"Yeah, yeah. It's a... it's a hobby." The man smiles, his pale skin exaggerating his thin face's wrinkles and laugh lines.
"Yeah, it's a clear view of the skies here in Beaumont. Well, I guess I'll catch up with you later, Mr. Swanson."
"Oh, oh okay. Goodnight, sir. Goodnight." He nods ingratiatingly and closes his door as Pitt turns away.
Pitt stands in the hallway in his stockinged feet, a rivulet of sweat making its way through his disheveled hair, his heart pounding.
...Swanson?
Early the next morning, Denise, Pitt and Clarence are gathered in his office. In another part of the building, J.C. is already working the phones, checking into the availability of local agencies in the event that they have to move and move fast. Pitt is anxiously tapping his notebook, where he has repeatedly underlined the name Swanson, attempted a crude sketch of the Cygnus constellation based on Denise's description, and listed the different manufacturers known to produce paint called 'midnight blue'- or at least something similar to it. The room is silent, except for Pitt's nervous pen tapping and the ticking of the clock on Pitt's wall, which reads 6:37.
Finally, he breaks the silence. "Denise, tell me. What would they do in Texas?"
She shrugs, then folds her arms. "In Texas, men are men. If they think you're hiding something, they won't ask for a warrant. They'll just bust your door down."
Pitt taps his notebook for just a few more seconds.
The door shatters into splinters at David Swanson's apartment at 12th and Edgar as a SWAT team crashes through it, and within seconds they've tackled him as he makes an abortive attempt to crawl out of his bedroom window. He's pinned to the ground as handcuffs are placed on him. He's screaming through either hysterical tears or laughter, Pitt can't decide which, as he leans in close as the handcuffs are sealed tightly around Swanson's wrists. "Maybe you should have checked your horoscope this morning, Swanson," he says through gritted teeth, his jaw still throbbing from weeks of stressful grinding.
Swanson is defiant as he's brought to his feet, with snot, sweat and tears pouring down his face. "Very clever, wasn't it, Detective? I really must compliment you on your work."
"Get this freak out of here," Pitt sneers. He watches the officers drag Swanson- who's wearing only a t-shirt and boxers- away, and for moment he swears that Swanson actually starts singing "Fllllly meeee to the mooooon...."
Pitt suddenly realizes just how sweaty he's gotten under a bulky bulletproof vest in just a short amount of time- and how out of breath he is. He pulls open the front flap of his vest by tugging on the velcro closures, and watches as the Investigation Division begins to collect the cans of midnight blue paint from the hallway closet with a certain delicacy. He does a double-take when he sees Clarence in the doorway; for the first time that he can recall, Clarence- also wearing a vest- has his weapon drawn, the pistol pointing skyward.
"Before anything's released to the press, to anyone- have someone call every victim's family, and tell them we have a suspect in custody." Pitt feels a head rush as he says the words. "And contact Chief Stevens's family, too." Clarence nods and as he turns to leave, Pitt calls out to him.
"Clarence!"
His partner turns. Pitt is pointing down at an end table, where a pack of menthol cigarettes rests. He shakes his head in disbelief.
"I wonder if these smokes are of the finest kind," Pitt drawls, his face unsmiling but his eye winking at Clarence. Good old reliable Clarence breaks into a grin, then quickly exits.
The apartment is well-organized, if a little dusty. Out on the patio, the obviously expensive telescope is not aimed at the heavens but instead awkwardly cranked downward; it appears to have been set that way in haste. Pitt turns around, and notices a small figurine of a warlock or wizard resting on Swanson's coffee table. It bears a slight resemblance to the wizard seen in the paintings, but mostly Pitt is struck by what a kindly expression this wizard has, with staff in hand, his other arm uplifted and bearing some sort of a winged creature. But even more interesting, the wizard is being used as a paperweight for what appear to be several newspaper clippings; Pitt recognizes one of them as being the CHERRY VALLEY WOMAN SLAIN headline from the Record Gazette.
Pitt spots something shiny resting just under those clippings. Reaching out with a rubber-gloved hand, he slowly and deliberately lifts the edges of the clippings to reveal a small stack of about five trapezoid cutter blades organized into the shape of a star.
His eyes then travel up one of the apartment's walls, and he's struck by what appears to be a small, framed postcard:
"The fault, Dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves..." -Julius Caesar
It's a week later.
The sun is shining in Pitt's office. The top of his desk is gleaming. I'm sure J.C. will have this thing covered in parking ticket copies and magazines in no time, Pitt thinks, but that's not my problem.
A small going-away party for him will be getting underway shortly. He insists that he doesn't want the attention, but Denise and Clarence have both been able to gently persuade him. This is officially his last day. He can do nothing but smile and tap on his desk. From another part of the building, someone's radio is blaring the newest song from Journey; Pitt's surprised to find himself enjoying its roiling piano and distinctive bassline. He also decides after listening to her sing along softly while writing at her desk that Denise actually has a pleasant voice within her.
He can't help but chuckle as he starts dialing the number he knows by heart, thinking of what to say.
"Hello, Frank? About that cabin you've been offering..."
THE WIZARD MURDERS
Cover art by Kate Kersten
With gratitude to Tim and Cherie Glisson, Feath Pym and Theresa Merci-Smith
Also by Sean McDevitt
CALL ME ISMAY
and
YESTERDAY'S RIVER
Both available in paperback, and on Amazon Kindle
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The Wizard Murders Page 11