Nocturnal (29 page)

His outfit was something one might find on a 1960s Hollywood prince of India, but his face looked anything but royal: thrice-broken nose, pallid, wrinkled skin and a left eyelid half hanging over his iris in a perpetual stop-action wink.

The man waved them in. In his left fist he held a small, cylindrical object. He pressed the object to his throat.

WELCOME
, he said in a mechanical voice.
PLEASE COME IN
.

Bryan and Pookie stopped, stared.

DON’T MIND MY HANDICAPS. I AM VOCALLY ASSISTED.

“A voice box,” Pookie said. “A fortune-teller with a voice box.”

“Handicaps?” Bryan said. “Plural?”

I ALSO HAVE A MILD CASE OF COPROLALIA
.

Bryan and Pookie exchanged a look.

TOURETTE’S SYNDROME
.

“Of course,” Pookie said. “A fortune-teller with a voice box and Tourette’s.”

IT’S ON MY FACEBOOK PAGE. DO SOME RESEARCH NEXT TIME
SHITTYBALLS! FUCKLESNIFF!
DON’T MIND MY CURSING, IT IS JUST MY HANDICAP. COME AND SIT
.

Bryan and Pookie sat on the blue plastic chairs.

WHICH ONE OF YOU IS POOKIE?

Pookie raised his hand. “That’s me.”

Mr. Biz-Nass leaned forward and circled his right hand over the blue glass ball. He stared into it, scowling like he saw the fires of hell inside. If Bryan hadn’t already been so taken aback by the guy’s handicaps, he would have laughed at the overly dramatic act.

TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT TO KNOW. I AM IN COMMUNICATION WITH THE
PRICKERDICKER
SPIRITS
.

“We’re cops,” Pookie said. “We need to ask you some questions about a case.”

Bryan held out his badge. Pookie did the same.

The hand stopped in midwave. Mr. Biz-Nass looked up without moving his head, eyes peeking out from beneath gray-speckled brows. The scowl vanished, replaced by a wide-eyed
oh shit
expression.

COPS?

“Take it easy,” Pookie said. “We just want to ask you some questions.”

Biz-Nass looked at them both, eyes flicking back and forth. He seemed to be waiting for something. When whatever that was didn’t come, he spoke again.

HHMMMMM QUESTIONS ABOUT WHAT?

“Twenty-nine years ago, you submitted a request to the SFPD about information on some symbols.”

The man’s eyes widened in fear.

MMMMM I DON’T WANT ANY TROUBLE. DON’T ROUGH ME UP
.

Bryan wondered why the guy was so nervous. What kind of an operation was he running up here? Besides the obvious scam of pretending to know the future in order to bilk the gullible out of their money, of course.

“It’s no big deal,” Pookie said. “We’re working on a case. We need some help, we’re not here to hassle you.”

The eyes flicked back and forth again.
YOU JUST WANT TO KNOW WHY I MADE THE REQUEST? THAT’S IT?

Pookie nodded. Biz-Nass seemed to relax, just a little. His expression grew hopeful.

I WAS WORKING ON A BOOK.

“Nice,” Pookie said. “An author. A fortune-telling author with Tourette’s and a voice box. What’s the name of your book?”

I DIDN’T FINISH IT. WHAT DO YOU WANT?

Pookie opened one of his manila folders. He took out the photos of the bloody symbols and gently slid them across the table.

Mr. Biz-Nass looked at them. His eyes grew wide. The guy recognized those symbols, and they scared the hell out of him.

COCKITYTWAT COCKITYTWAT COCKITYTWAT
.

“Take a breath, Biz,” Pookie said. “Easy, man, just take a breath.”

Mr. Biz-Nass dropped his voice box. It rolled across the red velvet surface. He put both hands palms down on the table, then took three long, slow, deep breaths. That seemed to calm him. His face relaxed. He looked at Pookie, then at Bryan, like he was waiting for them to do something.

When they did nothing, Biz-Nass eased back in his throne. He reached out a shaking hand, picked up the voice box off the table and held it to his throat.

NEVER SEEN THOSE BEFORE.

Bryan laughed. “Of course not. That’s why you almost shit yourself. Or is incontinence another one of your handicaps? A little late to pretend you don’t know what those are.”

Mr. Biz-Nass glared at him.

