But then, the Marshalls are gonna need me, and they're gonna need some help, he thinks. They're gonna need every ounce of support we can give them to get through this, but we're also gonna have to ask some really painful questions. Like, did your daughter have any weird boyfriends? Any creepy uncles? Any clue as to who this sick bastard might be? Dammit, how am I supposed to do this?
Pitt finally crashes into his usual deep sleep- fast and hard- but his mind is a raging turmoil by dawn when he opens his eyes. He sits down to a disappointingly weak cup of coffee- that jar barely even had a few crystals left- and sets to putting certain mental things in order.
CHAPTER FOUR
The call he places right before applying his aftershave is brief.
"Clarence? Pitt."
"Hey."
"Anything?"
"Nope."
"Okay. Okay, I'll be right down."
The drive to the station is awkward. Pitt is acutely aware that everybody recognizes him, recognizes his car, probably has high expectations of him (especially now) and it feels as though a thousand eyes are on him as he makes his way down Beaumont Avenue. The radio still has more or less the same report going, including that "deranged person" line... What the hell are they talking about? Pitt thinks to himself. What did somebody say, maybe without even realizing it? Pitt dealt somewhat with the media during a stint at a public affairs office for the National Guard during Vietnam, and he knows that some of those reporters don't miss a trick.
The mood in the office is grim as Pitt walks in.
"Anything?"
Clarence shakes his head. "Not in the past ten minutes, no."
"Very funny," Pitt responds, not really expecting an affirmative answer but feeling disappointed nonetheless.
Clarence tries to make it better for him. "Well, the paint used for the... 'symbol' or whatever the heck you want to call it is latex and lead-based, and could've been bought anywhere. Initial fingerprint tests in the bedroom so far have only turned up partials- the victim's, that's the Marshall's little girl from Cherry Valley- and the Gillette girl who actually lives there. Interviews with the family- and no, they're not doin' so well- don't show any indication of boyfriends, either current or former... the body's been taken to Riverside, autopsy is bein' performed this morning, coroner's office says any toxicology will take six to eight weeks... again, checkin' with the family there's no indication of drug use by anyone in that house, nothin'."
Pitt frowns. "Even if there had been, she wasn't in her own home. That's the part that gets me. So whatever this is, it's something external... it's..." Pitt rubs his eyes and struggles for words. "The girl wasn't with the wrong crowd."
A new secretary- a bleach blond with poofy hair, bright pink lipstick and fake nails- pipes up with a Texas twang. "You mean from the barrio, southwest of 6th, across the tracks?"
Pitt shoots Clarence a quick but significant glance, and restrains himself from pouncing on what he sees as the woman's idiocy. "No, madam, I do not mean... from the barrio."
She shrugs, meekly, silently offering a "just trying to help" expression on her face, and turns back to her work, handling case files with what look like ridiculously fragile fingernails.
"Clarence, what's this I heard on the radio, this 'deranged person' stuff? What exactly did you tell them, the press, aside from that statement I read?"
Clarence sighs. "Yeah, I heard that, too... unless one of the respondin' officers just said somethin' in passing to the neighbors, I really don't know."
Pitt lowers his voice. "Well, until we have an idea of what it is we're dealing with here, Clarence, I want a lockdown on all information. And I'm sure Chief Stevens will agree with me. I don't want people thinking we've got the Manson family on the loose or anything like that." He turns and heads for his office, and sees a stack of eight by ten glossies on his desk. "Jesus, Munsell didn't use the Alpha Beta Fotomat, did he?" They both allow themselves a grim chuckle.
"I don't want to talk to anyone for the next half hour." He closes the door.
Jesus, I appreciate the thoroughness, but it's almost overkill, isn't it? Pitt thinks as he starts thumbing through at least a hundred black and white photos of the crime scene. I mean, it's a lot, but it doesn't really have much evidentiary value. He's got 'em marked as long range views and overall views, he’s also got mid-range or medium views, and then he's got other views including the front of the house, with a series of shots that progress to the actual crime scene, ending with shots of the entire bedroom. I know it's the first homicide since '69, but come on- what am I supposed to do with this garbage? Where's the painting? Pitt thumbs furiously through the stack of photos until he finds what he's looking for- a detail of that menacing wizard. Dammit, did we get any color shots of that damn thing? Somebody really took their time with the painting, it was done with a really steady hand. The only sloppy part was the blood, the blood dripping down on the edges... they're deliberately trying to creep us out on that one. I've never been able to draw something to save my life... way back in high school, there was always that one kid in class who could really draw. Who did this? Why? Pitt feels his pulse pounding in anger. Is this a young person? An adult? Are they trying to mock us with their experienced hand- 'look what I can do, and I can take as much time as I want while doing it.' Is that wizard smiling or smirking? What have we got here... an odd-ball, a lone wolf? Was it even the same person who committed the crime that also did the painting, for Chrissake...?
