The Wizard Murders

by Sean McDevitt

  Pitt gives it more thought, and finally decides he should at least try to reach out to him. He calls Loma Linda and is eventually patched into Stevens's room.

  The voice on the phone- which comes after several seconds of the sound of fumbling and dropping the receiver- is weak. "Hello?"

  "Chief! Chief Stevens! It's me, Pitt." There's only the sound of labored breathing. "Andy. Andy Pitt."

  Stevens finally responds but is clearly out of it. "Hi, how are you?"

  "Oh, I'm... fair to middling. Are they gonna let you get out of that horrible place?" Pitt cringes.

  "If somebody doesn't get me out of here soon, I'm gonna start knotting sheets together. Although I am on the sixth floor, so that's gonna take a lot of sheets."

  Pitt forces a chuckle. "Well, maybe they need to move you closer to the door, then."

  "Yeah, well..." Stevens groans a little and it sounds like he might be on oxygen. "Well, you keep things going on down there... ummm..." and the phone is clumsily set down; Pitt can only make out the sound of things rattling, along with a few muffled voices. Pitt sighs, and then taps his forehead with his phone. He's there, but he's not REALLY there, he thinks.

  He drops the receiver back into its cradle, and for a moment he ponders the faint, dull ring that comes from it. Pitt is seated in his office- the same room, the same desk, though probably not the same chair that he's had to work with for twenty years. He glances up at one of his shelves, scattered with plastic cups full of pens and a few souvenirs- the Aerial Tramway can, a cow-shaped container for milk from the North Star Motel in Boothbay, and even a little golden pig- a tie tack given to him as a joke by a nephew. He'd never gotten around to wearing it around the office as a gag. He's torn between getting a cardboard box together now or later- there's not that much to pack up here, but it needs to be taken care of eventually. He's also got reports on his desk that need to be tended to.

  The coroner's best guess was the last victim had actually been killed about twenty-four hours before the young man's dismembered body was discovered by Pitt, and had probably been ripped apart by the same rug cutter or box cutter blade that was used to tear up the carpet. Drew Smith, the fourth victim, had just gotten home from his new job- working the soda fountain at Rexall's Drugstore on Beaumont Avenue. It was apparent that the killer had tried to create his "sculpture" on the rug first, judging from the blood stains, but then tore up the carpet so that he'd have a better, clean canvas to work with. So disgusting, Pitt thinks. That damn smell is still in my nose weeks later and every time I close my eyes all I can see is that damn fireplace...

  Well, fine. The FBI can take it from here. I'm too old for this sort of thing. All I know is I'm done and I want out now. I'm not playing games with some sicko, running around looking for his sick little clues. That's what they've got profilers for. Well-paid, snotty little federal criminal profilers. They want to sit around and play armchair psychologist and figure out what sort of person does this and why, sitting around a table like it's a damn parlor game. Well, it's not a game, it's got real crimes with real murders and buckets of blood. Have at it, guys. Knock yourselves out. He crumples up a sheet of paper that had a few scribbles on it- a half-hearted attempt at notes he'd taken while being debriefed by the feds- and tosses it with emphasis into a wastepaper basket.

  He then turns his eyes to a small stack of four file folders on his desk, each with the initial notes that he'd taken an all four victims. He picks them up, ponders the number and the weight of the files as they rest in his hands. And this is how it all ends, he thinks, your whole life ends up in one of these things.

  He starts to absent-mindedly thumb through them, and stops to check and see if these files are in chronological order- if he's got them stacked in the order that they died. As he flips through the tabs, his eyes fall into that zone of concentration he recognizes from whenever he starts a crossword puzzle. He looks at the first letter of one name. Then another. Then another. And then the most recent one.

  Startled, he stacks them up again, tapping them on the desk, making sure they're in the right order- and wanting to make sure of what he thinks he's seen. He flips through them again, quickly now, just looking at the names, checking and rechecking, making certain that he's not seeing things. He even rubs his eyes and checks a third time to make sure he hasn't gotten the files out of order:

  Robyn Marshall

  Evelyn Crest

  Andrew Williams

  Drew Smith

  READ. The first letters of the first names spell it. R-E-A-D. A well-hidden, cruel hint? A coincidence? But- READ what?

