The Wizard Murders Page 4

  "Clarence, the hell...?"

  "I know, I know, man, but the phones are out. I've already got my hands full keepin' the neighbors and the reporters away from here, tryin' to peek in the damn windows."

  "Was anybody else in the house?" Pitt asks, trying hard to focus on what's important.

  "Negative." His eyes widen and although Pitt can't be sure, they seem to start watering. "We've taken a statement from some of the neighbors. Victim's name is Evelyn Crest, seventeen years old. She was raised by a single dad. He's a truck driver. Dispatch got a hold of him in Bullhead City, Arizona. He was pretty tore up about it."

  Pitt absorbs all of the information for a moment. "And the Chief?"

  "Dispatch says he ain't even been in the office yet."

  Pitt runs his hand through his hair for a moment. "Dammit Geoff, where the hell are you ever," he mutters. "Okay, well... obviously we've got the scene protected and secured until Riverside gets here. I don't know about you, but I'm not going back in there-" he gestures to the bedroom- "until they need to be escorted in. It's like being led through a nightmare in there."

  Leonard Robinson- whom Pitt had thrown off a couch at the first murder scene- is assigned to the phones back at the station, while Officer Munsell performs his grim duty for a second time, photographing the graphic murder scene. Munsell is one of the oldest officers on the force, and Pitt knows him well enough to detect an unusual amount of tension in his face as he walks through a relentless procession of flash photography, with each explosion of light that accompanies every snap of the shutter eerily reminiscent of lightning.

  The Latent Prints Section of the Riverside Sherrif's Office spends at least two hours dusting the house for prints; a total of fifty lifts are taken from the residence. The County Coroner's office asks the police not to touch the body until a rep from their office has examined it. Pitt sighs heavily as he watches the coroner's people cover and place the body on a stretcher cart and mutters to Clarence. "It's like we've got two picture puzzles here, neither one of them complete." Pitt shoots him a glance, his anger at not being contacted long gone. "Come on, I need some air."

  Both men are immediately verbally assaulted- from a distance- by a gaggle of reporters, a gathering much larger than the one from a few weeks ago. Pitt stands stunned and angry for a moment, taking in their relentless insensitivity. His eyes dart around and spot- among other things- a cameraman from KNXT in Los Angeles, a reporter with a microphone flag from KXFM, and the reporter he knows through the Lion's Club.

  "How old is she? Was anything stolen? Detective Pitt, what do you think the motive is? Was she smoking?"

  Pitt can do little more than shake his head in disgust, and deliberately turn his back to them. Adding insult to injury, he hears the ice cream man's musical truck- usually a welcome sound, all summer long- approaching. After a moment of listening to the truck's incessant, tinny warble, Clarence manages to articulate what both men are thinking: "Looks like Marty's gonna cash in with a few rocket pops over that dead girl's body." Pitt nods his head in grim agreement- but also hopes no one else overheard Clarence's somewhat inappropriate choice of words.

  After a moment or so of the two men watching excited, chattering children crowding around the ice cream truck, Clarence suddenly lets loose with one of his trademark non sequiturs. "Andy, did I ever tell you about that roach coach in Fresno?"

  Pitt looks at Clarence, always amazed at his propensity for odd remarks at the weirdest of times. "What are you talking about?"

  "This was back when I lived in Bakersfield. I'd just gotten my first job as a security guard in Fresno. Even though it was a couple hours drive, it was work. It was a big construction site, and durin' the day I'd do some light work helpin' pick up the place, then at night I'd work a security detail." As Clarence settles into his storytelling rhythm, J.C. saunters over, his arms folded, apparently drawn in by Clarence's monologue.

  "It was kinda stupid, but I guess the contractors didn't want nobody messin' with the tractors and stuff. It turned out to be one of the easiest assignments I ever got. The only other job that was easier, was when I was workin' security at a bar that was frequented by illegals. Easiest job I ever had- the only thing those fellas wanted to do after spendin' a hot day out in the fields was to have themselves a beer, and listen to music. Those people wanted no trouble. Illegals make great neighbors, too, by the way. They don't make a sound. Anyway..." Pitt quietly sighs, wondering where the hell this story is going.