Pitt sighs in frustration and tosses the photos back on the desk. His eyes catch a box of Hostess donuts he'd left on the edge of his desk. He feels a twinge of guilt at even allowing himself to think of food. After a moment, he flips up the ragged top of the box that he'd torn open in hunger a few days ago and pulls out a sticky glazed donut, and allows himself a bite of stale but still satisfying sweetness. He stares into space, flicking bits of sugar off his fingers, and then notices a folded-up copy of the Record Gazette on top of a file cabinet. Nobody even mentioned what the paper had to say, he thinks. He grabs it, turns it over and reads the inch-high headline:
CHERRY VALLEY WOMAN SLAIN
"Good morning, Inland Empire.
"An unidentified young woman was found murdered in a home on Sunnyslope Avenue yesterday and an investigation involving local law enforcement as well as support from agencies in nearby counties is underway." Well, at least they're no longer reporting it was in her own house, Pitt thinks.
"A source from the Beaumont Police Department who wished to remain anonymous revealed that 'several bizarre paintings' apparently created by the killer lined the walls of the house..."
Pitt practically feels his stomach melt through his shoes. Wait 'til I...!
He storms out of the office, paper in hand, shouting "Goddammit! Who talked to the...?"
He's startled to find himself greeted with laughter. Contrary to his immediate thoughts, he's not being ridiculed for his burst of outrage; instead, Clarence has just finished telling the staff his morning joke.
He approaches Pitt, smiling. "Andy, I-"
"Have you read this?"
"No, I haven't."
Pitt points out the offending passage and hands it to him. Within seconds, Clarence's face flushes with disbelief and anger. Pitt moves quickly to keep himself and his partner calm. "Now, let's not focus on why someone talked about this or what this does to the investigation, but we need to know who. Clarence, is there even the slightest chance that you or someone you know-"
"Hell no!" Clarence starts stammering. "I- I don't know anything about this, Andy, but I... I..."
"Did Chief Stevens see this yet?" he mutters, urgently.
"I don't know, man! I just saw this!" Clarence hollers back, genuinely angry. "Whoever it was, it couldn't have been one of our boys, I mean it just couldn't."
The secretary with the blond poofy hair walks by, her arms filled with files, and mutters, "J.C."
"J.C.?" Pitt exclaims, incredulous.
"From Riverside,
" the secretary mumbles again, this time in a knowing, told-you-so singsong tone.
After a fleeting moment, both men nod simultaneously as it occurs to them.
"That son of a bitch."
*************
"Dammit, John, this is it."
John Curt, a recent addition to the Beaumont PD after he supposedly couldn't handle it in Riverside, responds to Pitt's exclamation with a sarcastic expression.
"It's not a big deal. It would have gotten out anyway. You know, my stepdaughter lives in Beaumont, and people have got a right to know if some maniac could do something to harm their children."
"That's not your decision to make!" Pitt howls in anger and frustration. "You release something like that and it's only a matter of time until the feds get involved. We need to contain this, and keep whoever it was that did this from getting the sort of attention they're clearly going after!"
Clarence now steps in, and lets John have it. "Are you gonna put up the money for the overtime that's gonna be needed when people start demandin' extra patrols? You gonna? You wanna pull valuable time and resources from the investigation while we try to contain a panic, and this lunatic gets another chance at killin' whoever he wants, whenever he wants?"
"Oh come off it. It's not like the officers on scene were reluctant to talk to the press. Everyone was doing it." John's eyes are two humorless, black little marbles.
"Didn't anyone in Riverside ever tell you about polygraph keys? Details that only the right suspect would know? It's standard procedure since time immemorial to withhold certain information." Pitt's teeth are clenched. "Or is homicide over there too busy getting lollipops from the hookers?"
"Screw you. Besides, the paper says 'several' paintings on the walls, not just one. Maybe false information is a good thing, right? Y'know, maybe some more speculation and second-guessing would be a healthy thing when it comes to this department... this podunk little hellhole. I don't know why everyone says they're so proud to live here. I mean, my God, everyone here is just brainless."
Pitt weighs what J.C. just said, and stares at him incredulously. "Who do you think you're talking to? I'll tell you who-" Pitt grabs John by the collar and presses him up against a wall; Clarence tries to intervene but mostly he's surprised by the strength and speed of Pitt's move. "I'll tell you who, you little S.O.B. I'm the man you work with, but not for much longer if you ever pull a stunt like this again. And I don't care if you are Chief Stevens's golden boy, because that's all you are- for now. Is that clear?"
"It's gonna take someone with a lot more balls than you to keep me from talking, Pitt," John snarls, his sweaty hand wrapped around Pitt's wrist. "Face it. You're old guard. Go home. Let someone else take over."
Pitt feels a trickle of sweat roll past his right eye. Struck speechless with anger, he gives John a quick shove against the wall for emphasis and releases him.
"He's not worth it, Andy," Clarence calls out as Pitt leaves the room. "He knows nothin' about respect. Just leave it at that."
"The press is going to be desperate anyway. Don't try to blame it on me," John mumbles as he straightens his tie.
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.
The Wizard Murders Page 3