Was the man scared of the symbols, or scared that cops knew about the symbols and had come a-calling? Biz-Nass was a fortune-teller, a psychic … could he have projected the dreams into Bryan’s head?

Bryan instantly wanted to punch himself for thinking such ridiculous thoughts. Fortune-tellers were scam artists, nothing more. Still, Mr. Biz-Nass knew something about the symbols. He had to have some answers.

Bryan leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “Come on, where have you seen these symbols?”

Biz-Nass looked back and forth between the two cops, seemed to size them up.

I DON’T KNOW
DICKER PRICKER
NOTHING
.

Pookie reached into a folder and pulled out a picture of Oscar Woody’s mutilated corpse. He slid the picture across the table.

Biz-Nass shook his head like he didn’t want to believe the picture was real.

“People are dying,” Pookie said. “We need to know what you know. If you don’t want to talk here, we can take you downtown.”

That concept seemed to scare Biz-Nass even worse than the pictures. He started to breathe rapidly, bordering on hyperventilating.

“Take it easy,” Pookie said. “All you have to do is talk to us, and this stays right here.”

The man gently rubbed his crooked nose. He looked up, that doubtful expression back in his eyes.
DID YOU TELL YOUR PIG BOSSES YOU WERE COMING? DOES ANYONE KNOW YOU’RE HERE?

Bryan sat very still, as if the tiniest motion might spook the guy. Pookie seemed to be playing it perfectly.

“One other guy knows,” Pookie said. “But that’s it. He’s not our boss, just a guy who looked up the symbols in our computer system. No report has been filed or anything like that. I take it you want this conversation to stay between us?”

NO ONE KNOWS MY NAME.
SHITTYBALLS! FUCKLESNIFF!

Pookie crossed himself. “We promise.”

The fortune-teller reached out his left fist.
WORD IS BOND?

Pookie reached out, bumped fists. “Word is bond.”

Mr. Biz-Nass nodded. Finally, he looked down at the photos.

TELL ME WHERE YOU FOUND THESE
.

“Murder scenes,” Pookie said. “Two teenage boys. Both in a gang called Boys Company. One died two nights ago, one before dawn this morning. Aside from your information request, we couldn’t find these symbols anywhere in police records. Tell us what they are.”

Biz-Nass looked up, shook his head.

Bryan felt his patience slipping away. He stood up. “Listen, asshole. You’re about ten seconds from going from
person of interest
to my number-one suspect.”

PRICKER DICKER FUCKER SUCKER
.

“What did you say to me?”

“Bryan, relax,” Pookie said. “It’s a condition.”

YES IT IS A CONDITION. I AM SORRY
DICKER PRICKER LICKER
.

“Bullshit,” Bryan said. “This guy doesn’t have a condition.”

I’M DISABLED
.

A hand on Bryan’s arm. “Chill,” Pookie said. “Let the man talk, okay?”

Bryan sat back down and crossed his arms over his chest.

THESE SYMBOLS ARE FOR MARIE’S CHILDREN. IT IS A CULT.
MMMM
YOU ARE COPS; YOU HAVE HEARD OF THEM
.

Pookie shook his head. “I’ve been with the SFPD for ten years. I’ve never heard of Marie’s Children.”

Bryan hadn’t heard of them, either. He remained quiet — Pookie was making progress.

Biz-Nass stared, as if he was waiting to be the butt of a punchline. He waited for a few seconds, then shrugged.

A WITCH NAMED MARIE AND HER SON, CALLED FIRSTBORN, ARRIVED IN SAN FRANCISCO DURING THE GOLD RUSH. THEY AND THEIR FOLLOWERS WERE SUPPOSEDLY RESPONSIBLE FOR MULTIPLE MURDERS IN THE CITY. SOME ACCOUNTS CLAIM THEY WERE CANNIBALS.
SHITTYBALLS! FUCKLESNIFF!
A GROUP CALLED THE SAVIORS ROUNDED UP DOZENS OF MARIE’S CHILDREN,
MMMMM
BURNED THEM AT THE STAKE IN 1873
.

Bryan’s bullshit detector went off big-time. “
Dozens
of people? Burned at the stake? Even that long ago, no way that happened and we’ve never heard about it.”