  "Everyday at noon this roach coach owned by a bunch of Mexicans would pull up to the site, blarin' its horn, and man, those people had the best tacos. I mean, the best, the finest kind." He winks at Pitt, who rolls his eyes. "I used to have two or three of those tacos everyday for lunch. Well finally, after a couple of weeks, suddenly they stopped comin.' Just stopped. Some of the guys at the site were jokin' that they must've been deported." He manages to squeeze a very small chuckle out of Pitt with that line. "Well, a bit later on, the construction site is closed down 'cause they're all done, the job's over, so I gotta find new work. And I'm goin' through the newspaper lookin' for stuff, and I see this story about a mobile food truck that had been busted outta business 'cause the health inspector caught 'em using cat meat?"

  He pauses for effect as Pitt and J.C. take it in. "That's right. They were using dead, skinned cats. I never found out if it was the same people, but I may have spent a few weeks livin' off of cat tacos." Clarence pats his stomach for emphasis, a big, queasy smile on his face. "And they were really good tacos, man!"

  J.C. interjects, awkwardly trying to fit in with a waggishly overstated dirty joke involving felines and female genitalia.

  Clarence begins to roar with laughter, J.C. lets loose with an obnoxious, wheezing sort of guffaw, and Pitt finds himself embarrassed for both of them- looking away, shaking his head, wondering if the story is even true. He decides to react- quickly. "Fellas, come over here. Right now." He takes several steps away from the Crest's house, into a neighboring yard, deliberately creating more space between them and the crowd of onlookers.

  "Guys..." He draws in a sharp breath as Clarence and J.C. join him, still chuckling. "Guys, there's a time and place for everything, and right now, this is not it. Clarence, ask yourself- why do you do things like that, telling a funny story when the victim's neighbors and the reporters from as far away as L.A. are watching our every goddamn move?" He pauses for a moment, not really expecting an answer. "Now they've all got to be wondering why a couple of the Beaumont cops are laughing their heads off like damn fools when they've got another homicide on their hands." Clarence shows signs of moderate embarrassment, while J.C. maintains his usual smirk and stares resolutely at the ground, refusing to make eye contact with Pitt.

  "Now I want both of you to start canvassing the neighborhood some more, and start showing some professionalism, for Chrissake. I don't think our suspect is going to sit around and wait for us to catch up to him." Pitt angrily stalks off- but to their credit, the two men gear up and fall in, pulling out their notebooks and heading out into the neighborhood.

  Pitt is exhausted when he finally returns to the station, somewhere around one o'clock. "Time to sit down and write reports, like a good little bureaucrat," he mutters to no one in particular. "Damn things want everything but your eye color and underwear size."

  He has some time to think.

  He stares up at the ceiling, his eyes eventually falling upon a shelf on his office. He looks at a souvenir he picked up a few years ago at the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway- a tin can of "fresh mountain air." Its tongue-in-cheek label suggests that you open the can, breathe deeply, and smile. That goofy little can made him giggle himself silly when he first picked it up years ago, and it never fails to bring at least a faint smile to his face whenever he glances at it. It strikes him that this is the first time he's ever looked at it and felt nothing.

  Much later that afternoon, Pitt finds himself sitting in a Norge Laundromat, munching on some stale popcorn he'
s gotten from an old vending machine while watching his socks and underwear do endless loop-de-loops in a dryer window. Pitt is tight with his money- always scrimping and saving for that dim hope of a refuge in Maine- and refuses to drop down a couple of hundred dollars just to buy his own washer and dryer. He realizes he's made a mistake in washing black socks and white shorts together but at the moment he's simply too tired to care. My ex would have had a fit if she'd seen me do that, Pitt thinks. It was always SOMETHING with her. If she was here right now she'd be giving me a speech on how these washing machines all stink and how she'd much rather prefer her own choice of laundromat in Banning, and how dare I eat popcorn when in just a few minutes I'll be folding clothes- don't I know that the salt and butter will get all over my fingers and onto the laundry and discolor and stain and ruin them? And oh, while I'm at it, don't ever let me catch you drinking from the bottle of soda pop that's in the fridge again, because that will just lead to bacteria being left under the cap and- SWEET JESUS, I don't miss that woman. I'd rather hear a clothes dryer run than listen to that mouth.

