The Wizard Murders Read online

  CHAPTER THREE

  There's a brief press conference held shortly after Pitt first views the body. He's made a point of scribbling down a few talking points before speaking to a small gaggle of reporters about a block away from the crime scene. Pitt finds himself self-conscious and unsure as he manages to utter a few very sparse details- also keeping an eye out for Chief Stevens, who has yet to be seen.

  Almost every day, Pitt takes at least one phone call back at the station in the early afternoon from a radio reporter making his beat checks, but that's been the limit of his exposure to the press as of late; as a cop he's never had a microphone thrust under his nose. As he lays out the basics in a stammering monotone, he's keenly aware that he's being listened to intently by at least one reporter from the Press Enterprise- and perhaps someone from the Record Gazette that up until now he's only known socially through the local Lion's Club.

  Shortly thereafter Pitt and Clarence find themselves shuffling back into the police station- and at last they discover Chief Stevens at his desk, leafing through papers and chatting on the phone. Pitt rolls his stiff neck around for a moment, then gestures to Clarence that perhaps they should both take a seat, it's apparently going to be awhile. As the Chief rattles on for a few minutes- sparing an occasional "I'm sorry, guys" look over his glasses- Pitt listens to him repeat one "I'm not at liberty to discuss that" after another. Damn reporters, Pitt thinks. Apparently not satisfied with my press release, now they're just trying to cut to the chase and are going straight to the top for more information and we're not going to give it to them. Reporters. They're just like the typical stupid 'let me talk to your supervisor' crowd. A supervisor's gonna tell you the exact same thing, you goddamned idiots.

  Pitt's eyes dart around the office in a mix of anxiety and boredom. Chief Stevens has what can only be described as one of the most unique office spaces held by any public servant in Riverside County: the man is an avid Coca-Cola collector. Indeed, it's been the focus of a lot of friendly attention from longtime residents and local newspapers; an article with photos of the display and any new additions seems to find its way into print almost annually. As Pitt takes it all in- realizing this is the first time in many a year he's really looked at the Chief's Coca-Cola menagerie, having seen it almost every single day for years- he feels a twinge of sadness, of something being irretrievably lost; the Chief's eccentric hobby is one of those things that in so many ways creates friendliness, goodwill in Beaumont. Somehow, those green-hued bottles, playing cards, bottle caps, a few clocks, little toy Coke delivery trucks- they always catch the attention and imagination of everyone, especially little kids if they're being given a tour of the station during a field trip. However, as Pitt listens to Chief Stevens patiently but firmly explain yet again to some persistent reporter on the phone that "No, I cannot discuss that with you off the record," and while Clarence's breathing and sighing seem unusually labored at the moment (although Pitt knows he's a smoker), all of the red and white colors seem almost oppressive and sinister, without that warm and fuzzy feeling they usually generate. The hue of red is all too reminiscent of the small lake of blood he's seen earlier.

  It becomes obvious this is going to take even longer than expected- the voice on the line, whoever it is, is strident and can be heard from several feet away as the Chief occasionally pulls the receiver away from his ear; they seem to be asking the same question over and over, only in different ways. Pitt leans over to Clarence and whispers. "What is this I hear about them using the coroner's van to pick up another body?"

  "What?"

  Pitt maintains his whisper but is more deliberate. "Why is Riverside going to use the coroner's van to pick up another dead body?" Clarence sits, blinking and silent. Frustrated, Pitt scoots closer to him and starts over. "The coroner's office said they were probably going to pick up another dead body in Banning before heading back to the morgue- somebody who died from natural causes. That means the Gillette girl's going to be in the back of the van with a second body. What if the family hears about this? 'Oh, sorry, your dead daughter's not important enough, we've got other deliveries to make.'"

  Clarence snorts, rubs his tired eyes, and tries to suppress a laugh. "You stab 'em, we slab 'em," he cackles.

