"Clarence, I'm running out of answers. Every time I go to the post office or the pharmacy or whatever, I see about eighty people who all know me by name, and it's always the same thing- 'You make any arrests yet?' I mean how many times can I tell people we're doing everything we can?" He notices Clarences' nervous habit of tapping his own notebook with a pencil. "I'm sorry, I'm just letting off some steam. But I almost don't want to go out of my office or even my apartment because every time I do, someone's bogging me down in about ten minutes of conversation."
"I know, I know," Clarence responds, trying to be reassuring. "I even had somebody- I don't know who it was, some reporter from San Berdoo or somethin'- try to buy me lunch and pump me for information."
"And that's another thing," Pitt exclaims, his voice turning into an agitated whisper. "The leaks continue. Someone is talking to the media, and I want to know who. It had better not be J.C. I got a call from someone in Banning yesterday asking about September 17th."
"You're kiddin'," Clarence responds, urgently.
"Yes. He asked me about September 17th- he wanted to know if he should keep his kids home from school that day. No one's supposed to know about that, and even I still don't know what the hell it means." Pitt starts fingering through the papers on his desk until he finds what he's looking for. "I went ahead and checked for the 91781 zip code and it's for Temple City. I called the LASD office there and they didn't have anything for me. So it's... maybe it's a date, but I think it just means this son of a bitch is playing games with us."
Pitt sighs and folds his arms, his toes tapping under his desk in nervous energy. "I don't know. I did ask Denise to help me on Thursday night, but I don't know what to do. 'Look to the sky', like some damn fool? What am I going to do- stand there in the parking lot like some dumb sap, and stare up at the stars with a blond floozy on my arm, with an astrology chart shoved up my ass? Is that what this idiot wants?" Pitt holds his hands up for a moment, then lets his arms fall straight down on his desktop, punctuating his remarks with a loud thump.
Clarence sits absolutely still for a moment, unblinking. Finally he speaks.
"Does someone need a break with his crossword puzzles?"
*************
Christ. Lock the doors. Clarence is right, just give me an hour, people. I'm so tired I can't even hardly see straight. Where are my damn reading glasses? They're in my briefcase. Great. Scratched up and covered with dust. Well, that's what you get for not using them. I wonder if I can trust Clarence to keep J.C. out of here. Of course I can. What am I saying? Clarence has got me covered. But all I need is that upshot waltzing in here and seeing me doing a crossword puzzle while some maniac tears up the city. God, my hands are shaking. Sometimes it feels like my upset stomach has slipped into my hands, they hurt so much. Is there such a thing as nauseous hands? If so, I've got 'em. Nauseous hands. I'll just use my shirt here and see if I can clean these glasses. I need a break. Where's the damn newspaper? Great. Front page article on Neighborhood Watch, and how it's doubled in membership since this crap started. Who's that they've got in charge of it now? Mrs. Sinclair? Well, sweetheart, it's going to take a hell of a lot more than peeking out your kitchen window and listening to your police scanner and calling us every ten minutes when it comes to this creep. Trust me, I know. He's not letting us see anything, he's only letting us see what he WANTS us to see. My God, those girls had their throats sliced like a side of ham in a deli. Awww, c'mon man, stop it! Find the crossword puzzle. Don't let yourself think about it for awhile. Where is it? Section A, page 7. All right. All right. Here we go. 1 across. "Snow runner." OK. 1 Down. "Health Club."
Shoot. Three letters. "Snow runner." They're not being cute here, are they? It's not s-n-o, is it? No, wait. Of course. Ski. S-K-I. I can't write. Damn US Government-issued ballpoint pens, I hate these things. Where did we get all of these? Who unloaded of all them on us? The ink is always gumming up right at the tip of the pen, and- yep. There we go. Tore the paper a bit. Dammit. Try to keep the tear small, Andy, try to keep it from spreading. Don't wreck the puzzle. OK. Now...1 Down. "Health club. Three letters. Starts with an s..."spa", of course. OK.
