The Wizard Murders Read Online Free
Author: Sean McDevitt
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
"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
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