The Frenzy Way

by Gregory Lamberson

  Hector, Patty, and Willy stood before the bed, watching a burly man in blue jeans and sneakers burrow into the closet safe with a metal drill the size of a baseball bat. The man, who looked a few years older than Mace and wore a Yankees cap over his gray hair, needed two hands to control the massive drill, which had been plugged into the left wall beneath the bloody graffiti.

  The deep, dark closet appeared larger than Mace had guessed. The sound of the drill bit chewing into the safe’s iron door split the air. Mace couldn’t hear his latex gloves snap as he pulled them on. Joining his detectives and Hector, he saw that the safe man wore protective goggles. Fine metallic particles blew away from the dull black safe like tiny flying insects. Mace assumed the missing handle and combination dial had been tagged and bagged as evidence. Scores of scratches crisscrossed the door like angry welts on smooth skin.

  A sudden hollow grinding sound filled the room as the drill penetrated the safe, and the safe man pitched forward. He switched off the drill, which continued to whir for a moment, then pulled it free of the safe, laid it on the floor, and removed his goggles. He reached into the compact tool kit at his side and selected a small precision instrument with which he proceeded to probe the hole he had drilled.

  “You take all of your measurements?” Mace said to his detectives.

  Patty nodded. Willy held up his notebook and flipped the pages, indicating sketch after sketch detailing the locations of various body parts, some of which he had identified with question marks.

  Hector turned to Mace. “We got a couple of black hairs off the bed that don’t match the gray ones in the bathroom.”

  Patty gestured at the safe. “See those scratches on the door?”

  Mace inspected the safe. Several sets of five scratches ran from the top of the door to its bottom.

  “They’re spaced out like they were made by fingers, but they’re too thin to be from human fingernails. They look more like claw marks.”

  “They could have been made by some kind of tool,” Mace said.

  The safe man looked up from his task. “Not any kind of tool used for cracking a safe.”

  “You Robbins?”

  The man nodded. “Yes, sir. Detective Robbins.”

  Just so there’s no misunderstanding, Mace thought. “We don’t know when those marks were made.”

  Hooking a thumb into one of the pockets of his jumpsuit, Hector gestured with his free hand. “We scraped shavings of black paint off the floor right in front of the safe. Most likely, they’re recent.”

  Patty said, “Glenzer probably painted the safe black so it would be harder to see in the dark.”

  A clicking sound came from the safe as an internal tumbler fell into place, followed by a sound like a lever being thrown. Robbins returned his tool to his kit and replaced it with a screwdriver, which heinserted into the drilled hole. Leaning on the screwdriver, he pried open the heavy metal door, which creaked on its hinges. He peered inside the safe, and behind him the three detectives leaned forward, trying to see over his broad shoulders. When he stood, sticky bloodstains covered the knees of his jeans.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said, stepping to one side of the closet door.

  Mace, Patty, and Willy crouched before the safe, and Hector leaned over them. Sunlight glinted off an object on the bottom of the otherwise empty safe. Mace glanced at Patty, then reached inside and grasped the object.

  The dagger weighed more than he expected. Rather than grasp the handle firmly, he eased the fingers of his other hand beneath the blade and removed the weapon from the safe with great care.

  Mace raised his eyebrows. He wasn’t holding a dagger at all but a sword with a broken blade. The hilt appeared medieval, the blade two and a half inches wide and a foot long to its broken point. A carving adorned the middle of the handle: a man’s nose, mouth, and chin jutted out from beneath a hood that masked his eyes.

  Patty frowned. “What the hell?”

  Turning the sword over, Mace sensed Hector behind him straining to get a better look. On the other side of the handle, a second carving stared at him: the head of a wolf with snarling demonic features that included two small and fiery red jewels for eyes.

  “Damn,” Willy said.

  Patty reached out with both hands. “May I?”

  Mace eased the hilt into her open palms. “Careful. It’s heavy.”

  Patty inspected the tarnished metal and turned it over. She touched the sculpted heads on each side of the hilt. Then she looked at Mace with incredulity in her eyes. “This whole thing is made of silver.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Pedro stood halfway down Bedford Street in the midst of a crowd, with Miguel beside them. The car ride over the Queensboro Bridge had been uneventful, though Miguel’s inane chattering had spoiled Pedro’s pleasure in sightseeing. As soon as they had reached Bedford and Pedro saw the crowd milling around the emergency vehicles in front of the apartment building, he knew his plans had been disrupted.

  “Tienes que ver lo que paso,” he told Miguel. See what’s happened.

  “Si.” Miguel moved between spectators to the crime scene tape stretched between a streetlight and the building.