Why am I hearing traffic outside? It's an afternoon flurry. 7 across, "road curves." 5 across, "help." Help? That's it? I wonder where Denise is? She better not come walking in here, I'm just not in the mood. She's kind of cute, though. Nice person. She was right about the Oak Tree. Still don't know what that "paseniw" bullshit is. Or the date. Christ, what if that IS a date? Nine seventeen eighty-one. September 17th, eighty-one, that's Thursday. Jesus Christ, Thursday. What's he gonna do? What does he want us to do? "LOOK TO THE SKY." Why? Is he just stringing us along?
No. It means something. This guy means business. He wants to control this, all of this. Well dammit, I don't want to be controlled. All I want to do for five minutes -for five frigging minutes- is finish my puzzle. My puzzle, I want to solve my puzzle. Yeah... it's a damn puzzle, all right. 11 down. "Opposite of NNW." North Northwest? South South East? S-S-E. Yes, 3 letters. Wait. Does "paseniw" have something to with-
GOD! I cannot get that thing out of my mind! Civilization... is crumbling. I'm desolated, destitute. Everything that matters to me anymore is gone. Chief Stevens is at Loma Linda, getting chemo. I can just forget all about Maine for the time being. Sorry, Frank. Sorry, Boothbay. The cabin will have to wait. There's no chance of me moving out there anytime soon. I just have to keep working, working and slaving on this damn case, and maybe I can manage to save a little bit more money if I go ahead and work until I'm sixty-five. If I even live that long. God. And speaking of God, 15 across. "Church walkway." Five letters. Why am I doing this? Because I need to relax. My blood pressure is making my ears ring. I wonder if I should just partially complete this puzzle and save it for later. I wonder-
Suddenly the phone rings with a seeming vengeance, and snaps Pitt out of his reverie. It's Clarence.
"Andy?"
"Yeah? God, where are you calling from? The connection is terrible."
"From a pay phone. We've got another one."
Pitt turns pale. "...What?"
"Near 6th and Massachusetts. We need you."
Pitt throws on his suit jacket and leaves his puzzle behind- or, more accurately, flings the newspaper so hard that sections of it go flying across the office. He doesn't see the vertical phrase that he's just completed with horizontal letters:
T-H-E M-O-O-N
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The coroner's van is already slowly edging its way past four police cars, each of their warning flashers flickering angrily in the late afternoon light, as Pitt arrives, slamming the door of his Rambler in frustration. The usual spectators- reporters from both local papers and retirees who spend entirely too much time listening to police scanners- have gathered behind a barricade set at least half a block from the scene. Pitt's jaw starts to painfully clench as the predictable cries of "Sir! Sir! Andy! Over here!" fill the air. The sound of his keys rattling on his belt reaches a frantic pitch as he starts to half-run toward what looks like a small stucco house with brown trimming.
He spots Clarence, who is about ten feet from the front door with his hands on his hips and a look on his face that can best be described as a thousand-yard stare. Two policemen with rifles drawn stand guard, their eyes darting at the half dozen juniper bushes that tower around the house. For half a second, Pitt ponders the absurdity of their vigilance- obviously, what's already happened here can't be prevented or avoided- but he feels the hair stand on the back of his neck as he realizes that perhaps the killer is actually watching all of the commotion, and not from far away. The sensation passes in an instant, however, as he approaches Clarence.
"What happened?"
"Welfare call, about twenty minutes ago," Clarence mutters, wiping the sweat off his brow. "Didn't think nothin' of it until I tried the door and then saw the blood."
"And?"
"And? And? You know the rest, don't make me say it!" He rubs his nose forceful
ly and it's apparent that he's having trouble breathing.
Pitt grabs Clarence manfully by the arm and pulls him in close. "Clarence, come on. Pull yourself together, man. Just tell me... is there another body, and another painting in this damn house?"
Clarence nods, starts coughing, and excuses himself by running to the side of the house, out of view of the street. Pitt can hear him clearing his throat and spitting.
