North Beach, San Francisco’s “Little Italy,” sits right next to Chinatown. As a little boy, Bryan had often walked through both neighborhoods with his father. The change from one to the next is so abrupt, so distinct, Bryan thought that gates manned by international border guards wouldn’t have seemed the least out of place. One minute you’re walking through dense throngs of Chinese people picking through the fruit- and vegetable-packed crates outside tiny grocery stores, all signs and conversation in Asian languages, the next minute you’re looking at calm sidewalks with café tables full of people drinking espresso, old dudes letting out snippets of conversation in Italian and every lamppost ringed with stripes of green, white and red.
North Beach primarily supports two types of street-level businesses: an endless supply of food represented by restaurants, bakeries, butchers and candy shops, and then the kitsch, represented by stores full of souvenir crap, overpriced clothing and even more overpriced art. Above those numerous food and kitsch shops sits the second layer of North Beach, represented by faded signs in the windows that advertise importers, exporters, olive oil merchants, tailors and more.
Mr. Biz-Nass had one of those second-story stores, just a flight up from Stella Pastry & Café. His sign wasn’t faded — a blue neon eye set in a red neon hand with the white neon words FORTUNE TELLER curving beneath.
“Convenient,” Pookie said. “Once we’re done talking to this guy, we come downstairs for some Sacripantina cake.”
“The choo-choo needs gas?”
“The metaphor is coal, actually,” Pookie said. He adjusted the four overstuffed manila folders under his arm just before their contents spilled onto the sidewalk. “Brains require chemicals, like potassium and sodium. Sugar is also a chemical, Bryan, ergo, my brain needs sugar. It’s what they call science.”
“The guy who believes in the Invisible Sky Daddy is quoting science?”
“Yep,” Pookie said. “And he’s about to have a nice chitchat with a black-magic pagan. Confession will be a bitch this week. By the way, I didn’t tell Mister Biz-Nass we were cops.”
Bryan nodded. “Always good to surprise ’em a little.”
“Far as I’m concerned, this guy is a suspect,” Pookie said. “But I don’t want to move too fast. He’s the only person of interest we have.”
Bryan wasn’t going to get excited about this, not yet. The fortune-telling Thomas Reed, a.k.a. Mr. Biz-Nass, had only been looking for info on the symbols. That meant he might have some connection to the case, or, more likely, he’d just seen the symbols somewhere and wanted to know more. Still, people didn’t make requests to the SFPD and to the city out of pure curiosity.
“Pooks, what kind of a name is Biz-Nass, anyway?”
“Maybe he’s like Elvis,” Pookie said. “As in, taking care of business. Ready to get some answers?”
Bryan was. He’d take just about any answer at this point. He had a small headache, and that was the least of his pains. His rebellious body tried to drag him down, but he refused to give in. At least for now, he could muscle through and ignore the fact that it hurt to move, even hurt to breathe.
They entered the ground-floor door, then climbed the stairs. The smell of incense from above mixed with the smell of pastries from below. No question which upstairs door belonged to Mr. Biz-Nass — it was bright red, with a blue eye icon painted on it. They walked in.
Inside was a man dressed in red robes with blue trim, and a blue turban decorated with glass rubies. He had to be sixty; if his face was any benchmark, every one of those sixty years was hard. He sat in a red, thronelike chair. In front of his chair, a blue crystal ball rested on a table draped with a red velvet cloth. Two cheap, blue plastic chairs sat on the other side of the table.
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.
“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.
GOLDEN GATE SLASHER KILLED BY POLICE
A horrible mystery drew to a close early this morning when a man police identified as the Golden Gate Park Slasher was slain in the very park he terrorized for 10 months.
Police have not identified the man. Sources inside the force speculate that the killer’s identity may never be known.
Inspector Francis Parkmeyer of the San Francisco police said that fingerprint checks had already placed the John Doe at the scene of all eight Golden Gate Park child murders that took place from Feb. 18 to the last victim on Nov. 27.
John Doe was found near a Bowie knife, a weapon police had long ago claimed was the instrument of death in all the murders. Preliminary reports indicate that distinguishing marks on the blade matched marks found on the victims’ remains.
“I have no doubt that we’ve found the Golden Gate Slasher,” Parkmeyer said. “The prints match, and so does the weapon.”
The body was found at 5:15 a.m. this morning by a park maintenance crew. Ramon Johnson, a crew member, initially claimed that the presumed killer was stumbling through a grove of trees with an arrow sticking out of his back. After talking with police, Johnson said he had mistaken a stick for an arrow shaft.
Parkmeyer denied the presence of an arrow.
“It was before dawn and the witness’s eyes played tricks on him,” Parkmeyer said. “The John Doe committed suicide. This nightmare is over. We have our city back.”
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.
The man had given great info, but now the fear was back in his eyes. What was he afraid of? Bryan looked to Pookie.
“Biz, baby, this is great,” Pookie said. “You gave us a lot, and we thank you.”
“Give us one more thing,” Pookie said. “This thing I ask for, it’s like nothing. You researched this, so I’m betting you know what these symbols mean.”
Biz-Nass thought for a moment, then leaned forward and looked closely at the photos on his table. He used his right index finger to trace parts of the symbol as he talked.
He started with the slashed curve that was part of both drawings.
MMMM THIS IS A SYMBOL FOR THE SAN FRANCISCO BAY. THE TWO LINES REPRESENT THE ENTRANCE TO THE OCEAN BETWEEN THE TWO PENINSULAS.
He pointed to the symbol that showed a lightning bolt going through a circle, with the two half-circles on either side.
THE CENTER CIRCLE REPRESENTS THE EGG FROM WHICH THE WITCHES WERE SPAWNED—
[one womb] flashed through Bryan’s mind
—THE HALF-CIRCLES USED TO BE ARMS REACHING OUT TO PROTECT THE EGG. SOMEWHERE ALONG THE LINE THEY WERE SIMPLIFIED. THE JAGGED LINE REPRESENTS HUMAN BLOOD. THIS IS THE SYMBOL OF MARIE’S CHILDREN.
Bryan leaned in. “So, the symbol at the site of the murders means Marie’s Children killed the boys?”
THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT IT MEANS.
“I don’t get it,” Pookie said. “The boys were in a minor gang. Why would Marie’s Children go after them?”
Mr. Biz-Nass shrugged.
“We think the killers might be wearing masks,” Pookie said. “Costumes and the like. That ring any bells?”
STORY GOES THAT MARIE’S CHILDREN DRESSED UP TO LOOK LIKE MONSTERS, TO TERRIFY VICTIMS BEFORE KILLING THEM.
“I knew it,” Pookie said. “Hear that, Bryan?”
Bryan said nothing. Costumes could explain what he’d seen in his dream, what Tiffany Hine had seen, but could it explain what Robin had found?
Pookie picked up the photo of the lightning-bolt symbol. “Biz, you sure this is the work of Marie’s Children? Could someone be faking it?”
MOST CERTAINLY. OR MAYBE SOMEONE THINKS SHITTYBALLS! THEY ARE MARIE’S CHILDREN.
Bryan touched the picture of the triangle symbol, the one that scared him so bad it was like touching a blow-up photo of a spider that might come alive and bite you. He pushed it toward Biz-Nass. “And what about this one?”
MMM FIRST RECORDED INSTANCE IN 1892. CIRCLE REPRESENTS AN EGG, BUT ALSO REPRESENTS THE EYE OF A HUNTER. THE UNFINISHED TRIANGLE IS A SYMBOL OF PROTECTION AGAINST THE DEMONS THAT HUNT MARIE’S CHILDREN.
“Demons?” Pookie said.
THE SAVIORS. IT IS A SYMBOL OF PROTECTION AGAINST THE SAVIORS.
Bryan remembered the fear from his dreams, could feel it even at that moment, a cold fist below his heart. “How about that. The killers have a boogeyman all their own.”
I HELPED YOU. NOW LEAVE.
Bryan started to ask for more, but before he could Pookie shook hands with the fortune-teller.
“Biz-baby, you’re a good man,” Pookie said. “If we have more questions later?”
Biz hesitated, then reached into his jacket and handed Pookie a business card. There was nothing on the card but a number.
THAT IS A PREPAID PHONE. NOT TRACEABLE TO ME.
“A prepaid phone?” Bryan said. “What are you, a drug dealer?”
IT’S MY BOOTY-CALL PHONE. A LOT OF LONELY HOUSEWIVES COME TO GET THEIR FORTUNES READ, IF YOU YOU’RE A PRICKER-DICKER-FUCKER-SUCKER KNOW WHAT I MEAN.
Pookie nodded respectfully. “A playa’s gotta play, Biz, a playa’s gotta play. Thanks again. We’ll be in touch. Bryan, let’s go.”
Pookie quickly walked to the door and held it open. Bryan hesitated, staring at this charlatan who had surprised him with real information. He knew that Biz had more to share, but maybe Pookie was right — maybe this was all they could get for now.
Bryan walked out the door and headed down the stairs to Columbus Avenue.
Bryan watched Pookie slide a fork into his second piece of yellow Sacripantina cake. He put the fork in his mouth, then hummed as he chewed.
“This is so good,” he said. “It’s like a Twinkie on steroids. Sure you don’t want a piece?”
Bryan still regretted the kielbasa that sat like a sour brick in his stomach. He could smell the sugar, the flour, even the lemon flavoring in Pookie’s cake. One bite of that and his swirling stomach would rebel. He shook his head. “I’m tripping, Pooks. Our best lead, and what do we have to work with? I mean, a witches’ coven? Mob hit men? A hundred-year cover-up of some kind? Come on.”
“Why not? There’s a reason Oscar and Jay were killed. Some kind of occult connection is as good a lead as anything else. I’ll start digging into the Golden Gate Slasher case. And by I’ll start digging, I mean I’ll get Black Mister Burns to do it for me.”
“Do you ever do your own detective work?”
“Yes,” Pookie said. “I can detect cock-knockers. Wait … I detect one sitting across the table from me now. Sure you don’t want some cake?”
“No,” Bryan said. “I don’t want cake. I want to find out what’s going on.”
Pookie nodded slowly. “We’ll get this figured out, Bryan. The dream thing doesn’t make any sense, and I know that’s messing with you, but I need you to try and relax so your brain works right.”
“I don’t want to relax.”
“Come on, trust Doctor Chang. Did you feel better after seeing your dad?”
Yeah, I actually felt sane again.
“No,” Bryan said. “I didn’t.”
“L-L-W-T-L. Look, man, if there’s a cover-up, and the chief of frickin’ police is involved, then you know we need to move carefully. Patience, Daniel-san.”
Patience? Easy for Pookie to say. And yet patience was exactly what they needed — Bryan was a hunter. If he lost his shit now, he might spook the prey.
Someone was responsible for all of this.
Bryan wouldn’t rest until he found out who that was.