by Dion Baia
“Yeah, I know that Dwight Frye.”
“That’s not funny.” Zipper frowned. “But I guess I’d rather be compared to Fritz than to Igor.”
“Touché.”
“You’ll feel a little dizzy at first, but we’ve stocked you with enough pain meds that you can go about your normal daily tasks without too much discomfort. You must rest soon.”
“He can rest when he dies, isn’t that right, Mister Morris?” Gray brandished a large scalpel from his coat and began to dissect the forearm area of the limb. “Tell me more about these scary monsters you encountered.”
Walter probed his chest and shoulders for other signs of pain. “I shot one of them in the face twice. And those shots landed.”
“What? Are you sure?” Zipper demanded.
Walter looked directly at Zipper. “Yes, I’m sure. He looked squarely at my companion and I, with black holes the size of a quarter in his face. He was none too happy about it either.”
“Did they show any signs of pain?”
“No, none whatsoever. Maybe they were hopped up on bennies too, eh?” Walter laughed, but instantly regretted it after a sharp stab of pain in his side.
“I don’t think even Pervitin could have helped with that,” Gray Matter volunteered. “What sort of intellect did you witness? Any articulation? What about motion? Were they lumbering around or swift?”
The detective’s brows wrinkled in concentration as he tried to remember. “I didn’t have enough contact to make a judgment call on their intellect. They were extremely quick on their feet. In that respect they weren’t at all like…” his eyes darted to Zipper, “…Frankenstein’s monster. More like the Wolfman with their speed and leaping abilities.”
“And you said there was more than one of these spectacular creatures?”
“Actually, a whole warehouse full of them, I think. Frozen, in blocks of ice.”
“Fascinating, absolutely fascinating. Zipper, we must examine the arm immediately.”
Walter cautiously stepped to his feet. “I was gonna say keep it.” He was still quite dazed.
“Slowly, Mister Morris,” Gray Matter said. “Though your mind is starting to feel no pain, your body still needs you to take it easy.”
“Like you said, Gray, I can rest when I die.” Walter grinned and moved very tentatively to the outskirts of the operating area.
Zipper took the arm and placed it onto a large metal tray that was lined with a clean linen cloth. He placed the tray on the table, clicked the lights to their full power, and adjusted the camera. “Incredible!” Zipper exclaimed. “What do you think powers it?”
“It?” Walter repeated. “You keep calling it it?”
Gray Matter leaned forward to get a better look at the intricacies on the projector screen. “Mr. Morris, you’re telling me this man took a .45 to the face and continued coming at you?”
Walter nodded. “As well as a shotgun blast at point blank range.”
“You really think this was just a man under the influence of drugs?” Walter studied the arm on the screen as Gray continued. “His body would have clearly failed him even if his mind was still able to function. Come now, Mister Morris, this man, these men, they are different. They are not what we would know as human. This is something that has been created. A future warrior, if you will. Made to withstand extreme trauma, possibly sustained on the battlefield.”
Gray glanced over at Walter. “Do you have any clues as to where they may have come from?”
Walt thought for a moment before asking. “Have you ever heard the name Laszlo Strozek before?”
Gray Matter’s head tilted slightly to one side. “What makes you think I know every man in this city?”
Walter raised an eyebrow at Gray.
“He’s a German exile who happens to be an exceptional piano player,” Gray answered. “Next you’ll ask me if I know Vito Genovese.”
Walter chuckled. Gray always seemed to have detailed knowledge on the city’s masses. “Well, I think he’s the link to all of this. There’s an icehouse on the west side where his friends are keeping those human-sized popsicles on ice.”
Zipper pulled back a piece of muscle that was attached to a silver, metallic piece of steel skeleton. “What is it you said you think powers them?”
“Exactly,” Gray replied.
