Free The Wizard Murders by Sean McDevitt Page B

cans. Pickle buckets, maybe, but not paint cans."
     
    Clarence laughs, then thinks for a moment. "But wait a minute. There's a lot of graffiti painted onto those box cars."
     
    Pitt again shakes his head. "I'm a step ahead of you there. I had Officer Munsell go down there last week and take photographs and all we got back was a lot of gang-related garbage."
     
    "Damn," Clarence mutters under his breath.
     
    "I know. It occurred to me too, after what we found out at the Oak Tree. But... nothing doing." Pitt rubs his jaw vigorously for a moment, trying to relieve painful tension that's been growing steadily for days now; he suspects he must be grinding his teeth in his sleep due to all of the stress. He then takes a moment to shuffle and re-stack the paperwork on his desk. "Riverside is confirming a match on the paint, though. Between Oak Tree and the crime scenes."
     
    "Yeah, I heard," Clarence replies. "Who makes that paint, is it Sampson's Paint?"
     
    "Don't know the manufacturer off the top of my head. I'd have to check my notes, but the paint did have the same maker. From what I understand, when you get right down to it, 'midnight blue' is really just a color of paint that you can get anywhere."
     
    "I'm pretty sure it was Sampson's," Clarence says, shifting in his chair. "Good paint. Good stuff. I know 'cause I've used it before- used some on the trim of my house last summer. Not the same color, though. But Sampson's got paint of the finest kind ." He flashes Pitt a goofy, chamber of commerce smile, hoping to elicit a positive response. However, Pitt only quietly grimaces, his teeth feeling on edge as if someone had just scratched a fingernail on a chalkboard.
     
    Both men are silent for a moment, motes of dust visible in the room's air as the afternoon sun starts to peek through the blinds of Pitt's office. The sound of an old Jim Croce song is wafting through the air, coming from someone's transistor radio elsewhere in the building.
     
    "Clarence, we've got a problem."
     
    "Hmmm?"
     
    "It's a side issue, it's not directly related to the case, but it's a problem."
     
    "What are you talkin' about? Chief Stevens?"
     
    Pitt pushes his chair back a bit and stares up at the ceiling, his hands cradling his head. He chooses his words carefully. "People are scared, Clarence. The local sporting goods stores have doubled their sales in firearms. You check the classified section in the newspaper, guard dogs are now selling for about a thousand bucks. The locksmiths are so busy they can't even see straight."
     
    "I know, man... night patrols have been breakin' up more fistfights than ever. I've been door-to-door and I've got almost fully grown men cryin' on my shoulder."
     
    "Clarence, I'm running out of answers. Every time I go to the post office or the pharmacy or whatever, I see about eighty people who all know me by name, and it's always the same thing- 'You make any arrests yet?' I mean how many times can I tell people we're doing everything we can?" He notices Clarences' nervous habit of tapping his own notebook with a pencil. "I'm sorry, I'm just letting off some steam. But I almost don't want to go out of my office or even my apartment because every time I do, someone's bogging me down in about ten minutes of conversation."
     
    "I know, I know," Clarence responds, trying to be reassuring. "I even had somebody- I don't know who it was, some reporter from San Berdoo or somethin'- try to buy me lunch and pump me for information."
     
    "And that's another thing," Pitt exclaims, his voice turning into an agitated whisper. "The leaks continue. Someone is talking to the media, and I want to know who. It had better not be J.C. I got a call from someone in Banning yesterday asking about September 17th."
     
    "You're kiddin'," Clarence responds, urgently.
     
    "Yes. He asked me about September 17th- he wanted to know if he should keep his kids home from school that day. No one's supposed to know about that, and even I