  The Wizard of Oz? No.

  He fights with a stack of papers until he finds a glossy of each of the murderer's paintings, along with an artist's rendition of said painting. He looks again at the constellation that Denise apparently picked out, the one on the left side of the painting that's above the wizard's right shoulder. She seemed fairly certain it was the Cygnus constellation, and indeed he'd seen it in the sky on the evening of the 17th. But again, READ what? Pitt thinks to himself. The stars? We've already done that. He pulls a magnifying glass from the drawer of his desk and examines the pattern again, moving his head back and forth in an effort to avoid the shadow that's being cast downward by the office's fluorescent lights. It's pretty much consistent, it does seem to be the same pattern on each one. What am I missing here? He moves slowly, moving the glass left to right, poring over every detail. He's never really paid much attention to the "artistic" quality of the paintings, but Denise is right... they are almost beautiful, captivating in their own sick way. Whoever this is, they paid attention to the details, even the weave of his beard, the folds in his cloak or cape or whatever the hell it is... and in looking at the folds of the wizard's cape, in the lower right hand corner of the painting, where it looks like the material is supposed to be folding or billowing behind him, Pitt pulls back a bit, squints, blinks and then stares until his eyes water.

  Hidden within those creases, those folds, on what could only be described as wavy, ornate lettering, Pitt makes out what can only be the word, 'swan.'

  He rears back for a moment, his hands grasping the lower half of his face. His eyes trace the sequence of letters repeatedly, desperately trying to ensure that what he's seen is not the product of an exhausted mind. He turns his attention to the third photo; it's a close-up of what the killer left behind as a grim epitaph for Andrew Williams- a detail of the wizard's head and shoulders. Turning his head, swan clearly appears on the right side of the painting, hidden within the tufts and curls of the wizard's long beard.

  Pitt's office door flies open. "DENISE! GET THE HELL IN HERE!" he bellows, basically scaring the living hell out of everyone within earshot.

  Denise comes running, her ponytail bouncing but the front of her hair stays totally unmoved. She looks at Pitt, scared at the volume of his voice, and unsure of how to treat him ever since her pleas to make him stay failed.

  "Didn't you tell me that Cygnus means swan?"

  "What?" Denise thinks she understands what he asked, but is totally thrown as to why.

  "Didn't you tell me that Cygnus means swan?" he repeats, slowly and deliberately.

  "Yes."

  "It's Latin, right?"

  "Yeah, I think so."

  "Take a look at this." He gestures to her to approach the desk, and hands her the magnifying glass. He points to the picture. She leans forward. As she comes closer, Pitt is fleetingly amused to note that she smells of both perfume and bubblegum.

  "What? What is it?"

  "Swan," Pitt intones, triumphantly. "See it?"

  Denise narrows her eyes. "Yeah, I... yeah, I guess it is! Swan! You think that's on purpose?"

  "What are the chances," Pitt begins, "that certain constellations are in the sky over the murder sites and on certain days?"

  "Well, the constellations are always out, every night. I mean..."

  "No, are they showing up right at certain times over certain places. I saw the Nor
thern Cross on the 17th, the cross, the asterisk or whatever it is you call it..."

  Denise tries not to laugh. "Asterism. Not asterisk."

  "Whatever it is. I saw that, right above that house. I'd bet you dollars to donuts that's what's going on here. Donuts being the preferred method of gambling around here." Pitt laughs, and it's the first laugh he's enjoyed in awhile. "If we go back, if we've got some sort of a... I don't know, perpetual calendar or something, along with your star chart, I'd bet there's a match. He wants us to pay attention to the swan! He wants us to pay attention to the swan!" Pitt is holding his head in his hands, and by this point Clarence has wandered in.

