The Wizard Murders

by Sean McDevitt

  They back the car out and immediately head for Mile High Ranch Road. Clarence is holding both of their notebooks and is nervously tapping both of them with a pencil, clearly agitated about something. Finally he turns to Pitt. "Andy, what if we're walkin' into a crime scene or maybe even an ambush? Should we be doin' this alone?"

  "I'm not worried about contaminating a crime scene, if that's what you're worried about," he calls out as the warm summer air whistles through his car. "With all of the beer bottles and used furniture and maybe even used condoms- it's not like we're walking into a sterile environment anyway."

  Clarence shakes his head in disagreement but says nothing. He glances down at the dashboard, knowing full well the Rambler's air conditioner is long gone, but he can't help but wonder about the AM radio.

  "You ever listen to the radio?"

  "Negative," Pitt responds, his hands tightly gripping the wheel. "If I do, it's only for the news."

  "Yeah. Who needs radio when you've got 8-track, right?"

  Both men crack up, creating a funny contrast between their obvious physical nervousness and their hearty laughter. Pitt wonders to himself if Clarence's line would have been as funny under different circumstances. He wipes one of his eyes as the oak tree becomes visible. "Let's park at the start of the trail," he says, coughing.

  Both men hop out of the Rambler and start making their way up the dirt road that leads to the Oak Tree- a beautiful canopy of green that stands at least sixty feet tall. Clarence leads the way. Their shoes make slight crunching sounds, the dirt more porous than dusty due to the rain the night before. Clarence is muttering to himself as they continue their approach. "I really hope we don't find another one of them wizard things and a dead body."

  Pitt cringes at the filth of rusty old bed frames and dozens of beer bottles that are scattered upon patches of grass. You'd never see this in Boothbay, he thinks. As they continue their walk, Pitt starts setting his eyes on the old stone structure that rests under the enormous branches of the tree, and the graffiti he'd immediately remembered back at the office is visible at ten paces. GOD and JESUS are among the things he can make out immediately- along with at least one "anarchy" symbol- and his pulse rises as he fully expects to see a wizard painting or something similar. As they slowly start making their way around the stone ruins under the sprawling Oak Tree, Pitt takes one step behind a crumbled wall and stops.

  "Clarence. Get over here."

  It's not a wizard. There's not a body. But it is fresh, and the same bluish-black paint appears to have been used:

  LOOK TO THE SKY

  NORTHERN CROSS

  10404 paseniw91781

  CHAPTER NINE

  "Northern Cross. That's definitely new," Pitt mutters, stepping in for a closer look.

  "Hold on! Stop!" Clarence exclaims. "What about footprints?"

  Pitt doesn't break his gaze from the ruins. "There aren't any. He was out here before it rained last night." He points to the unmarked earth before him, his eyes still upon the lettering.

  "Son of a bitch." Clarence turns his eyes towards branches the size of tree trunks, looking for signs of moisture or maybe even more paintings, but doesn't see any.

  "Get to a phone, and get Officer Munsell down here. I'm pretty sure this is the same paint we've been seeing. You can tell it wasn't long before the rain because of the streaking." Pitt takes a handkerchief from his pants pocket and starts dabbing at the sweat that has started to drip incessantly into his eyes. "Some of the lab techs say this paint is called 'midnight blue', for what it's worth. And tell Denise I want to see her immediately. Whoever this is, I think they're now making references to star formations. The Northern Cross is one of the few that I'm familiar with."

  Pitt pulls out his notebook and starts writing down the cryptic message. If someone is trying to piss me off, it's working, he thinks.

  *************

  About two hours later, Pitt scoots himself into a booth at a nearby Denny's, the squeaky red vinyl seat making an embarrassing fart noise as he pushes himself in. The pungent but not entirely unpleasant smell of coffee left too long on a hot burner fills his nose. He takes one look at a menu with its "Hamburger Hall of Fame," and tosses it aside.

  It's that stretch of time between lunch and dinner- so the coffee shop is more or less desolate- but Pitt has taken a precaution by sitting in the back, his back to a wall. He takes a moment and glances into the manila envelope he's brought with him, and looks up just as Denise spots him and approaches.

  "Hey," Pitt exhales, as he politely gestures to the empty seat across from him.

  Denise's face is a mixture of friendliness and concern. "You didn't find a body out there, did you?"

  "No, thank goodness. But we do have something else, and I'll get to that in a moment. Did you want coffee or anything?"

  "No, I'm fine with just the ice water."

  "Me too. Maybe I'll get some pie a bit later. In the meantime, I need to ask you about something." He reaches into the envelope.

  "Now, don't be alarmed, here. I'm not going to show you anything graphic, nothing with any of the victims, but I want you to take a look at something." He lowers his voice. "Nobody outside of the inner circle has actually seen these."

  He pulls two black and white photos out of the envelope, each one of them a detail of the wizard painting. Denise gasps, her eyes darting back and forth between the photos and Pitt's gaze.

  "What? Is this...." Denise starts to whisper. "Are these the drawings the paper talked about?"

  Pitt nods. "One from each scene. Not drawings, but paintings left by the killer, both of them painted directly over the victim's bodies."

