Death in the 12th House

by Mitchell Scott Lewis

  “So who’s pressuring you to bring me in?”

  “It’s his daughter. She lives in LA, but is here visiting and called me as soon as she heard. She asked if I would make the introductions and get you on board. Apparently your Winston case got a lot of publicity on the West Coast too, and she pretty much demanded that I include you in the investigation.”

  “There’s no reason I have to be actively involved. Why don’t you just consult me and I can do my work from here.”

  “I can think of two reasons right off the bat. First of all, she’s a very influential person, and if she finds out you aren’t actively working on this case she can make my life miserable…”

  “…and the second reason is that every minute she’s annoying me is one less she’s on your back.”

  “Absolutely.” Roland smiled.

  Lowell held up his hand. “Who is this celebrated client we are about to share?”

  “Vivian Younger.” The Lieutenant said it with a touch of drama.

  “Vivian Younger, the actress?”

  “Actress, model, singer…you name it, she’s into it. Didn’t you know she was Freddie’s daughter? Now do you see the spot I’m in?”

  Lowell sat back in his chair and tugged on his ponytail, his thoughtful tic. “Hmm, yes I see your difficulty. I assume this will hit the papers today.”

  “No way to keep it out. The guy was an icon, for god’s sake. I’m getting pressure from everybody, Freddie’s record company, his manager, promoters. And now I’m getting even more from Vivian Younger’s press secretary, her attorney, even the mayor’s office.”

  “They all must have been about sixty, wouldn’t you say? The murder of three aging rockers.” Lowell leaned back in the chair with his hands clasped behind his head. “All right then, I’ll take the case.”

  “Good. I’ll introduce you to her later today.” The Lieutenant extended his hand. “Thank you, Lowell, I appreciate it. And one more thing.”

  “I know, don’t talk to the press.”

  “Actually, in this case you won’t have a choice. As if Freddie weren’t enough, Vivian Younger is such hot news that you can’t avoid them.”

  Lowell groaned audibly.

  “Just be careful what you say.”

  “In case you’ve forgotten, I don’t care too much for the press, or the public.”

  “There’s a patrol car waiting downstairs to take you to the murder scene when you’re ready.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll use my car and driver.”

  “Fine.” Roland handed Lowell a manila folder. “Here is the address of the townhouse and the birth information of the three victims. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

  Before the lieutenant was out of his chair, Lowell had swiveled to his computer and started typing. He punched in the three victims’ information and printed out the charts. Then he grabbed his iPad, had Sarah call his driver, Andy, and headed out the door.

  Chapter Two

  The townhouse had been gutted and its contents piled in an ugly trash container on the street that took up two precious parking spots. New windows and a door had already been installed and it appeared that only cosmetic improvements remained to be done. Outside several policemen kept the public at bay behind the crime scene tape. The story had headlined the morning news shows and several had mentioned the address where Freddie was found. As Lowell got out of his car, heads turned to see who it was. The crime-scene gawkers were clad in all manner of clothing, from ties to overalls, baseball caps to a guy wearing a hooded sweatshirt, even on such a warm day. Lowell heard the click of a few cellphone cameras.

  The rain stopped. He walked into the townhouse and was met by another officer who recognized the astrologer.

  “Hey, professor. Am I glad I ran into you. You remember the last time I saw you, you were kind enough to take a look at my wife’s chart?”

  “Of course. Officer…” Lowell looked at the cop’s shirt. “…Browning, how nice to see you again. How is she doing?”

  “She’s just fine, thanks to you. You were absolutely right about the medicine affecting her liver. The doctors said if she’d been kept on it even another month it might have been fatal. Thank God you said something.”

  “I merely noticed a Jupiter-Neptune affliction in the natal chart being transited by Pluto that set off a warning bell and I thought you should address it. I’m happy it turned out okay.”

  “Yes sir, if there’s anything you need just ask me. You here officially, or what?”