He turns to one of the officers by the front door, who's still fingering the trigger of a shotgun. "Have we got a sergeant here?"
"Negative," the officer responds.
"Well then how the hell did the coroner's office know how to respond? Did Clarence get on the radio or something? I want the Print Section down here first, before the coroner starts making things official. Who's in charge here?"
"You are, Detective. If you want me to remove the coroner's people, I will."
"Well no, let's- hold on. Clarence! Clarence?"
Pitt is startled by the speed in which Clarence reappears; he's putting what has to be a phlegm-soaked handkerchief into his back pocket. "Yeah, I'm here."
"Have you been on the phone with the sheriff's office yet?"
"Yeah, I told 'em to bring the Prints Section and also told 'em to get ready to take a whole lot of blood samples. And Munsell's on his way- with his Nikon," Clarence says, already anticipating Pitt's next question.
"Okay. Gentlemen, at this point I want you to fan out and search the immediate neighborhood," Pitt addresses the two armed officers at the door. "Clarence and I can take it from here and try to segregate the coroner from the prints guy when he gets here." The two would-be sentries give each other a quick glance, and depart.
"Clarence. Show me."
Both men cross the threshold of the front door. Immediately Pitt's nose fills with the stench coming from a litter box. Clarence takes three steps, stops right in front of Pitt and points to a frayed, gold tone fabric couch in the small, messy living room. A body lies crumpled on the cushions, its head slouched forward, the stains of what had apparently been a fountain of blood cascading down the front of its t-shirt. Pitt allows himself to take a breath through his nose and then exclaims the only thought that shoots through his mind and out of his mouth-
"It's a middle-aged man! Good God!"
...A copycat? Pitt panics silently. He clenches his fists, then releases them.
"Clarence, you didn't tell me-"
"I know, man, I know! But does it really matter? I mean, it's him!" he shouts, pointing an accusing finger at the painting on the wall behind the body- the wizard, leering and staring, always as before.
"Well of course it matters! It-" Pitt stops cold as he suddenly becomes aware of what he thinks is a crackling sound.
After a quick beat, Clarence shouts back, his eyes bugging out imploringly, "What, man? What?"
"Shhhhh!" Pitt hisses angrily, shaking a dismissive fist at him. His eyes dart around the room, and he's now unsure if he actually heard something. The cloud of confusion dissipates in an instant as he becomes suddenly aware- clearly aware- that yes, indeed, that is another painting of that freaky looking wizard on the wall. However, this time it seems to be more of a detail of the wizard's head and shoulders, his eyes apparently darkened and even given a ghoulish, green hue for emphasis while the star patterns remain the same.
Pitt's mind is racing. "Why didn't you tell me the victim is male?"
"I don't- I just-" Clarence is panting, stammering. "It didn't seem significant. What I first saw was the blood and then the paint."
Pitt nervously rubs his mouth with his fingers. "This means it's expanding, it's exploding, it's..." He and Clarence immediately lock eyes as they simultaneously hear a deep thumping sound. He takes a few swift steps back to the front door and steps out of the house. To his utter amazement, the sound of a helicopter approaches as a TV crew from Los Angeles tries to film the scene from above. My God, we're all going to get entirely swallowed up by this thing, Pitt thinks to himself as he watches the chopper begin circling in the pale sky.
"We need to lock this thing down," he mutters as he steps back into the house. "We need to figure out how to keep the press away and the neighborhood safe. Clarence..." He takes a deep breath as he tries to collect and focus himself. "Start interviewing the neighbors. Find out if anyone's seen any strange people in the area."
Clarence proceeds to speak without censorship. "You mean a guy with a straight razor and a bucket of paint?"
Pitt chuckles, then closes his eyes tightly and bites his lip as his laugh threatens to turn into something bigger. Much, much (and inappropriately) bigger. "I can't believe you just said that," he says, sniggering and shaking his head.
"Well?" Clarence exclaims, also starting to laugh but cringing at his incredibly bad timing. "I don't know what the hell else to start lookin' for. I thought we had someone who hated young girls but now it looks like he don't care who he's killin'." He nods at the body at the couch, and his expression quickly turns somber once more.
