The Wizard Murders by Sean McDevitt

still don't know what the hell it means." Pitt starts fingering through the papers on his desk until he finds what he's looking for. "I went ahead and checked for the 91781 zip code and it's for Temple City. I called the LASD office there and they didn't have anything for me. So it's... maybe it's a date, but I think it just means this son of a bitch is playing games with us."
     
    Pitt sighs and folds his arms, his toes tapping under his desk in nervous energy. "I don't know. I did ask Denise to help me on Thursday night, but I don't know what to do. 'Look to the sky', like some damn fool? What am I going to do- stand there in the parking lot like some dumb sap, and stare up at the stars with a blond floozy on my arm, with an astrology chart shoved up my ass? Is that what this idiot wants?" Pitt holds his hands up for a moment, then lets his arms fall straight down on his desktop, punctuating his remarks with a loud thump.
     
    Clarence sits absolutely still for a moment, unblinking. Finally he speaks.
     
    "Does someone need a break with his crossword puzzles?"
     
                                          *************
     
    Christ. Lock the doors. Clarence is right, just give me an hour, people. I'm so tired I can't even hardly see straight. Where are my damn reading glasses? They're in my briefcase. Great. Scratched up and covered with dust. Well, that's what you get for not using them. I wonder if I can trust Clarence to keep J.C. out of here. Of course I can. What am I saying? Clarence has got me covered. But all I need is that upshot waltzing in here and seeing me doing a crossword puzzle while some maniac tears up the city. God, my hands are shaking. Sometimes it feels like my upset stomach has slipped into my hands, they hurt so much.  Is there such a thing as nauseous hands? If so, I've got 'em. Nauseous hands. I'll just use my shirt here and see if I can clean these glasses. I need a break. Where's the damn newspaper? Great. Front page article on Neighborhood Watch, and how it's doubled in membership since this crap started. Who's that they've got in charge of it now? Mrs. Sinclair? Well, sweetheart, it's going to take a hell of a lot more than peeking out your kitchen window and listening to your police scanner and calling us every ten minutes when it comes to this creep. Trust me, I know. He's not letting us see anything, he's only letting us see what he WANTS us to see. My God, those girls had their throats sliced like a side of ham in a deli. Awww, c'mon man, stop it! Find the crossword puzzle. Don't let yourself think about it for awhile. Where is it? Section A, page 7. All right. All right. Here we go. 1 across. "Snow runner." OK. 1 Down. "Health Club."
     
    Shoot. Three letters. "Snow runner." They're not being cute here, are they? It's not s-n-o, is it? No, wait. Of course. Ski. S-K-I. I can't write. Damn US Government-issued ballpoint pens, I hate these things. Where did we get all of these? Who unloaded of all them on us? The ink is always gumming up right at the tip of the pen, and- yep. There we go. Tore the paper a bit. Dammit. Try to keep the tear small, Andy, try to keep it from spreading. Don't wreck the puzzle. OK. Now...1 Down. "Health club. Three letters. Starts with an s..."spa", of course. OK.
     
    Why am I hearing traffic outside? It's an afternoon flurry. 7 across, "road curves." 5 across, "help." Help? That's it? I wonder where Denise is? She better not come walking in here, I'm just not in the mood. She's kind of cute, though. Nice person. She was right about the Oak Tree. Still don't know what that "paseniw" bullshit is. Or the date. Christ, what if that IS a date? Nine seventeen eighty-one. September 17th, eighty-one, that's Thursday. Jesus Christ, Thursday. What's he gonna do? What does he want us to do? "LOOK TO THE SKY." Why? Is he just stringing us along?
     
    No. It means something. This guy means business. He wants to control this, all of this. Well