  "I'm serious, here," Pitt retorts, momentarily surprised to find his own nostrils flaring due to a suppressed laugh. He coughs and clears his throat and then continues. "First homicide we've had in a dozen years, and you're telling me they couldn't spare another coroner's van? Riverside's gonna be in the crosshairs over this one, I'm telling you."

  He's interrupted by the sound of Chief Stevens dropping his phone back onto its receiver. "Hello, gentlemen," Stevens offers, trying to convey his usual serene self but not quite succeeding this time.

  "Hello Chief," Pitt responds, wearily. After a beat, he deadpans. "And how are you this fine day?"

  "Oh, I'm... perfect. Just perfect." This is Stevens' usual salutation, as a man firmly but benevolently in control- however, on this particular afternoon, it sounds sad and more than a bit forced.

  "And I'm just peachy, myself. Clarence here's got it down to a fine science, when it comes to women vomiting all over themselves."

  "Awww man," Clarence whines, shaking his head. The Chief sits politely, waiting for an explanation. "He's talkin' about the Spaulding woman, Jessie Spaulding. She's the one that found the body. When I got there she was on the front lawn, barfin' her guts out and screamin'."

  "Oh dear," the Chief reacts sadly. "What I'm hearing from some of the officers and from Riverside is that you don't even want to know about this one, the stab wounds were so bad..."

  "You got that right- well, sort of," Pitt mutters. "It looks like there's just the one wound, a lateral slash, on the victim's throat. Whatever it is we've got here, it's not run-of-the-mill and I don't think it was random. The suspect or the suspects, we don't know yet, had to be targeting the victim. Or at least they thought they were targeting someone. I don't think this was 'wrong place, wrong time', just because that Marshall girl happened to be housesitting. The scene is too just elaborate, and we're having tests run to determine whether that's really the young girl's blood dripping down from the wall..." his voice trails off.

  The Chief leans forward. "Well, one thing we really do need to address immediately, is that we don't need any jealousy or lack of communication between agencies. Now I know there's some resentment going on right now because of J.C., and I know he's new and he's raw, but ultimately I think he's going to be a good addition to the department." Chief Stevens sits back in his chair, blinking his eyes serenely, and sniffs gently for emphasis.

  "Okay, but what about..." Pitt responds slowly, then turns to Clarence. "Was that the background check you were talking about earlier?" Clarence nods. "So that's it, then. It's a done deal. You're officially going with the guy from Riverside? It's no longer probationary?"

  "Yes, I am," Chief Stevens nods his head emphatically. "I don't necessarily want the two of you to go at it on your own. So you've got to break him in, and make him a partner in the investigation."

  "Okay, well..." Pitt has to think for a moment. "I'm not sure I really see the advantage of trying to break somebody in, right now, especially in light of all this..."

  "Well, respectfully, I disagree, Andy. No offense, but we're going to need a fresh set of eyes to help us on this one." Chief Stevens says none of this in anger or even with that much force; however his words do seem a bit more cutting because of the way he undersells them. But even after about ten years of working together, Pitt has never really been able to stay mad at Stevens for very long because of his laid-back approach.

  "Chief, J.C. don't have the common sense God gave to a brick," Clarence interjects. "But I'm sure we can mold him, make him useful."

  "Fine, then," Pitt relents, still a touch annoyed. "I guess we're gonna need all of the support we can get."

  "Yes," the Chief responds quietly. "Yes, we are. I can tell Riverside County pretty much wants to
assign themselves to the case, but I think I can make it clear we're better off cooperating. And to be able to do that, we're going to need to have a united effort on our part. So for now... the much more simple days of robberies, or parking tickets, or..." He pauses to find the right words. "The... fun days of making sure that we're tossing out all of the obnoxious political gadflies out of city council meetings aren't going to be with us for awhile." He pauses again.

  "Did I ever tell you that story about Bobby?"

  "Bobby?" Pitt has to think for a moment. "You mean Beaumont Bob, that crazy old bearded freak who's always rambling and disrupting the council meetings? I actually haven't seen him in awhile. In fact, I thought he was dead."

  "No, I think he's with his son in San Jacinto, I'm pretty sure his son is taking care of him now. Yeah, this was about fifteen years ago," the Chief says, leaning back in his chair, now slipping into his role of excellent raconteur. "I was still working patrols and Bobby actually had a towing truck service back then-" Clarence and Pitt both let out moderate guffaws- "no really, he did, I know it's hard to believe, but he was actually a really good tow truck driver, always punctual, any time of the day or night that you needed him, Beaumont or Banning- it didn't matter. He'd be there.

  "Well, one day I get a call from someone who says, 'Officer, Bobby's being difficult, he must be having a bad hair day or something, but he's out in front of his business painting bright-red no parking zones right onto the curbs.' So I head on out there and I've got my slacks on and these boots, these brand new, really, really comfortable boots that I'd just gotten. And I get out there, and there he is, on his hands and knees, painting the curb red where he's not supposed to be. So I walk over and I place my boot right on the curb, like this-" he demonstrates from behind his desk- "and real patient I say to him, 'Now Bobby, what's the matter? What's going on out here?' And do you know he took that brush and went right on painting? He took that paint brush, and went right over my boots- red paint and everything- all over my boots and slacks?"

  All three men roar with laughter, but a dark, guilty thought runs through the back of Pitt's mind: God, I hope no one can hear us in here.

  *************

  He arrives home hours later at his small apartment at 12th and Edgar. There's the roar of his soaring blood pressure pounding through his ears and his feet are throbbing as he kicks off his shoes, loosens his tie, throws his rumpled gray suit coat onto a sofa, and for the first time in hours considers having something to eat. He shuffles into his kitchen, and as he pulls a TV dinner with fried chicken from his freezer, he realizes that once again his obnoxious next-door neighbor has his bathroom fan running, and is smoking those goddamn menthol cigarettes. The landlord has recently deemed the property non-smoking, but "Those rules don't apply to everyone," Pitt mutters to himself through gritted teeth. For more than a month now- like clockwork every single night- there's the faint roar of a fan and that unmistakable smell wafts through his bathroom and right into his apartment. Pitt- who hates smoking- is not even sure if his neighbor is male or female; with his frequently long hours he's barely aware of any of his immediate neighbors, but for right now Pitt decides that he's just too tired to care. He sets his egg timer for about 25 minutes after he places his dinner's aluminum tray in the oven, and he folds his arms across his stomach as he rests the small of his back against the kitchen counter. For a moment he contemplates the hollow boom and rattling noise that accompanies every opening and closing of the stove, and out of habit reaches for a nearby (very dusty) clock radio and turns it on. The last two seconds of a pop song dissipate as the announcer launches into the top of the hour news.

  "This is the spirit of the Inland Empire- the 'Big 59', KFXM, San Bernardino. Good evening, it's 9 PM... Beaumont Police say an unidentified young woman was found murdered in her home on Brookside Avenue tonight... a police spokesman said that a suspect in the killing of the woman is being sought, but he would give no other details. The spokesman did say that it wasn't a burglary, but that she was killed most likely by... a deranged person."

  Pitt stares off into the distance as the announcer launches into the next news story. 'Killed most likely by a deranged person?' Who writes this stuff? Pitt sighs heavily, as he knows full well no such detail was given out by him. This is what we get for not locking down the scene earlier, Pitt thinks, but Clarence is a good man and he just wasn't paying attention. It also occurs to him that the news story had one glaring mistake- Robyn Marshall hadn't died in her own home, she had been housesitting.