PEOPLE DON’T WANT TO KNOW ABOUT THE BAD PARTS OF HISTORY. NOT SOMETHING YOU PUT ON THE TOURIST PAMPHLET, BUT COPS SHOULD KNOW.

“Why?” Pookie said. “Why should the cops know?”

BECAUSE MARIE’S CHILDREN HAVE BEEN KILLING EVER SINCE. QUIETLY FOR THE MOST PART, BUT THERE HAVE BEEN SOME HIGH-PROFILE SERIAL MURDERS. AND SOME
SHITTYBALLS!
RUMORS THEY DID ASSASSINATIONS FOR THE MOB.

Bryan closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. The minor headache had blossomed into something that threatened to put him down.

“I’m not buying it,” he said. “How high-profile could they be if I’ve never heard of them?”

Biz-Nass stared at Bryan.
YOU’VE HEARD OF THE GOLDEN GATE SLASHER?

Bryan and Pookie exchanged a glance. The Slasher was the city’s biggest serial killer, a monster that had slaughtered children. He’d murdered more victims than better-known psychopaths like the Zodiac Killer, David Carpenter and Luis Aguilar.

Biz-Nass tapped the photos.
THESE SYMBOLS WERE FOUND WHEN THEY CAUGHT THE GOLDEN GATE SLASHER
.

“No way,” Bryan said. “There’s no way that’s true and we never heard about it.”

Biz-Nass stood and walked to his overflowing bookshelves. He pulled out a photo album, flipped through it, then put it back. He did the same twice more, then on the fourth volume he found what he was looking for. He walked back to the table and handed the open album to Bryan.

DICKER PRICKER FUCKER SUCKER READ THIS
.

It was a newspaper clipping. The dateline was from thirty years ago. Even protected in the binder, the paper looked yellow, faded and old. To the right of the columns of text, a black-and-white photo showed a symbol drawn in the dirt. It was the circle and triangle symbol from Bryan’s dreams, the same symbol they’d found at the scenes of two savage murders.

Pookie looked up from the article. “I don’t get it. This is a multiple homicide, one of the biggest ever, and that symbol isn’t common knowledge in the department?
Why?
”

Bryan looked to the corner of the clipping. The
San Francisco Chronicle
’s logo seemed darker than the other letters on the page, as if the paper’s name itself was more resilient to the ravages of time.

He pointed to it. “Maybe the
Chronicle
’s archives will have more information.”

Mr. Biz-Nass smiled.
THAT’S A GOOD IDEA. LOOK IN THE ARCHIVES
.

Bryan stared at the faded newsprint-photo of the symbol. There it was in black and white. It had been in a major metro newspaper, for one of the biggest cases ever, and yet that wasn’t recorded in the SFPD system?

Black Mr. Burns had discovered deleted information, but this … this was another level entirely. Was someone protecting a serial killer? Protecting this Marie’s Children cult? Or even both at the same time?

PARKMEYER LIED ABOUT THE ARROW. I TALKED TO RAMON JOHNSON. HE’S DEAD NOW
DICKER PRICKER
OF NATURAL CAUSES, BUT I TRACKED HIM DOWN AND INTERVIEWED HIM BEFORE HE DIED. HE SAID HE SAW AN ARROW IN THE KILLER’S BACK. HE SAID THE KILLER DREW THE SYMBOL IN THE DIRT EVEN AS HE WAS DYING
.

Biz-Nass took the scrapbook and flipped to another page. He handed it over.

Bryan noticed the dateline — May 5, 1969. The headline read,
WAH CHING MASSACRE
. Below the headline, a faded, yellowed, black-and-white photo showed three dead men covered in black-spotted white sheets.

The black was blood, and there was a lot of it.

On a wall behind the bodies, slightly out of focus, Bryan again saw it — the circle and triangle symbol from the Oscar Woody murder, the symbol from the Jay Parlar murder, the symbol from his dreams.

What the hell was he supposed to make of this?

Biz-Nass took the scrapbook, closed it and put it back on the shelf. He walked back to his throne and sat.
I’VE GIVEN YOU INFORMATION. I’M DONE
.

“We need more,” Bryan said. “We need
more
.”

Biz-Nass shook his head.
I CAN’T. I GAVE YOU MORE
SHITTYBALLS!
THAN YOU
FUCKLESNIFF!
HAD BEFORE
.