Walter turned because Gray Matter’s voice was closer than usual. He was leaning so far forward while studying the projector screen that his hat had lifted and Walter, for the first time, was able to fully view him in the light, something that no one with the exception of Zipper ever got to see. He had a full metal chest plate that was connected to neck supports holding his head. Half of his face had completely lost its Japanese features due to severe burns on the right side. Much of his cheek had been burnt away, exposing the teeth. It resembled the wicked grin of a skull. Below his Stetson hat, his round jet-black glasses that fit his head more like goggles, covering his eyes. His nose was a stump with an insufficient amount of a bridge. It wouldn’t support a regular pair of spectacles anyway.
“It’s an organic creation, so fossil fuels like oils or petrol wouldn’t work. Something alive, preferably oxygenated, perhaps a kind of synthetic substance that could replenish the tissue and deliver nutrition directly to the muscle and cells. The foreign objects implanted are only there for reinforcement, for protection and strength. They could be powered by a byproduct of that.”
Walter really thought about what Gray was saying. “Blood.”
“And a lot of it, especially at the rate this thing would be burning energy,” Gray observed.
“The New York Ripper?” Zipper whispered, emphasizing the words with his eyes.
“I’ve heard rumors floating around the medical community that the perpetrator’s been using a Liston knife, just like the original Ripper in London sixty years ago. It was created for battlefield surgeons who had to remove a limb quickly and without anesthesia.” Gray looked down at Walter and visibly became embarrassed that the detective could see his appearance. The latter stayed silent for a moment, then continued, “More to the point, I’ve heard from that very same community that there wasn’t a single drop of blood left in the victims’ bodies when they were found.”
Walter thought for a long moment before asking, “Tell me, what do you know about Cuthbert Hayden?”
“Hayden?” Gray frowned, “Nothing, aside from being a very active supporter of the Bund Party on this side of the Atlantic, leading up to the war.”
“Wasn’t that the name of the American wing of the Nazi party before the war broke out?”
Gray Matter nodded. “Yes. Back when the Nazi party was still fashionable over here. You’d be surprised at their size. They even had summer camps you could send your children out to in New Jersey and Long Island. Men like Charles Lindbergh, Henry Ford, and Cuthbert Hayden were all members. You must remember the rally in Madison Square Garden in 1939. Of course, before Hitler went into Poland.”
“Was Laszlo a Bund member as well?” Walter asked.
“Who knows? A lot of Germans, as well as regular hardworking Americans, were. Part of the Prime Minister Chamberlain’s way of thinking, or even sympathizing with the plight of the German people with the aftermath of the Treaty of Versailles, before the Third Reich’s true intentions were revealed to the world. But many also fled Europe when war was on the horizon. Laszlo could have been very connected when he came to America.”
“Maybe he didn’t flee, maybe he just wanted it to look that way,” Walter said to himself.
He continued to get dressed, replacing his holster before shrugging on his coat. “I gotta go. Keep the arm and have fun. If you learn anything new, give me a call. I’m on a clock and I think it’s starting to run out.”
Gray pointed at the side table. “Stay safe, Walter Morris. Zipper has prepared a medical kit for
you to take home. You must be diligent and take the medicine within if you want to keep standing for as long as you need to. Take the tablets as needed, they will give you energy and keep you feeling upbeat. They’re not just for pain management, but also to stop any infections so you don’t drop dead. Keep your abdomen wrapped and drink lots of water. Hydration. That’s very important.”
Gray Matter smiled the best way he could with the working side of his face. “We don’t want to be seeing you again anytime soon.”
Walter grinned back. “Don’t worry, you won’t.”
Gray grinned at the detective, “Good because who knows what organs we may need to borrow off you next time?”
Chapter 20
VE DAY
Hayden’s midtown office was located at the Claridge Hotel, just off of Times Square. Since that was the last place Garland Crane was when he sent Walter out to Long Beach, Walter figured that was the first place to go to start looking for answers.
But tonight its lobby and the sidewalks outside, from as high up as Yonkers to all the way back down in Coney Island, were packed to the gills.