  Lowell laughed. “Yes, officer, this time everything’s on the up and up.”

  “Well, you have any problems, you let me know. And it’s Billy, by the way.”

  “All right, Billy, thank you. Where was the body found?”

  “The room right at the top of the stairs, you can’t miss it. Hey, Franks,” he called up the stairs, “he’s all right to come up.”

  Lowell climbed the winding staircase. He entered the unfurnished room, now brightly lit from three windows with a southeastern view. Most New Yorkers thought Manhattan ran perfectly north-south, like a compass, but in fact, it was askew, as this view proved.

  The body had been removed earlier, but the rope was still hanging from the heat pipe in the ceiling. Lowell walked around the room taking in as much as he could. The officer stood by the front door.

  “What do you think this place goes for?”

  The officer scratched his head and looked around. “More than I got.”

  “Five floors, a view like this and, if I’m not mistaken, an enclosed backyard. In this market – Christ, must be about ten million. So how come he chose to bring Freddie here? I don’t think that was accidental, nor a matter of convenience.”

  Lowell and the officer turned toward the hallway at the sound of footfalls on the uncarpeted steps.

  Roland entered. “Ah, glad you’re here, Lowell. This is Vivian Younger, Freddie’s daughter.”

  That she was a Gemini was apparent at first glance to the astrologer’s trained eye: tall, slim, a long thin neck and broad shoulders, pale hair, a high forehead, piercing eyes and sharp features. She had that Gemini ability to appear different from each angle. On first view she seemed young, almost waiflike, and painfully fragile, her face, like a china cup, too delicate to handle. Yet if she turned a bit to the left or the right, the light reflected an entirely different persona: bold and strong, a bit arrogant and incredibly womanly. She wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense of the word, but her face was so animated it was impossible not to stare at her.

  “David Lowell.” He extended his hand.

  Hers was warm and soft, but the shake was firm and directed. A tear trickled down her left cheek. She managed a smile, wiping away the droplet with a finger. “Thank you for being here, Mr. Lowell.”

  “David, please.”

  “Ms. Younger insisted on seeing the, uh, place where, uh that is…” fumbled the lieutenant.

  “I understand,” said Lowell. “Sometimes we must have closure at any cost.”

  “What do you make of this location?” asked the lieutenant.

  “Ms. Younger, do you mind if I speak bluntly? I don’t mean to be insensitive.”

  “No, please. I want to hear what you think.”

  “Well, I’m sure your father’s was not a random killing. There was much forethought put into the planning of this crime. By the way, I believe he was killed a bit after midnight, probably about 12:15 or so, after the Moon entered Virgo. Before that time the moon was Void of Course and there were probably several mistakes made that could have delayed or ruined the murderer’s plans. However, like I said this was a well planned attack. Transiting Mercury opposed your father’s natal Pluto, indicating a potentially underhanded or hidden agenda being acted out. Mars, the god of war, and ruler of the ego, was conjunct his natal Neptune, ruler of drugs. You will probably find traces of a knockout drug in his system. What about alcohol?”

  “No, my father had been sober for years. You won’t f
ind any alcohol in his system unless it was forced upon him.”

  “You don’t believe he could have fallen off the wagon?”

  She shook her head. “If you knew what he went through to get sober you’d never ask that question. My father loved music more than anything in the world. Drinking almost cost him his career. He wasn’t going to risk losing it again.”

  “I’ve seen what I need to here, Ms. Younger. Why don’t we get some tea?”

  “Call me Vivian, and yes, tea would be nice.”

  “Lieutenant, I’ll call you later at the precinct.”

  The crowd had thinned out by now. Among the few left was the guy in the hooded sweatshirt, who looked down as if to hide his face, Lowell noticed, the second Lowell passed with Vivian.

