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 cop
y 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-"
She pulls a file from the cabinet, firmly closes the door, and looks Pitt directly in the eye. "And I'm sure Riverside will appreciate it, honey, when I hand them over the file that they asked for while you were hiding in your air-conditioned office." She punctuates her Texas twang with a wink, and smiles sweetly.
Pitt lets his eyes drift down for just a split second so he can read her name tag: Denise. Denise Wilson. Pitt has always been terrible with names. Impressed with her comeback, he allows himself to feel properly chided. "All right. All right, Denise, I'm sorry, that came out a little more harsh than I intended. But please, just for future reference, would you mind knocking?"
"Sure," she smiles with teeth that look almost a bit too perfect, too white. There's something almost overdone about this woman's appearance, but it's also somehow endearing.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next day, Pitt returns to the station and- while crunching on some badly needed antacid tablets- immediately receives a briefing from Clarence: canvassing the area, indeed, no one had seen whoever it was that had placed the mysterious notes on the cars. Meanwhile, the fingerprint men from Riverside say initially all they've been able to recover are latents that belong to each car's owner; they also say there apparently hasn't been any effort on the suspect's part to eradicate prints, either. As for the notes themselves, there appear to be defects and scratches on the copy that indicate the suspect used what must have been a public photocopier; while that may prove to be a valuable lead, Riverside doesn't seem too enthusiastic about inspecting every bit of photocopier glass within the immediate area. Frustrated, Pitt wonders out loud if maybe the feds would be interested in chasing down that lead- the feds are always an arrogant bunch, but at least they have resources a local cop could only dream of.
Pitt walks into his office and looks down at his copy of the note, which is now sealed in a transparent plastic folder. SOON IN OT, the ambiguous note still claims. Whoever is up to this is clearly going into an antagonizing mode; he wants us to start worrying, he really wants to grab our attention, Pitt thinks. Clearly he's figured out by now that we're not going to give out details to the press about what he's leaving up on the walls- but this is an aggressive move that he knows we won't be able to contain because it involves so many people. Maybe he's also getting arrogant; it's a pretty bold, fairly crazy thing to do in broad daylight- putting notes on police cars, but dammit... how come no one saw ANYTHING?
His thoughts are interrupted by a polite little knock on the metal portion of his doorway. It's Denise, actively chewing gum but somehow still managing to be somewhat attractive.
"I knocked," she giggles, quietly.
"Yes, thank you," Pitt says, trying to stifle a little bit of a chuckle. "I appreciate that."
"I was thinking about that note, last night," her face suddenly somber. "I mean, I was sitting by the TV cuddled up to my cat and working on a star chart when something occurred to me."
"What- hold on. A star chart? What's that?"
"A habit," she grins, her features smooth. "Since I was a little girl. Some people do crosswords-" she gestures at a newspaper on his desk- "I've noticed that you do that, while I do star charts. Daddy once told me that no two stars are alike- just like snowflakes- and I've been hooked ever since."
"Well, can you tell me..." Pitt puts on his most serious face for a moment. "Can you tell me if the Big Dipper was in the seventh house last week, because my I missed my horoscope last Tuesday, and-"
Denise bursts out laughing at Pitt's ignorant attempt at humor. "It's astronomy, not astrology, you dummy." She shoots him a quick "is it okay to talk to you like that?" look, but Pitt is smiling.
"I don't know these things. I'm a cop, and I just do my job and my little part of the show," Pitt says with a humorous, knowing expression on his face. "Ask me how to file a charge of second-degree burglary, and I'm golden. But if you want to know about the Age of Aquarius, ask somebody else."
"Well, anyhow," Denise sighs goodheartedly, her face once again turning somber. "I had my cat in my lap and I was working on a star chart- well, I was doing it inside last night 'cause it was raining-" she laughs- "but I think I might have a guess at what OT means."
"Lay it on me." Pitt leans back in his chair.
Denise almost whispers, "Oak Tree?" She smiles apologetically. "O-T? The Oak Tree?"
"Oak Tree?" Pitt exclaims. "What- what...what are you talking about?" His eyes narrow with realization. "Do you...do you mean the old 'party place' near Mile High Ranch Road?"
"Yeah," Denise answers. "Obviously O-T must be some sort of abbreviation, and that's all I could come up with. My sister- well, my stepsister- she used to tell me about that place." She looks over her shoulder and then leans into Pitt's office a little bit further and starts whispering. "Teenagers hang out there, drink beer, get stoned... she never would 'fess up to me how she knew all that stuff was goin' on."
"Yeah, there's always something... special going on out there," Pitt sighs as he picks up his plastic-sealed copy of the note, that taunting "SOON IN OT" message glaring back at him. "But what would...." His voice tr
ails off as he pictures the place and momentarily retreats into his own thoughts. Big, sprawling oak tree, kids have been going out there since at least the 1940s... every couple of weeks a unit drives out there and makes the kids dump their beer out and sends them all home. But... SOON IN OAK TREE? What does that mean? There's nothing out there but the tree and a bunch of empty beer bottles and graffiti....
Pitt stops, and this time says it out loud. "Graffiti."
His game-face falls into place. "Denise, get Clarence in here. Now.”
**************
Pitt rolls down all four windows as he and Clarence pile into his Rambler. Pitt groans as the heat hits him. It's one of those rare sticky days in late summer when he's perpetually aware of a puddle of sweat on the small of his back, and he feels the heat rise from the concrete and asphalt like an oven.
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