It must have happened while Walter was down in Chinatown because by the time he had taken the subway up to Forty-Second Street, everyone had stopped what they were doing and spilled out into the streets to celebrate. They would always remember where they were and who they were with when they heard that the war in Europe had ended.
Times Square was packed with thousands of people rejoicing, and cars were parked in the middle of the streets or abandoned in between intersections. People from the surrounding buildings were running down the sidewalks, laughing and celebrating, many crying from happiness that the war—in Europe at least—was over. Some were stumbling around drinking beer, liquor, or wine, grabbing the closest person they could find to hug or to kiss, even if that person was a complete stranger, all to celebrate and thank the Lord above that Hitler was dead and victory was imminent.
Walter dodged the growing crowds, bouncing around in his own little world—somewhere far beyond the Milky Way due to the powerful medicine coursing through his veins, courtesy of Gray Matter.
He glanced up and began to read the headlines on the front of the New York Times building, keeping up with the words that rocketed by and around the corner. He stopped in his tracks, just realizing the lights were on. All of them. For the first time in four years, the nationwide brownout had been lifted and Times Square’s bright, glowing, neon lights were finally back on. Walt stared in awe at the huge spectacle before him.
New York City looked like New York City again, lit up and ready for action.
“The war’s over. Thank you, God.” He exhaled and closed his eyes.
Walter only exited the subway station at Broadway, but it took him longer to travel a block than it had to come all the way up from Chinatown. It took another ten minutes just to cross Seventh Avenue and arrive at the hotel entrance on West Forty-Fourth.
The Claridge Hotel had temporarily closed its doors to deal with the massive influx of pedestrian foot traffic. Luckily Walter was able to gain entry by flashing his PI license to the hotel detective, whom he knew.
He stepped off the private elevator of Hayden’s penthouse suite and headed down the hall, where the first of the carnage was apparent. The security guard who was normally stationed outside the suite when Hayden was visiting was laying on the floor with two bullet holes in his face. His eyes were no longer present, replaced by pools of dark, crimson blood and ivory-white bone. The door of the office he usually guarded was ajar.
Walter unsheathed his .45 and realized the Colt was empty from being out on Long Island. He didn’t need to check the guard’s pulse to know he was dead, so Walt knelt down and, skipping the formality, put his .45 back in its holster and borrowed the dead man’s revolver and spare cylinder of ammo. A .38 Detective’s Special they were called, and as luck would have it, the same caliber as the other empty .38 he had on him. He aimed the snub-nose and pushed open the door.
He cautiously peered around the corner. The large, luxurious waiting room was in shambles. He gradually stepped in, taking two long steps down to the seating area, where many of the plush red chairs were overturned. There, Walter spotted another victim. Sprawled out along a crimson sofa was a black man in a servant’s uniform, a brother working his shift at the wrong time and wrong place. The majority of his face was missing, due to the high-caliber gunshot to his head.
Walt focused his attention on a heavily blood-stained surgical apron discarded on a nearby waiting room chair.
“Oh boy.”
Past that, the oversized aerodynamic desk made of wood and stone was upside down against the far corner of the room, like a discarded cardboard box. He saw a leg peeking out from underneath, a bare leg with a high-heeled shoe. Then Walter remembered the mousy little secretary. He knew she was dead before he even checked.
He clicked the hammer back on the .38 and walked through into the inner office, where he was shaken by what he saw.
The shades were fully open and that incomparable view of lower Manhattan and the Empire State Building and a moored RCA dirigible were visible despite the passing gray clouds.
Down in the sunken area, the couches that had once lined the walls were thrown throughout the room, their fabric tattered. Toward the center of the office, the large boardroom-style table had been smashed, its chairs hurled out of the way like dollhouse furniture.