  "What's going on, man?" he asks.

  "Clarence, take a look at this," Pitt exclaims, taking the magnifying glass from Denise and handing it to him. "Right there, on the wizard's cloak, right there. 'Swan.' You see that? 'Swan' is a part of Cygnus. It's right there, in the folds, look. He wants us to look at the swan!"

  Clarence stares carefully for a moment, then exhales. "Whew, man, that's crazy. What the hell is going on here."

  "I- I can't believe it." Pitt is stammering. "I've been staring at that thing for more than a month. We all have. It's been photographed. I can't believe no one's noticed it until now. There's no way that can be a coincidence! No way!"

  "But..." Clarence sighs, his hands on his hips. "So what? I mean, that matches the name of the constellation, right? But what's that get us?"

  "It means it's not as random as we thought," Pitt declares. "He's trying to tell us something, he thinks he's like the Zodiac Killer or Manson or somebody." Denise shivers at the thought. "I mean, yeah, it's a... it's a... bizarre development, to be sure, but it has to be something," Pitt says, starting to calm down. "I don't know that this brings us any closer, but Jesus Christ, how come none of us saw this?" He pauses for a moment, then startles Clarence and Denise by slapping his forehead with his hand. "That's it! It didn't matter who was in the Gillette's house, it was because the star formation was over it! It had to be, right? That explains why the house sitter died- not because of who she was, but where!"

  "I don't know man, but it could very well be." Clarence looks warily at Pitt, unsure of his sudden enthusiasm. "You gonna tell the FBI?"

  Pitt thinks for a moment, his eyes still dancing with excitement. Finally he speaks. "Screw the FBI. Let's see if they notice it too. And yeah, I am the jealous type. I'd kind of like to see our little homegrown investigation take this all the way."

  Denise and Clarence smile at him. Denise even starts to cry a little. "That mean you're gonna stay?"

  Pitt's mouth falls open in horror. "Oh hon, I'm not going anywhere. Come here." To Clarence's amazement, Pitt struts across the office and hugs her, then turns to shake his hand.

  "I want to finish this thing, Clarence," he says, firmly, his brown eyes flecked with green starting to water. "I want to finish it."

  *************

  Pitt arrives back at his apartment near 12th and Edgar later that evening, his mind buzzing, his feet aching, and his bladder screaming. In all of the excitement and adrenaline back at the station, he'd forgotten to even urinate, and now he was paying for it. He closes his door, quickly and clumsily kicks his shoes off of his aching feet, lean his back on the closed door for a moment, and mutters to himself, "That bumping sound you hear is my butt dragging on the floor behind me." He takes a few deep breaths, then heads for the bathroom.

  After a moment of straining- the price that you pay if you actually wait too long to pee- there is relief. Pitt closes his eyes and exhales. Long day. Long, bad, difficult day. Maybe we've got a good clue here but we're not really any closer. Pitt starts to cough, and it takes him a moment to realize why: once again, his next-door neighbor has his bathroom fan running, and is smoking those damn menthol cigarettes. The stench is making his throat burn and he coughs again. Dammit, how much do I pay in rent every month for a goddamn no-smoking apartment? He finishes his business in the bathroom, and starts to head for the kitchen, when he notices that the smell has followed him and is in fact permeating his entire apartment. From the back of his mind comes a memory of hearing his father weeping over the phone- while lighting a damn cigarette for himself- as Pitt's mother cried out in pain in the background, her body ruined by smoking-related cancer. Then comes the fresh recollection of Geoff Stevens's voice, from this morning: "Well, you keep things going on down there." Such a short, poignant statement. Because I can't, Andy. My time has been cut short. It's up to you now to help keep the world running the way we tried to make it. My number is up. I'm sorry, but I have to go now.

  "That does it," Pitt seethes. "That tears it."

  A minute later an exhausted and irritated Pitt is knocking on his neighbor's door. He stands impatiently, wondering who his neighbor really is- he's made a point of never interacting with those who live nearby; to him his home is his last retreat. A few moments later, a thin, pale, middle-aged man answers the door. He's got a bit of a five o'clock shadow and his white, button-down shirt is untucked. For a split second Pitt is reminded of the actor Jack Lemmon.

  "Hey. My name is Andrew Pitt and I actually work at the Beaumont Police Department as a Detective, but I happen to live next door. I have tried to be patient and ignore things, but sir... this is a non-smoking apartment, and every night when I come home there is the foul stench of your cigarettes wafting into my house. And I have had enough of it. So this is going to stop now, and we're not going to need to get the landlord involved because we're going to handle this between the two of us. We both pay a lot money to live here, and we all have to live by the rules: no loud music, no pets, and no smoking. So from now on, if you feel you've got to smoke you're going to do it outside, or off the property, and you're not going to pollute my house with your cigarette smell anymore. You got me?"

  The man stands bugged-eyed for a moment, silent and staring. He then speaks. "All right, I'm... I'm really sorry, it... it won't happen again. You know, I come home from a long day at work, and I just really like to unwind with a smoke-"

  "And I usually have a long day at work, too," Pitt interrupts. "But that doesn't allow me to take it out on my neighbors with loud music, barking dogs, or smoking. Especially if it's against the rules."

  "I- I- I know, I'm sorry, I'm not saying that it does," the man answers, opening his door a bit more. "It's just me living here, and I meant no disrespect. And I know I'm not supposed to do it inside but from now on I'll do it outside, I promise. Look, see? I've got a sliding glass door and a patio, see? There's no excuse for me not to use it." Pitt glances over his shoulder and sees the man's patio, which looks like it has a few potted begonias and a telescope.

  "Well, that'd be good, that'd be a good idea," Pitt says, cooling off a bit but remaining firm. "My mother and my father both died at least thirty years too young from smoking those damn things, so I don't want any of that stuff anywhere near me."

  "Oh, I'm sorry, sir. I'm really sorry. I know I really should quit. But I promise you- I promise you I'll either go across the street or smoke out there." He gestures again to his patio.

  "So we've got an understanding," Pitt states.

  "Yes- yes sir. We do. It'll never happen again."

  "Well, I appreciate that." Pitt relaxes his stance and turns a little bit to the side. He can see that the man's sliding-door coat closet is open. "Again, I don't want to involve the landlord, we can just settle this like gentlemen. Right?"

  "Right, sir."

  Pitt smiles, grimly. "You got a name, by the way?"

  "David. David Swanson."

  "Swanson. Swanson, good." Pitt stops. "Okay. I-" Pitt no sooner says the words when he glances again into the coat closet by the door. And notices several cans of paint. Cans that have been opened and used, judging from the dark streaks that run down some of their labels.

  "You gonna be painting that patio?" Pitt asks.

  The man stares at him for a moment, then turns and looks behind him. "What, oh, you- you mean the pa
int. Yeah, I was thinking about that!" he laughs nervously. "I think I'd need to ask permission from the landlord, first."

  Pitt's tired eyes- which are watering a bit- are making it hard to make out many details, but he's trying to see what color the paint is. "What color are you gonna paint it, black?"

  "Oh no, no! It's not black. I know it looks really dark, but it's actually called 'midnight blue'."

  Pitt feels a shock run from his chest down to the soles of his feet, but maintains his composure. "Midnight blue. Interesting name."

  "Yeah," the man laughs. "Sometimes I use it- I've used it as a thin coat of primer. It's good for covering things up." He smiles, and Pitt is now starting to wonder about that stupid, vacant stare. And the little dollop of sweat that's started to form on the man's upper lip. And the fact that one of the paint can's labels appears to be marked "Sampson's"...or is it "Swanson's" with one of the "Sampson's" scratched out?

  "Yeah, yeah I'll bet." Pitt's mouth is dry. "Well, anyway..." he tries to bring his full attention to the man's face, but now his eyes are drawn to an obviously expensive telescope on the man's patio. "Nice telescope you've got there."