The Wizard Murders Read Online Free PDF Page B

everyone here is just brainless."
     
    Pitt weighs what J.C. just said, and stares at him incredulously. "Who do you think you're talking to? I'll tell you who-" Pitt grabs John by the collar and presses him up against a wall; Clarence tries to intervene but mostly he's surprised by the strength and speed of Pitt's move. "I'll tell you who, you little S.O.B. I'm the man you work with, but not for much longer if you ever pull a stunt like this again. And I don't care if you are Chief Stevens's golden boy, because that's all you are- for now. Is that clear?"
     
    "It's gonna take someone with a lot more balls than you to keep me from talking, Pitt," John snarls, his sweaty hand wrapped around Pitt's wrist. "Face it. You're old guard. Go home. Let someone else take over."
     
    Pitt feels a trickle of sweat roll past his right eye. Struck speechless with anger, he gives John a quick shove against the wall for emphasis and releases him.
     
    "He's not worth it, Andy," Clarence calls out as Pitt leaves the room. "He knows nothin' about respect. Just leave it at that."
     
    "The press is going to be desperate anyway. Don't try to blame it on me," John mumbles as he straightens his tie.
     
    John's insubordinate prediction actually turns out to be correct. The next few days bring more media-related activity to the Beaumont Police Department than it would normally see in a year. Reporters from as far away as Los Angeles pile up on top of each other in the station's parking lot, only to be dismissed with one brusque "Sorry, no comment" after another. Pitt's drab gray desk finds itself buried under an avalanche of "eyewitness" accounts, all bogus and bizarre; the phones are tied up with calls from mediums and mystics. He finds himself stuck on the phone for thirty minutes with an evangelical minister from Cherry Valley, who insists that Pitt take down all of the details regarding his theory that the murder was probably the tragic consequence of a supernatural accident involving the Dungeons & Dragons game and a Ouija board- because, as the man tells him,  “Everyone knows both of those games are the tools of Satan.” Pitt listens to all of them politely, and whenever he hangs up the receiver, he sighs and promptly dismisses their suggestions as absurd.
     
    Suddenly there's a lull. Nothing. The apparent reason for the media's sudden lapse in excitement? President Reagan seems to have grabbed all of the attention of print, radio and TV by firing the nation's air traffic controllers.
     
    At odd moments, Pitt glances at the close-up detail photograph of the killer's “signature,” pinned up on a bulletin board in his office. That damned bearded wizard or magician or whatever the hell it is , Pitt thinks. And it looks like he's got either dark scars or wrinkles all over his face. I'm still unable to tell if that's a smile or a smirk on his face... so far, it's the only form of communication from the killer- or killers... and that's just assuming the killer and the painter really are one and the same... there have been no phone calls from anyone with details even remotely close to accurate... and no letters with body parts wrapped up in them , Pitt chuckles to himself ruefully.
     
    However, the perp will soon break the silence in his own macabre way.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER FIVE
     
    It's August 15th, it's 6AM, and Pitt's radio alarm clock is going off with a vengeance. There's an electronic "pop" followed by a burst of AM radio static.
     
    "We have an extremely urgent news bulletin... the news is sad... another murder apparently took place in Beaumont overnight... police say another young woman is the victim."
     
    Pitt flies out of bed, at first disoriented and then furious. He dives for his phone, cursing at Clarence for not contacting him, regardless of the hour- only to find no dial tone. The line's dead. He throws on his