  Pitt sighs for a moment and shakes his little bag of popcorn, making it settle as he savors the tasty crunch of a kernel that hasn't fully popped. The place is deserted at the moment; earlier a young woman was folding up the last of her laundry while her little boy- who was maybe three or four years old at the most- ran circles around the machines, no doubt dancing to the music that only a young unfettered child can hear while they're playing. He was an extremely friendly little boy, who for no obvious reason ran up to Pitt and kissed him on the cheek- twice- while his mother laughed; the only thing Pitt could think of is he must have reminded the boy of a beloved uncle or something. He chuckled as the boy ran back to his mother, and he found himself reminiscing about the movie "Jaws", a flick that happened to feature one of his favorite actors, Roy Scheider. There's a scene in which Scheider- who's playing a cop- has a wonderful, quiet and gentle moment with his young son only a few hours after witnessing a horrific shark attack. How true that moment is, he thinks. Those wonderful tactile little moments that we'll just miss if we aren't paying attention. And how lucky we are to have them after something really horrible.

  He then notices a young man coming in through the back entrance of the laundromat, hauling a heavy basket of laundry and setting it down with a sort of agitated grunt. Pitt stares down into his bag of popcorn and thinks to himself, I know that kid. He glances at him again- early twenties, ball cap and shorts, and apparently of Mexican descent. Pitt mulls over several names and faces in his mind as the young man reaches into his pockets for quarters. It's always the faces but never the names, Pitt ruminates. Where do I know this kid? Pitt remains silent, and then after a moment does a bit of a double-take when he sees some of what the young man is preparing to load into one of the washers: it's a bundle of bedsheets, smeared with what looks like... blood?

  Pitt remains motionless. He sees the young man lift the sheets just slightly into the air and again he takes a look- it's a wrinkled bunch of off-white sheets and there are multiple dark splotches and streaks on them that can only be described as bloodstains. No, no, no, it can't be. I'm seeing things. That's got to be paint- red paint, right? He used it to mop up paint. Wait a second... red paint on a bedsheet? No. Pitt quietly coughs and then chokes a little bit on the last few handfuls of popcorn. The kid looks wary to me, what the hell is he doing?

  Finally Pitt decides to address the unpleasant sight. "Quite a mess you got there, young man."

  The young man looks up at Pitt, a bit startled, half-smiling but looking uncomfortable. "Uh, yeah, I... I was kind hoping this place would be empty so no one would see it..."

  Pitt clears his throat for a moment, and suddenly the right name comes to him. "Hector, isn't it?"

  "Huh?" the man responds, his hands moving slowly as he continues to pull the reddened sheets out of a small basket. "That's right, I'm Hector. How do you know that?"

  Pitt decides to play it cool. "Your dad owns a car wash in Banning, doesn't he?"

  "Uh, yeah, he does..." Hector is relaxing just a little bit but he still appears to be uncomfortable about being watched; he turns and takes a quick look at the bottles of detergent he's brought along with him. "Yeah, man, I was kind of hoping that it would be quiet around here. I need to get this done without everybody seeing it."

  Pitt is retaining his composure, making soft clicking sounds as he lightly nibbles on the little pieces of popcorn that have gotten caught in some of his teeth. He remembers Hector's father from years before, a hardworking owner of a small business who sometimes coached Little League in his spare time. What the hell is his son doing with blood-slathered sheets at a laundromat, worried about who'll see him? His mind races for a moment, finding it hard to believe he'd encounter someone with such obviously bloody sheets in public and especially right after....

