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 So
uthern 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.
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.
The Wizard Murders Page 1