The Wizard Murders (7 page)

Pitt turns. There's a phalanx of journalists before him- an absurdly large crowd, their eyes filled with obvious delight, with lights shining on him and cameras popping and rolling. With their sharpened pencils at the ready, the reporters almost look as if they're wielding forks and knives in the breathless moment before plunging into a great feast. He looks down at J.C., who is quite dead.

"I didn't mean to do it!" Pitt cries out. "I just... I just didn't want interference from him! I'm not a killer! That painter, that slasher, whoever he is- he's the one you're looking for! Look for him! There's nothing to see here... nothing to see but
death, murder, bodies, blood!
I didn't mean to do this! Please..." Pitt then looks down and sees a perfect replica of the wizard symbol tattooed onto his right palm, its bluish-black color slowly melting into red, warm blood. He clutches his hand in terror.

"Please! Please! I-"

Pitt lunges himself awake, sobbing and frustrated.

CHAPTER SEVEN

It's August 31st. Nothing new.

Pitt knows he's grasping at straws, but facing a dearth of evidence, he's allowing his mind to wander off in unusual directions. Preliminary autopsy reports on both victims show no signs of sexual molestation or mutilation- although at least one newspaper out of Los Angeles is erroneously reporting that the second victim, Evelyn Crest, had her breasts cut off. Pitt winds up spending the better part of one afternoon on the phone with the victim's extended family from Illinois, patiently assuring them this is not the case.

As much as he tries not to do so, he can't seem to take his eyes off the apparent maguffin- that sinister, unexplained wizard. Is it a display of sickness, or is the killer crazy like a fox- pulling attention away from the dead bodies of the victims? He stares at the photograph of the killer's signature for the hundredth time, still pinned up on a bulletin board in his office.
What is he trying to say to us?
Pitt thinks, agitated as ever.
Is there any significance to the stars behind the wizard or sorcerer or whatever the hell he is?

In the quiet of his office, shortly after an afternoon briefing, he reaches into one of the pockets of his rumpled, gray suit coat and pulls out a small black handbook. He dug it out of a shoebox in his closet earlier today, and isn't about to share it with anyone just yet.

It's an old but only slightly worn Masonic Lodge manual that had belonged to his paternal grandfather. While the killer's use of stars had first prompted him to think of the Procter and Gamble logo, he'd dismissed that theory- but the significance of the stars has been bothering him. Although it's been years since he's taken the little book out to read it- (Pitt himself is not a Traveler) he keeps recalling strange little passages that may or may not be relevant.

Tucked inside the cover is a little blue card that reads, "This is to certify that Brother J. E. Pitt is a member of Lodge No. 609..." with a signature date of 12-31-1938. He gently places the card (which is in remarkable condition for its age) on his desk, and starts flipping through the book, trying to find the passages that he cannot fully remember.

The first one appears on page 25, and it makes reference to the covering of a Lodge with a "starry decked heaven" or a "clouded canopy."
Dammit, it's times like these when I'd wish I'd actually taken the time to become a Freemason,
he thinks.
Frank's a Freemason in Maine, but I don't want to offend him or make him think I've gone so crazy as to believe a Traveler could even do something like this.

He continues flipping through the pages. There's a drawing of a sword pointing to a naked heart; references to the Eyes of Man and "whom that the Sun, Moon and Stars obey..."
Have I gone totally nuts? Seriously, now... am I totally gone? I'm looking at an old Masonic manual for clues to a murder? Is that what this bastard wants?

Frustrated, he closes the book and tosses it into the top drawer of his desk with a flick of his wrist. His eyes then fall upon a few days' worth of unread newspapers, both the
Record Gazette
and the
San Bernardino Sun
. He takes notice of a headline that somehow he's missed in the blur of the past few weeks: it seems that the man who killed John Lennon has just been sentenced to 20 years to life.
Sick bastard deserves everything he gets,
Pitt thinks. He's never been much of a Beatles fan (he enjoys their early material but his conservative streak feels most of their music glorifies drug use), however, the violent nature of Lennon's death is unfortunate; heck, it's more than unfortunate, it's criminal.
One of the biggest crimes ever committed in New York City,
Pitt thinks to himself,
and yet the cops really sort of got a big break because the guy admitted it from the beginning. Hell, they had witnesses and a whole weird trail of things that led right back to the guy in nothing flat.... an autographed record, a copy of Catcher In The Rye. No such luck here, though... no witnesses, but plenty of weird, weird things to look at.

Dispirited, Pitt tosses the newspaper aside, finally muttering, "Oh to hell with it."

The words no sooner leave his lips as Clarence taps on the window of Pitt's office door. Clarence nonverbally communicates to Pitt with a "Can I come in?" sort of glance and opens the door.

"Andy, have you seen this?" He holds up what appears to be a photocopy.

Pitt squints at what appears to be block lettering and he sighs, realizing how tired he's feeling. "No, I... I don't know what that is. What's going on?"

"Somebody put this on every windshield on every car in the parking lot."

"What are you talking about?" Pitt holds out his hand, irritated. He takes the paper and looks at what appears to be a photocopy of bold, black lettering with the words SOON IN OT.

"Soon in ott." Pitt mutters. "Soon... soon in o-t? What is this, a joke?"

"No, man, I'm tellin' you... somebody put this under the windshield wipers on everybody's car."

"What? Do you mean all over town, or...."

"No, come look! It's on everyone's car here at the station!"

"The station?" Pitt rises, not yet alarmed but definitely confused.

"It's all outside, c'mon!"

The two men wander outside to the parking lot, where J.C. appears to be holding a few copies of the same note: SOON IN OT. A quick glance shows that, indeed, there's a single white page on everyone's windshield- on the patrol vehicles, the unmarked units, even a few of the civilian cars.

"Was there any damage?" Pitt asks, as Clarence shakes his head. "Who did... when did you find this?"

"About five, ten minutes ago. It's the same thing on all the cars." A slight breeze is starting to make the papers rustle.
Great,
Pitt thinks.
Now the Santa Anas are gonna kick up and cover half the city with dirt.

"Did anyone see anything?" Pitt asks J.C., who's also shaking his head.

"Nothing, boss," J.C. says, smirking.

Clarence is shaking his head. "No, I mean we can ask around, but I just stepped out for a smoke and saw all of 'em-" He starts to reach for a pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket, when Pitt suddenly seizes his wrist.

"No! Stop! Wait a minute...." Pitt's eyes dart across the lot.

"I know you don't like smoking, but do you mind?" Clarence asks sardonically, his arm frozen in a ready-to-smoke gesture.

"No no no. Get Riverside on the phone. At least ten of these cars still have notes on them... tell them to get the Investigation Division down here immediately. I want every single one of these cars dusted for prints."

"Aw, c'mon on, man, it's almost five o'clock- I gotta get home! The newest
Sports Illustrated
just came in the mail. I wanna read it while taking a huge crap." J.C. smiles that predatory grin of his, apparently still of the opinion that he's crudely funny.

Pitt just glares at him. "Get on the phone. Now. If I'm the 'boss', you'll get your ass in gear, all right?"

J.C. lets loose with one of those dismissive exhaling sounds -
bsssh!
- and walks back into the station.

"What are you thinkin', Andy?" Clarence questions Pitt, leaning in close. "Are you thinking what I'm thinkin'?"

"I'm thinking that if this is a prank, we need to throttle whoever did it and if it's not..." His voice trails off. He looks at the copy of the note in his hand. Somebody went to the trouble of photocopying it, and not using their own handwriting; someone didn't want to be easily traced. But...
SOON IN OT? What the hell...?

While the Latents Prints Section is going about their work, Pitt and Clarence seek refuge in his office. Both men are still clutching at least one copy of the mysterious note. "SOON IN OT," Pitt reads out loud yet again. "Are you sure nobody saw anything out there?"

"Nothin' doing," Clarence replies. "And so far the guy that lifts the prints onto the cards is tellin' me that it looks like whoever did this was probably wearin' rubber gloves. Someone knew what they were doin'. Now try and tell me that's not our man."

"We've got to get Chief Stevens in the loop, here. Have you seen him today?"

"He wasn't here this morning, again."

Pitt frowns. "First he says we need to use all of our resources. And then he camps out at home, or wherever." He shakes his head in an effort to regain some mental clarity, then turns his attention back to the problem at hand. "But 'SOON IN OT', what does that mean?" he practically whines. "OT... overtime? Is that what this is? Initials for overtime?"

"Beaumont versus Banning?" Clarence offers. "Can't rule it out, that's a big football game comin' up. Think it's the 56th time they've played each other, or somethin' like that."

Pitt sighs. "No. Going into overtime in football- or anything else, for that matter- is not a foregone conclusion. I mean, what's he going to do- kill someone on the field after regulation?"

Clarence laughs. "Whoever it is, you better keep him away from the sexy cheerleaders."

He takes a moment to think about what he’s just said. "Sorry." He then extends his hand. "You can hit me if you want."

Pitt rubs his eyes and tries to ignore Clarence's foolishness. "Speaking of sexy," he allows himself a mordant chuckle, "we've pored through the eyewitness statements and not one thing points to any prostitution on the part of either girl- none of that, and no drugs. So apparently we just need to focus on Satanic paintings-" he gestures sarcastically to the picture of the killer's signature, pinned up on a bulletin board, "or maybe now stuff like this, too." His eyes fall back upon the note. Just as he finishes, that new secretary- the bleach blond with poofy hair and the fake nails- opens his door and immediately starts going through the bottom drawer of one of Pitt's file cabinets. Pitt rolls his head to look at Clarence for a moment, then takes it upon himself to make a statement.

"Sure, go ahead, make yourself at home, it's not like anything important might be going on here," he says to her, pointedly. To his amazement, the woman doesn't miss a beat and keeps right on rifling through the files, determined to find whatever it is she's looking for. He rolls his head to look over at Clarence again, and this time speaks quite a bit louder. "Look, honey- I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't just
barge
in here when we're conducting important police business-"