  Pedro watched Miguel speak to a heavyset black woman wearing a short wig. Observing his companion’s body language, he almost admired his chicanery.

  A few minutes later, Miguel returned. “Some old dude who lived in the building was snuffed. Crackhead probably did it.”

  Pedro’s gaze followed the building’s architecture to the third floor. There, between the limbs of a tree that grew from the sidewalk, the wind sucked a curtain through a shattered window, allowing him to glimpse a figure moving around inside.

  No crackhead, he thought, keeping his suspicion to himself.

  “Does this have something to do with your appointment?”

  Pedro nodded. His contact lived on the third floor of this building, just like the murder victim. At sixty-two, Professor Glenzer qualified as an old man.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Wait.”

  So they did. Soon the building’s front doors opened, and an Italian-looking police official exited. The crowd of reporters surrounded him.

  “What gives, Tony? When can we see the crime scene?”

  “Yeah, why all the secrecy, Captain?”

  “What’s the big deal?”

  The captain raised one hand. “I have no statement at this time, people. When CSU has finished their work, you’ll be admitted to the crime scene. Not before.” He pushed his way through the crowd of groaning reporters, dismissing them, then stopped at his car, an Impala.

  Pedro saw that the captain carried an object in a large padded envelope in the crook of his other arm. He knew the man had found Salvation.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Navajo men who used witchcraft were known as skinwalkers. Dressed in wolf hides, they dropped the powdered bones of dead babies through the smoke holes of huts, bringing sickness and death upon the residents. They were also known to run wild through cemeteries, engaging in necrophilia.”

  —Navajo Cultural Superstition, Terrence Glenzer

  They sat huddled around Mace’s desk, eating sandwiches and drinking coffee. Landry sat with his back to the door, and the broken sword lay on the center of the desk, sealed in a plastic evidence bag. Each detective spoke between hurried mouthfuls of food.

  “Glenzer taught a course on Native American mythology,” Patty said. “He was considered an expert in the field and wrote more than one book on the subject. I’ve already confirmed that copies of each book were in the pile on his living room floor. His personal inventory, most likely. He used to teach full-time—Native American history, Native American culture, Native American religion—but then he took atwo-year sabbatical to travel around the world, researching his most recent book. When he returned, he went to a part-time schedule. According to the dean, he had trouble finding a publisher, so for the first time in his career he resorted to self-publishing.”


  “What’s that book called?” Mace said.

  “Transmogrification in Native American Mythology.”

  Mace brought Amazon.com up on his screen, then keyed in the title. An instant later, a book cover appeared, covered with the brown and white features of a wolf. “‘Terrence Glenzer takes readers on an informative tour through the history of Native American mythology, focusing on shape-shifters, manitou, and other American Indian spirits.’” He whistled when he saw the book’s price. “Twenty-nine ninety-nine. ‘This title usually ships in 2 to 3 business days.’”

  Patty sat straight. “It took a little prodding, but the dean admitted he was trying to have Glenzer shit canned. Seems the professor returned from his travels a little overenthusiastic about his subject matter. Students complained to the head of his department about erratic behavior, and a number of them dropped the class.”

  “Get a list of those students.”

  She glanced at her watch. “The dean’s supposed to be faxing it over as we speak.”

  “How’s the identification of the corpse coming?”

  “Glenzer was on the faculty medical plan,” Willy said, “so we were able to trace his medical records. His dentist is sending over X-rays. We’re also matching the tips on those severed fingers to his print records. We’ll have confirmation before the end of the day.”

  “Okay,” Mace said to Landry. “Let’s hear what you dug up.”

  Sitting forward on his chair, Landry opened a manila folder. “All right, but I’m warning everybody right now there’s a lot of crazy stuff here, so save your wisecracks for someone else.” He focused on the printed pages. “According to Native American lore, a person with the ability to turn into animals is called a ‘skinwalker.’ The legends ofthe skinwalkers bear certain similarities to other tales around the world, especially those of werewolves in Europe. Skinwalkers are most commonly associated with Navajo tribes. Mohawks called them ‘limikken.’”

  “How do you spell that?” Willy said.

  Landry looked up at him. “I printed copies for each of you.”

  Willy nodded his approval.

  Landry located where he had left off. “The Navajo Yee Naaldlooshii was a witch, usually male, who practiced a ritual called ‘the Frenzy Way’ to walk the earth in animal form. These witches had the power to become Yee Naaldlooshii when they were inducted into the Witchery Way. Skinwalkers are supposedly fast, agile, and impossible to catch. