droop over his upper lip, however. He coughs and gags for a moment as the stale stench of yet more menthol cigarette smoke drifts in through the bathroom air vent that he shares with his neighbor. Time has not dimmed the pain of first seeing his mother and then his father die- more or less prematurely- as a result of smoking several years ago, and his anger and frustration rises as nightmarish memories of their bodies wracked with disease run through his head.

He flies down Beaumont Avenue in his Rambler going about 70. He arrives at the station in record time, still swearing under his breath for not receiving a call or maybe even a midnight knock on his door. He storms into the building, almost immediately encountering a pale and noticeably tense J.C.

"It's another one, Andy. Whether it's the same suspect or maybe a copycat, we just don't know."

"Okay, but-" Pitt stammers for a moment, absorbing the news, battling his already short fuse with J.C. "But why, for the love of God and even if the phones were dead,
why
didn't someone notify me and make me a party to that information by getting into a car and taking a drive down the damned street to my goddamned apartment..." Pitt's voice is rising.

J.C. interrupts, protesting with "All of the vehicles were taken down to the scene, Andy! I couldn't have come over there if I tried!"

Pitt draws a breath, and makes a snap decision to make just one more statement before dropping the subject. "I don't care if your
feet
are your vehicles. You come and get me. The next time- and I'm hoping to God there isn't a next time- you come and get me, I don't care what it takes or what time it is. Now go get Clarence on the radio and tell me how to get down there, for Chrissake."

Officer Munsell returns to the station, and rushes Pitt right back to the scene- a small, nondescript house not far from Summit Elementary; four radio cars and one plainclothes  unit are parked on the curbs. The crime scene tape has already been let out, and this time the policemen have their shotguns out. He shoves past many an over-eager reporter, who doesn't care and is only interested in securing the very last details, and is escorted into the residence, down a hallway and into a bedroom.

The victim is right there, facing him- laid out on the bed, almost exactly as before. With the blood drained from her face- literally- she resembles a sleeping porcelain doll.

Once again, the inscrutable eyes of a wizard are staring down from a wall behind the victim's head. The killer's signature is sloppy this time, but it's more or less the same tableau- and evidently the same sort of bluish black paint. It looks like everything was done in a hurry. The wizard's portrait is sketchy due to hasty brush strokes and signs of streaking- with no indication of the victim's blood being used as paint this time- and Pitt can't help but wonder if the killer is now trying to deliberately obfuscate his hand.

It's evident by leaning in for a closer look that the young woman appears to have a defensive wound on her left hand- and a dramatic
coup de grace
to the throat.

Pitt feels his hands clenching in anger. His mind is reeling, spinning.
This can't be happening,
he thinks,
this can't be someone from around here, this is unheard of.
He wheels around and sees an obviously embarrassed Clarence near the front doorway.

"Clarence,
the hell
...?"

"I know, I know, man, but the phones are out. I've already got my hands full keepin' the neighbors and the reporters away from here, tryin' to peek in the damn windows."

"Was anybody else in the house?" Pitt asks, trying hard to focus on what's important.

"Negative." His eyes widen and although Pitt can't be sure, they seem to start watering. "We've taken a statement from some of the neighbors. Victim's name is Evelyn Crest, seventeen years old. She was raised by a single dad. He's a truck driver. Dispatch got a hold of him in Bullhead City, Arizona. He was pretty tore up about it."

Pitt absorbs all of the information for a moment. "And the Chief?"

"Dispatch says he ain't even been in the office yet."

Pitt runs his hand through his hair for a moment. "Dammit Geoff, where the hell are you ever," he mutters. "Okay, well... obviously we've got the scene protected and secured until Riverside gets here. I don't know about you, but I'm not going back in
there
-" he gestures to the bedroom- "until they need to be escorted in. It's like being led through a nightmare in there."

Leonard Robinson- whom Pitt had thrown off a couch at the first murder scene- is assigned to the phones back at the station, while Officer Munsell performs his grim duty for a second time, photographing the graphic murder scene. Munsell is one of the oldest officers on the force, and Pitt knows him well enough to detect an unusual amount of tension in his face as he walks through a relentless procession of flash photography, with each explosion of light that accompanies every snap of the shutter eerily reminiscent of lightning.

The Latent Prints Section of the Riverside Sherrif's Office spends at least two hours dusting the house for prints; a total of fifty lifts are taken from the residence. The County Coroner's office asks the police not to touch the body until a rep from their office has examined it. Pitt sighs heavily as he watches the coroner's people cover and place the body on a stretcher cart and mutters to Clarence. "It's like we've got two picture puzzles here, neither one of them complete." Pitt shoots him a glance, his anger at not being contacted long gone. "Come on, I need some air."

Both men are immediately verbally assaulted- from a distance- by a gaggle of reporters, a gathering much larger than the one from a few weeks ago. Pitt stands stunned and angry for a moment, taking in their relentless insensitivity. His eyes dart around and spot- among other things- a cameraman from KNXT in Los Angeles, a reporter with a microphone flag from KXFM, and the reporter he knows through the Lion's Club. 

"How old is she? Was anything stolen? Detective Pitt, what do you think the motive is? Was she smoking?"

Pitt can do little more than shake his head in disgust, and deliberately turn his back to them. Adding insult to injury, he hears the ice cream man's musical truck- usually a welcome sound, all summer long- approaching. After a moment of listening to the truck's incessant, tinny warble, Clarence manages to articulate what both men are thinking: "Looks like Marty's gonna cash in with a few rocket pops over that dead girl's body." Pitt nods his head in grim agreement- but also hopes no one else overheard Clarence's somewhat inappropriate choice of words.

After a moment or so of the two men watching excited, chattering children crowding around the ice cream truck, Clarence suddenly lets loose with one of his trademark non sequiturs. "Andy, did I ever tell you about that roach coach in Fresno?"

Pitt looks at Clarence, always amazed at his propensity for odd remarks at the weirdest of times. "What are you talking about?"

"This was back when I lived in Bakersfield. I'd just gotten my first job as a security guard in Fresno. Even though it was a couple hours drive, it was work. It was a big construction site, and durin' the day I'd do some light work helpin' pick up the place, then at night I'd work a security detail." As Clarence settles into his storytelling rhythm, J.C. saunters over, his arms folded, apparently drawn in by Clarence's monologue.

"It was kinda stupid, but I guess the contractors didn't want nobody messin' with the tractors and stuff. It turned out to be one of the easiest assignments I ever got. The only other job that was easier, was when I was workin' security at a bar that was frequented by illegals. Easiest job I ever had- the only thing those fellas wanted to do after spendin' a hot day out in the fields was to have themselves a beer, and listen to music. Those people wanted no trouble. Illegals make great neighbors, too, by the way. They don't make a sound. Anyway..." Pitt quietly sighs, wondering where the hell this story is going.

"Everyday at noon this roach coach owned by a bunch of Mexicans would pull up to the site, blarin' its horn, and man, those people had the best tacos. I mean, the best, the
finest kind.
" He winks at Pitt, who rolls his eyes. "I used to have two or three of those tacos everyday for lunch. Well finally, after a couple of weeks, suddenly they stopped comin.' Just stopped. Some of the guys at the site were jokin' that they must've been deported." He manages to squeeze a very small chuckle out of Pitt with that line. "Well, a bit later on, the construction site is closed down 'cause they're all done, the job's over, so I gotta find new work. And I'm goin' through the newspaper lookin' for stuff, and I see this story about a mobile food truck that had been busted outta business 'cause the health inspector caught 'em using cat meat?"

He pauses for effect as Pitt and J.C. take it in. "That's right. They were using dead, skinned cats. I never found out if it was the same people, but I may have spent a few weeks livin' off of cat tacos." Clarence pats his stomach for emphasis, a big, queasy smile on his face. "And they were really good tacos, man!"