perpetually rumpled gray suit coat and a dress shirt (with yesterday's tie still wrapped through the neck), frantically wets a comb and pulls it through his hair, and gives no thought to going anywhere near a razor. He does fleetingly notice on his mirror's reflection that some of his moustache is starting to droop over his upper lip, however. He coughs and gags for a moment as the stale stench of yet more menthol cigarette smoke drifts in through the bathroom air vent that he shares with his neighbor. Time has not dimmed the pain of first seeing his mother and then his father die- more or less prematurely- as a result of smoking several years ago, and his anger and frustration rises as nightmarish memories of their bodies wracked with disease run through his head.
He flies down Beaumont Avenue in his Rambler going about 70. He arrives at the station in record time, still swearing under his breath for not receiving a call or maybe even a midnight knock on his door. He storms into the building, almost immediately encountering a pale and noticeably tense J.C.
"It's another one, Andy. Whether it's the same suspect or maybe a copycat, we just don't know."
"Okay, but-" Pitt stammers for a moment, absorbing the news, battling his already short fuse with J.C. "But why, for the love of God and even if the phones were dead, why didn't someone notify me and make me a party to that information by getting into a car and taking a drive down the damned street to my goddamned apartment..." Pitt's voice is rising.
J.C. interrupts, protesting with "All of the vehicles were taken down to the scene, Andy! I couldn't have come over there if I tried!"
Pitt draws a breath, and makes a snap decision to make just one more statement before dropping the subject. "I don't care if your feet are your vehicles. You come and get me. The next time- and I'm hoping to God there isn't a next time- you come and get me, I don't care what it takes or what time it is. Now go get Clarence on the radio and tell me how to get down there, for Chrissake."
Officer Munsell returns to the station, and rushes Pitt right back to the scene- a small, nondescript house not far from Summit Elementary; four radio cars and one plainclothes unit are parked on the curbs. The crime scene tape has already been let out, and this time the policemen have their shotguns out. He shoves past many an over-eager reporter, who doesn't care and is only interested in securing the very last details, and is escorted into the residence, down a hallway and into a bedroom.
The victim is right there, facing him- laid out on the bed, almost exactly as before. With the blood drained from her face- literally- she resembles a sleeping porcelain doll.
Once again, the inscrutable eyes of a wizard are staring down from a wall behind the victim's head. The killer's signature is sloppy this time, but it's more or less the same tableau- and evidently the same sort of bluish black paint. It looks like everything was done in a hurry. The wizard's portrait is sketchy due to hasty brush strokes and signs of streaking- with no indication of the victim's blood being used as paint this time- and Pitt can't help but wonder if the killer is now trying to deliberately obfuscate his hand.
It's evident by leaning in for a closer look that the young woman appears to have a defensive wound on her left hand- and a dramatic coup de grace to the throat.
Pitt feels his hands clenching in anger. His mind is reeling, spinning. This can't be happening, he thinks, this can't be someone from around here, this is unheard of. He wheels around and sees an obviously embarrassed Clarence near the front doorway.
"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