Hayden’s manservant, Garland Crane, was tied up to Hayden’s high-backed leather chair at the end of the room. Above him on his left, a nearly empty bag of plasma hung from a nearby lamp. It was connected by an IV to his arm.
To say there was blood everywhere, Walter thought, would be an understatement. Crane was slumped over in the chair, not moving. His body and the area around him were glistening with splashes of the deep red liquid, and below him, a large puddle of blood coagulated on the floor.
Next to Crane on Hayden’s enormous Dalbergia desk, thanks to lack of blood splatter, there was a clear outline of where an object once stood, something the size of a toolbox. And piled up all around that outline were blood-stained bathroom towels. Beside the towels, on a small white facecloth, was a piece of red meat about three inches in diameter. Curious, Walter leaned in to get a closer look. A wave of disgust rolled over him upon realizing the piece of meat actually had flesh on it…white human flesh. And upon closer inspection, he could see that the piece of human flesh had muscle still attached to it from when it had been surgically removed with delicate precision. It was a piece of Crane.
It was around this time, while Walter was studying the mess on the desk, that Crane wearily raised his head. Walter looked over his shoulder and almost climbed onto the desk from fright. Crane’s eyes had been turned a milky blue, and the right side of his face, from his hairline down to his chin, had been removed down to the bone.
Walter glared down at the piece of bloody meat on the towel.
Crane tried to talk but was only able to moan.
“Jesus, Crane!” Walter didn’t know what to say to the man. He didn’t deserve…this. “Here, let me untie you.” He quickly began untying the ropes.
Crane’s eyes strained to look at him, but he eventually found Walter’s frame. He began mouthing words and gradually found the strength and the resilience to form sentences.
“Morris…Walter…” he croaked, barely above a whisper, “…is that you? Am I hallucinating? I can’t see…everything is blurry….”
“Yep, it’s me, Garland. What the hell happened here?”
“He…he kept giving me transfusions…so I wouldn’t pass.”
Walter glanced at the IV bag attached haphazardly to the freestanding lamp. “Why?”
Crane attempted a smile, but with only the left side of his face remaining, his pain turned the gesture into a grimace. “You—you, Morris, did your job and fouled it all up.”
<
br /> Walter had a sudden realization as he looked at the bag hanging above Crane. It was empty.
Crane had been tied up with a phone cord, not a rope, meaning they must have ripped it out of the wall. Walt searched around the desk and the office, but he couldn’t see another phone anywhere.
“Garland, what the hell is going on? Where’s Hayden?”
Crane closed his eyes, his breathing becoming shallow. “They…they took him. They’re done with their little parlor games. They didn’t count on someone as elementary as you turning the stones over and doing some actual detective work. They thought he’d fold like a…a cheap suit.”
“But who, Garland? Who did this to you? Where’s Caldonia and Hayden?”
“Caldonia?” The exposed muscle on Crane’s face started to pulsate from the lack of blood. “Hayden’s gone.”
“What? Why were you meeting with Laszlo Strozek?!”
“They couldn’t keep playing these games, they need to leave. They couldn’t lose their window out of the coun—” Crane started to cough, drops of blood spattering from his mouth. “They need to get away to succeed.”
“To succeed in doing what, Garland? Damn it, man!”
Crane’s free arm shot up and he put his hand on Walter’s shoulder, scaring Walt half to death. “Further the cause!” After his sudden burst of energy, Crane closed his eyes and his body went limp.
Panic swept over Walter. He gripped Crane’s shoulders and shook him repeatedly to keep him conscious. “Crane! Who did this to you?”
Crane’s eyes shot open and his new blue pupils appeared ghostly in the lamp’s lighting. “Herr Doctor! He did this. Von Stroheim was assigned to him…in the event that operation Westward Expansion went into effect. For these men, the war was already lost months ago…” Crane started to spasm. “…they need Hayden to get their cargo out of…”
“Crane? What about the war?! C’mon, Crane! Please, where’s Hayden and Caldonia?”