  Pitt taps his hands on the edge of the counter as the egg timer relentlessly ticks. This horrid turn of events is going to bring completely unwanted negative attention to the Beaumont area; the 1948 murder of Margie Lee Winn never went away, but then again it was the essence of what moved newspapers like the LA Times in those days: a young beauty queen, mysteriously murdered. However, this is so far beyond anything like that... could that Marshall girl have been involved in some bizarre religious cult? It all appears to be ritualistic. But wait, he thinks, she wasn't even in her own home. Did the killer think he had one of the Gillette girls? Well... that doesn't make any sense either, because he would have or should have known who he was targeting. Could it have been a burglary? She walks in on someone who kills her in a spectacular way to divert cops from the original crime? Pitt slips into a zone of concentration not unlike what he experiences when he's working on one of his beloved crossword puzzles. Across the kitchen is a jar of instant coffee; Pitt doesn't really see the brand name, he takes more notice of the type of font that the lettering uses, the spatial relationships of how everything is printed on the side of the jar. He cocks his head to one side as his eye catches what appears to be a small, ornate circle.

  Wait a minute, wait a minute, Pitt thinks, wasn't there something on the news about some crazy claim of Satanism involving the Procter & Gamble logo? Some people called it a "wizard" design when it's actually just a man-in-the-moon kind of thing? Pitt reaches out and grabs the jar, and looks closely. Do we have something here? Pitt squints and stares until his eyes water and finally decides while it's a bit strange, the logo doesn't bear all that much resemblance to what he had seen earlier; the old P&G logo indeed has a man-in-the-moon face in profile, and the 13 stars on the left part of the circle- Pitt counts them again, 13, just to be sure- are meant to symbolize the 13 original American Colonies. What hovered over the crime scene earlier (and Officer Munsell had taken hundreds of photographs Pitt fully planned to pore over in the morning) was not in profile; it looked like the kind of wizard you'd expect Merlin from Camelot to be, and there were far more stars in the top portion of the circle. No, Pitt thinks, no 'Satanic panic' here in Beaumont. At least not yet.

  Pitt's appetite kicks in and soon he's mowing down the chewy fried chicken and far-too-hot, gelatinous mashed potatoes. He manages to jot down a few random notes in a small spiral notebook, then turns in for the night. He chuckles mordantly at himself as he realizes he's actually checking every door and window in his small apartment before retiring. He's also embarrassed- as a veteran cop- to admit that his five senses are working overtime.

  He lies upon the cool sheets of his bed and lets his mind drift... I wonder if Clarence ever got a hold of the Marshalls... that's a conversation I would never want to have... 'Don, there's no easy way to say this, so I'll just say it. There's been a stabbing. Robyn was killed.' I've had people punch me or even burst out into hysterical laughter when I've notified them of a loved one's demise.... but usually the cause of death is because of age or some sort of accident. How do you even begin to explain, well, she's not only dead, but it's like Helter Skelter in that bedroom... I'll need to make some calls in the morning and find out what this 'deranged person' bullshit is; what if some of those details get to Robyn's family before we have a chance to tell them?

  So sorry, Don... your daughter, your baby daughter... she's gone. Dead. Murdered. Maybe even sacrificed like some damn animal or something. Sacrificed... like rabbits
running through briar patches. Huh?

  What time is it? 3 AM. Christ! 3 AM! I'll never sleep. Insomnia is extremely rare for Pitt, and he's getting increasingly agitated. Why can't this be Maine? Why can't I be in Maine with my brother Frank, why can't this boring life just wind down and let me be in Maine? What the hell did that crossword puzzle mean, anyway- 'pejorative, Maine'? God, I've been in the Pass for ten years and it feels more like fifty....

  Pitt's brother Frank is a large, robust man with a dialect full of downeast Yankee. He owns a country store just outside of Boothbay Harbor. The last time Pitt was there a few years ago, Frank showed him how to make fudge with heavy cream, and took great delight in pointing out to him all of the beaver dams along Route 96. As thoughts of the colors of late October race through his mind and the memory of the wonderful dark smell of that fudge fills his nose, Pitt actually aches to return there- but then a quick shuffle of his feet against the rough sheets of his bed brings him promptly back to Beaumont, where he realizes immediately that this latest turn of events might indefinitely postpone any hopes he had of retiring any time soon. For years, Frank has been tantalizing him with the possibility of renting or maybe even buying a cabin near Boothbay- even going so far as to offer splitting the cost. He hates the thought of having to phone his brother yet again with more discouraging news.