  Denise cringes and blurts out, "My gosh, they're almost beautiful!"

  "Well, I don't know if that's the word I would use, but they are... different." He points carefully to the stars that hang above the wizard's shoulders on each painting. "Now, I know you mentioned something about star charts, but my knowledge of stuff like that is very limited. Before I continue, do you see any sort of... certain constellation that's being shown here?"

  "I'm not sure," Denise answers, peering at the paintings. "May I...?" She takes one of the photos from Pitt's hands and gives it a closer look.

  "It could be part of something... there's nothing real clear or complete."

  "Do you see anything that resembles the Northern Cross?" Pitt asks pointedly.

  Again Denise squints carefully, her eyes straining to pick out something specific. "Not, no really," she answers after a moment of more staring. "Wait." She takes another look. "Above his right- let's see- yeah, that would be his right shoulder," she says, tapping her own shoulder for emphasis, "That could be part of the Cygnus constellation."

  "Cygnus constellation?" Pitt starts to reach for his notebook.

  "Well- let me back up. That's not quite right. The Northern Cross is a part of the Cygnus constellation. It's out all night long in the summertime. It's in the east at nighttime- right when the sun sets, I mean- then it's right overhead about midnight, and then it's in the west when the sun starts to come up."

  "How do you know all this, again?" Pitt asks, incredulous.

  "I told you- my daddy," Denise grins. "Back in Texas, when I was a little girl, he'd put me up on his shoulders and we'd go outside and he'd point them all out. And that one- it's also called the swan, I think it means 'swan' in either Latin or Greek- it's out all the time in the summer."

  "Are you sure that's what you're seeing?" Pitt's pulse is starting to race.

  "Well again, it could be that... it sorta looks the same in both pictures, I mean it's kinda rough, but that's what it could be." She notices Pitt's cheeks are flushed. "Are you thinking that someone's doing that on purpose?"

  "Let me show you something." Pitt flips his notebook to the page where he has scribbled the mysterious message, and shows it to her: LOOK TO THE SKY, NORTHERN CROSS, 10404paseniw91781. Her words are gibberish as she attempts to read out loud the "paseniw" section.
/>   "What is that? What does that mean?"

  "I don't know, but that's what we found at the Oak Tree earlier." Denise repeatedly gasps as Pitt continues. "Munsell's taking pictures of it as we speak. And I'm pretty damn sure it was the exact same type of paint. So what that means is we've got some sick bastard out there who is now leaving us notes." Pitt takes the photos and places them back in the envelope. "He's leaving notes on our cars and now this."

  "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God," Denise repeats rapidly.

  "And I mean, these numbers, what are they supposed to mean?" Pitt points out part of the code. "91781. What is that, a zip code? Christ, what if it's a date- September 17th, Eighty-one? What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Lash everybody to their beds with duct tape on that date so they don't get killed?"

  "What are you going to do? Does the sheriff's office know about this? The FBI?"

  Pitt shakes his head. "Not yet. I wish we could handle it on our own, but it's just a matter of time until the feds are breathing down our neck."

  "But don't you want their help?"

  Pitt sighs. "Well, I do, but I also sort of wish we could make our little town look good on our own, because there's a lot of light on us now, a lot of people are watching us." He glances over Denise's shoulder. "Up to and including Don Marshall's brother, who just walked in the door," Pitt observes quietly. "It was his niece who first got killed."

  Denise holds her head in her hands, her face neatly framed by long, fake fingernails painted pink. "Oh, no. Did he see you?"

  "No. He's taken a seat at the counter." Bill Marshall looks quite a bit more haggard and unkempt than when Pitt last saw him at the bowling alley, over by the White Front store. As Marshall takes a solitary seat at the counter, clutching a folded newspaper in his hand, Pitt half-whispers, "Just how many times can you tell a victim's family that you're sorry for their loss?"

  Denise shakes her head sadly. "Daddy used to say that telling someone 'Oh, they're in a better place now' or 'It's all part of God's plan' is the worst possible thing you could say to someone. Just tell them that you're so, so sorry, that's really all you can do."

  Pitt turns his gaze to a nearby window, with its somewhat uninspired view of East 4th Street. His mind is buzzing, and his ears are ringing from the stress of the past twenty-four hours. Finally he speaks.

  "You know, when I was a boy... I remember driving home late at night with my parents. We'd been out somewhere for the day... this was back before my brother had been born... I'd be in the backseat, my head down, listening to the engine roar. Maybe even the moon was peering in from above, I could see it through the passenger window. Mom and Dad would be up in front, and I could see the light from the dashboard. And I remember thinking, Mom and Dad have got everything under control, it's okay. Then I grew up and realized that it was all an illusion- that no, everything was not okay, and that the whole thing for them was being ad-libbed."

  Denise smiles at him sadly as he finishes. "Every parent in this town should be able to tuck their child in at night and at least be able to give them the illusion that everything is all right... even if it's not."

  *************

  Pitt returns to the station later that afternoon, and shortly after his arrival Denise hands him a note. He reads it and then exclaims, "City Hall called? They want a meeting here at 5:30, 'sharp', it says? What the hell is this?" Denise shrugs her shoulders, cringing a bit.

  At the appointed hour, Pitt is greeted by two grey-suited men in his office- the City Attorney and the City Manager. Both men carry grim expressions.

  "Okay, gentlemen, what is the meaning of this?" Pitt asks, a little agitated.

  "It's Chief Stevens," the pudgy City Attorney proclaims. "He's been put on administrative leave. He's been diagnosed with stomach cancer."

  Pitt's own stomach lurches, both in sympathy and alarm. "Oh my God. Is he going to be all right?"

  "It's not at all clear. The leave is- for obvious reasons- indefinite, and the family is asking for complete privacy. Mainly, we're just here to make sure that the day-to-day operations continue, and to offer whatever assistance we can. Andy, can the department sustain itself at a time like this without a chief? I hate to put it in those terms, I know Chief Stevens is your friend, but obviously public safety is our priority."

  Pitt fumbles in his pockets for some antacids, his stomach pain really starting to flare. "Well, um... yeah. He had, uh, set the parameters pretty clear for us already. I know this is a really extreme homicide case, but we have a plan. I just didn't know we'd be using it because of a medical emergency."

  The owlish City Manager speaks up, almost matter-of-factly. "The Chief may have his own medical emergency, but the community's state of emergency outweighs that. We need to know if we can expect the same mediocre amount of competence your department has shown so far, or is something going to get accomplished around here, and soon?”

  Quietly furious, stunned at their astounding lack of judgement, Pitt casts his eyes down at his desk for a moment. Images of Geoff Stevens flash before him- the kind smile, the patience, the Chief who always guided things with a firm but gentle hand.

  Finally he responds. "Yeah, I know where your priorities are. We all want the same thing." He pauses, distracted by his anger. He then adds bitterly, "We both want someone who can stop people from dying."

  CHAPTER TEN

  September 15th.

  Two weeks have passed, and Pitt is rifling through the tubs of what he's now calling the "wizard files." Desperate for evidence, he and Clarence are seated across from each other in his office, making another effort to scour through their notes taken while speaking with the families of both victims- looking for anything that wouldn't have been apparent on a first review.

  "There's nothin' here about no strangers around those girls, no stalkers... nothing," Clarence offers, taking a moment to take a sip from a can of iced tea. "It could be a bum- a transient. Who knows? The nut could be passin' in and out of town by train, maybe he works for Union Pacific."

  Pitt shakes his head, runs a hand through his scraggly hair and tries to stifle a yawn. "What throws me off there is the paint. He's got to be a local, so he's got to have his paint stored somewhere. Last I checked, there weren't too many hobos out there with paint cans. Pickle buckets, maybe, but not paint cans."

  Clarence laughs, then thinks for a moment. "But wait a minute. There's a lot of graffiti painted onto those box cars."

  Pitt again shakes his head. "I'm a step ahead of you there. I had Officer Munsell go down there last week and take photographs and all we got back was a lot of gang-related garbage."

  "Damn," Clarence mutters under his breath.

  "I know. It occurred to me too, after what we found out at the Oak Tree. But... nothing doing." Pitt rubs his jaw vigorously for a moment, trying to relieve painful tension that's been growing steadily for days now; he suspects he must be grinding his teeth in his sleep due to all of the stress. He then takes a moment to shuffle and re-stack the paperwork on his desk. "Riverside is confirming a match on the paint, though. Between Oak Tree and the crime scenes."

  "Yeah, I heard," Clarence replies. "Who makes that paint, is it Sampson's Paint?"

  "Don't know the manufacturer off the top of my head. I'd have to check my notes, but the paint did have the same maker. From what I understand, when you get right down to it, 'midnight blue' is really just a color of paint that you can get anywhere."

  "I'm pretty sure it was Sampson's," Clarence says, shifting in his chair. "Good paint. Good stuff. I know 'cause I've used it before- used some on the trim of my house last summer. Not the same color, though. But Sampson's got paint of the finest kind." He flashes Pitt a goofy, chamber of commerce smile, hoping to elicit a positive response. However, Pitt only quietly grimaces, his teeth feeling on edge as if someone had just scratched a fingernail on a chalkboard.

  Both men are silent for a moment, motes of dust visible in the room's air as the afternoon sun starts to peek throu
gh the blinds of Pitt's office. The sound of an old Jim Croce song is wafting through the air, coming from someone's transistor radio elsewhere in the building.

  "Clarence, we've got a problem."

  "Hmmm?"

  "It's a side issue, it's not directly related to the case, but it's a problem."

  "What are you talkin' about? Chief Stevens?"

  Pitt pushes his chair back a bit and stares up at the ceiling, his hands cradling his head. He chooses his words carefully. "People are scared, Clarence. The local sporting goods stores have doubled their sales in firearms. You check the classified section in the newspaper, guard dogs are now selling for about a thousand bucks. The locksmiths are so busy they can't even see straight."

  "I know, man... night patrols have been breakin' up more fistfights than ever. I've been door-to-door and I've got almost fully grown men cryin' on my shoulder."