  Pitt wonders if the guy recognizes him as a cop. For a moment, the only sound in the room is of Pitt's clothes rolling in a dryer, an occasional clanging sound coming when a button or maybe a zipper makes contact with the metal inside. Without overdoing it, and as best as anyone can when faced with something so bizarre, he finally turns to Hector and asks.

  "Well, what... what happened there, if you don't mind me asking?"

  The young man smiles but he's obviously tense. A sheen of sweat is clearly making his cross necklace stick to his chest. He paces in place for a moment and laughs nervously. "Awww, man, don't make me say it..."

  Pitt's heart is racing. Hector is obviously holding back something. Pitt doesn't leave his chair but turns to face him directly. "What is it?"

  Finally Hector practically whispers, "You ever play football in the mud?"

  "What? F-Football in the mud? Wha- what do you mean?" Pitt responds, stumbling over his words a bit. Hector is pacing in place again, his hand over his mouth and his eyes bulging.

  "Yeah, man, it's... my wife and I?" He confides in a low voice. "My wife and I, we were having sex, and my wife, she got her period and...." Hector looks down at the bundle of bloody bed linen. "We call it 'football in the mud.' Awww man, the bed looked like a murder scene!" He suddenly bursts into loud, embarrassed laughter.

  As for himself, Pitt feels a crimson flush creep up his neck.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Pitt is asleep and dreaming. No matter what sort of turmoil is in his life- if it's financial, failed relationships, pressure at work- Pitt has always considered himself lucky to be able to sleep soundly, no matter what ordeal he may be facing.

  His dreams are not the surreal or foggy sort- they're very clear. Usually they consist of pleasant images of Maine, lazily drifting by at almost a slideshow pace; memories of the Blue Ship Restaurant, with some of the best New England cooking he's ever known, or the North Star Motel, where he always stays when visiting Frank. The little cottages and lodges at the tip of the bay. Frank's endearing promise of a rustic cabin nestled in the woods.

  As images of schooners and lighthouses roll through his head, Pitt suddenly feels himself become very mentally aware.

  This is highly unusual in that his dreams are usually devoid of any introspection, but with alarming speed he realizes he's being watched- spied on by unseen eyes within the realm of his dream. Day turns to night and without warning- or explanation- it's revealed that he's looking right at Clarence. Good old reliable Clarence.

  It's a time-stopping moment as he contemplates how Clarence has been a presence in his life for several years now, and despite a general feeling of respect for him, there's one little annoying tendency of his Pitt just can't seem to get past: he's always tried to endear himself by liberally using that well-worn Yankee catchphrase, "finest kind." How Clarence ever came to know anything about that phrase is totally unknown to him; it's one of those things that people say when they shouldn't and don't when they should. Pitt always feels a twinge of embarrassment and exasperation whenever Clarence says it- such as when he told that awful cat taco story- and yet he's never been able to
bring himself to tell him to shut the hell up. And here he is again, blabbering about baseball or some damn thing and here it comes... oh God..."finest kind."

  Somehow Pitt is able in this state of sleep to get himself to turn his back on Clarence, and night suddenly turns back to day. He's standing in front of Frank's country store; visions of food, hot cider and even steam train rides roll before him, and all is right with the world.

  Or is it?

  He senses himself squinting in the sunlight, and in the distance he sees a dark, slender form... he cannot make out who it is. He feels himself walking forward, and the usual gentle sounds of the harbor are transforming into a deafening roar. As he advances, it becomes clear that he's looking at John Curt.

  Everyone knows you're out for my job, you little bastard... I've worked too hard and too long to lose it all, you little bastard... and now you're in my home, my hearth. You want my job, J.C., you goddamned little bastard! I'LL KILL YOU!

  Pitt's hands wrap around J.C.'s skinny neck and tighten. The world around them suddenly shifts into Pitt's office at the station. J.C.'s face is blue, purple... and then he falls to the floor. He's a goner.