Pitt turns his eyes to the evil painting and swears under his breath. "You can't tell me that nobody saw or heard anything out of the ordinary. There has to be someone, there's gotta be-" Pitt is having to raise his voice as the sound of the TV helicopter grows louder. "I mean, we're right by an intersection. Someone has to have seen a vehicle or something-" a hissing sound combines with the blades of the chopper-"I mean, something doesn't figure here. Unless it was at night or something because that blood looks awfully dry..." He takes a couple of tentative steps into the living room and crouches a bit, his hands on his knees, as he tries to see the man's neck. "It's... it's more than just congealed. It's soaked in, it's dry. And this room, what's up with this room?" His gestures to the filthy living room rug, scattered with newspapers and dark stains that appear to be spilled coffee or perhaps even juice.
"I think he was a bachelor," Clarence sighs heavily. "We found utility bills on the kitchen counter addressed to an 'Andrew Williams'. The neighbors only knew him as Andy." Pitt looks at him. "Yeah, 'Andy'. He lived alone, was divorced, sometimes had his kid here on the weekends. That explains the Micronauts scattered all over," he says, gesturing to the shiny little action figures tossed into odd places across the living room.
"Well I'm a bachelor named Andy, too, but I don't live like a pig," Pitt mutters. He shoots Clarence a deadly serious look. "No pun intended."
Clarence snorts, again trying to suppress inappropriate laughter. "I don't think there was a struggle, I mean I don't think this guy ever got off the couch, really, I..." He stops as another high-pitched, whining, hissing sort of sound competes with his voice. This time it grabs more of his attention because it's much louder and the beat of the chopper blades has subsided for a moment.
Pitt remains crouched, unmoving. Clarence looks at him. The chopper's sound continues to fade and there's now the occasional squelching sound coming from one of the radio cars outside. Pitt takes a step forward and looks to the floor.
"What is it?" Clarence asks, unable to make eye contact with Pitt, who apparently is listening to something intently. "Andy? What is it?"
Pitt remains motionless for another ten seconds. Then, Clarence watches in confusion and horror as he sees Pitt take one more step, then reach out with a tentative hand and rock the victim's head from side to side.
"Andy! Wait! The coroner's people said not to touch the body until they determine cause of death!"
The hissing sound occurs again. Both men see a frothy mix of pink and white bubbles dripping from the gash in the man's neck.
The victim is still breathing.
Pitt screams. "Jesus Christ, why didn't you check....?" In an instant, the scene has turned not only foul but dizzy.
Reflexively, he slaps a hand to the man's neck in an attempt to apply pressure; a mixture of congealed and freshly oozing blood covers his fingers. "Get- call the hospital! NOW"!
Clarence dives for the front door, frantic. "Get on the radio! Get San Gorgonio! Now!"
he bellows to the units outside, and turns back to Pitt. "Oh God, man, please, I- I didn't check for a pulse, man! There's so much blood, I didn't even think it was necessary!"
"Never mind that!" Pitt hollers. The blood is really starting to flow from the man's throat quickly now, his raspy, pathetic attempts at breathing seeming to push it out with increasing force. Pitt chews his own lip ferociously for a moment, turns to look at an obviously distressed Clarence, and makes a snap decision.
"We can't wait for an ambulance." He urgently and yet with great care lays the man on his back, whose blood is quickly seeping into the shag carpet and clumps of cat hair that now surround his head. He gingerly pushes his hands under the man's armpits, picking him up, while Clarence- who is about to be sick- grabs the victim's feet. They start scrambling out the front door just as more officers arrive, jogging into the front yard with great confusion. "He's still breathing!" Pitt practically spits his words out urgently. "Make a hole! Make a hole! Get out of the way! Open the damn truck!" he yells at two utterly bewildered reps from the coroner's office, gesturing with his head to their vehicle.
The Wizard Murders Page 7