  They made it to the corner, crossed the avenue, and as they walked in silence down the street, Lowell and Vivian approached a man maybe fifty, dressed in jeans and an NYU sweatshirt, ostensibly vacuuming the sidewalk with a Hoover upright, although there was no electric chord visible, and it made no sound. The man had put together a make-shift room, complete with a black leather chair, torn across the seat, next to a table holding a lamp, which was also unplugged. There was even a magazine rack on the ground next to the chair with several old issues of Time in evidence. Apparently someone had emptied out an apartment, and this gentleman had commandeered a tiny piece of the city as his own.

  “Don’t stop, don’t stop,” he said, as they walked past. “Nothing left, it’s all taken. And there’s no room, no room.” Defiantly he sat in his armchair and grabbed a copy of Time, opening it with great panache and holding it up to his face.

  Lowell was forced to smile at the glory of a man, deranged as he was, struggling against the tides of his life. There was something gallant about his unwillingness to give up. He had found refuge and a temporary home on the street and he had claimed it.

  There wasn’t a hat or a cup out for money, but they couldn’t pass without offering some help. It wasn’t the time or place to debate if giving money like this only postponed the inevitable, or if a donation just assuaged the giver’s guilt. Vivian reached in her purse, fished around, and handed Lowell a twenty dollar bill. He added one of his own, and he tucked both under the base of the lamp.

  The man kept the magazine glued to the front of his face.

  Chapter Three

  Lowell and Vivian arrived at a tiny bistro sandwiched between a Thai place and a Middle Eastern restaurant, where they were seated immediately. Vivian slid into the leather booth against the wall, and Lowell took the chair. She was dressed in a yellow blouse, a pastel blue skirt, and yellow shoes. A single strand of pearls adorned her neck, and two rings, one on each pinkie, completed her ensemble. There was a simplicity about her that Lowell appreciated.

  When they were seated, they ordered two teas. Vivian asked for honey for hers. She began right away.

  “I read about you in the LA papers. They said you’re some sort of genius, and that you have helped the police solve crimes in the past, although how an astrologer can do that I really don’t know.” She blew out a breath. “But if you can help find my father’s killers I would be eternally grateful.”

  Her uncertainty about his profession was not something new to Lowell. How often in his life had people scoffed at his calling, all the way back to the seventies in Cambridge, Massachusetts, when he first began his studies.

  “You can’t tell someone’s fortune from their birthday,” he could hear his friends beseeching him. The very same friends who, through the years, would eventually come to him seeking help, most having long ago become converts. He had foreseen divorces, accidents, and diseases long before they manifested. He had told his friends things about their young children that, as time went by, had come to pass.

  “Tell me what you think astrology is?” Lowell threw the question out as nicely as possible.

  “Well, mostly what I read in the newspapers and magazines. I like the woman who writes for New Fashion, she’s pretty good. But it’s all very general, isn’t it?”

  He shook his head. “That’s not astrology. That’s American newspaper sun-sign astrology, more for entertainment than real knowledge. Although some are really written by excellent professional astrologers, many of those articles aren’t even written by real astrologers at all, but by writers who either use a known astrologer for a front, or make up a name altogether. If you want to read about real astrology, pick up Dell Horoscope Magazine, or The Mountain Astrologer, and you can see what some of the best people working in the field have to say. Astrology is a very personal business, and it’s difficult to write something meaningful that will suit all Capricorns or Libras. I tell you what, you write a column for me, right now. Let’s say I need one for Monday for the sign of Cancer. What do you know about the Crab?”

  She looked thoughtful. “Okay. They’re supposed to be very sensitive, sometimes too much so, I’m told. They like to stay at home and they can sometimes lose their temper easily when emotional. Oh, I see. So it’s Monday, well…Cancer: Be careful today, you may be a bit touchy, um…especially in the morning. Plan to spend the evening with friends or a loved one. You will be…more receptive and it will help balance the day, something Cancers always like.”

  He smiled. “You’re hired. Put my name on the byline and we’ll get syndicated in a hundred newspapers across the U.S. We’ll make a bundle just on that.”

  “Wow, and it’s all faked?”

  “Not one bit of astrology is fake.” He smiled as the waitress put two cups, saucers, and small metal hot water pots in front of them. Vivian ripped open her tea bag cover and poured the hot water over the bag into her cup. Lowell opened the paper tea cover slowly, and holding the string between his fingers, dipped the bag into the metal pot. The process let him gather his thoughts. “Let me make that completely clear. It’s just been watered down through pop culture. Astrology is an intricate, mathematically precise science we now call astronomy, coupled with an intuitive art that connects a humanist response to the celestial events. This connection between intellect and intuition is something that seems difficult for western man, especially Americans, to recognize.”

  “Why is that?”

  “For one thing, people don’t like the concept of things being taken out of their control. Many seem to feel astrology does that.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “Just the opposite. It allows us to use the energies of the universe around us to our advantage. The stars do not force our actions, they only show us what resistance we may be facing and creative ways around it. And if you want to talk about having control taken away from you, what do you think God and religion does? It not only takes away control but culpability as well. And by the way, formal religion, which now publicly denounces astrology, embraced it in its early years. Perhaps the powers that be felt it was too God-like, maybe too much power in the hands of a few humans who could interpret what was going on. They felt it was blasphemous.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think that God, if he or she does exist, is probably quite aware of what we call astrology. I doubt that God woke up one day and said: “Damn, those little monkeys, they discovered my secret about the stars. How can I keep them from learning how to use it and from finding out other stuff? I know, I’ll have them invent money, that’ll keep them busy, and teach them a lesson at the same time.”

  She laughed. He liked her laugh, but of course, so did millions of fans. She didn’t seem much like a movie star at all. More like the prettiest girl in class you were never able to get up the courage to talk to.

  “There is a great deal a good astrologer can know about a person.”

  “What can you tell about me?”

  “I don’t know, let’s see.” He opened the cover of his iPad and put it on the table. “I’ll need your birth information. And no cheating.” He smiled.

  “June 13th at 6:32 a.m. in New Rochelle, New York.”

  “Uh huh, and the year?”
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  “Do I have to?” She smiled.

  “Sort of defeats the whole purpose of planetary positioning if I don’t know the year.”

  She sighed. “Well, if I must.” She leaned over the table and whispered into his ear, “1978.”

  He cleared his throat and typed the information into the device, then sat back, his expression becoming more business-like as he viewed the birth chart.

  “Well, this certainly is the chart of a person with a prominent relationship to the public, although in a few years you will most likely withdraw from performing. You might then work behind the scenes, perhaps as a director or writer. You have a Cancer rising sign, which makes you very attractive and feminine. Jupiter and Venus in the first house show the kind of relationship you have with the public, quite simply they adore you. The Sun rules your 2nd house of money, and the Virgo Moon squares it, which tells me that you must learn to handle your resources better, as any emotional instability will throw off your common sense, causing you to spend frivolously. The Sun represents what you want in life, and the Moon indicates what you need. When these two are in square, it implies that what you want and what you need can be in conflict. And because of the frustration that this can produce, you can be your own worst enemy, and at times make very bad decisions. It indicates your parents were probably divorced, and with the Moon in the 4th house you lived with your mother. Your Sun is afflicted in the 12th house, which shows that your father may have had a drug or alcohol problem, and could have been in some sort of institution, either prison or hospitals, while you were quite young. With the 12th house Sun in Gemini also ruling the 3rd house of siblings you might have had a brother or sister, possibly even a twin who was lost, perhaps through an early death. The 12th house Mercury opposes a retrograde Neptune in the 6th house of health, which shows that you may have a weakness in your lungs, possibly caused by an infection, that must be carefully monitored and you should never smoke. How’m I doing?” Lowell tugged at his ponytail, and patiently awaited her response.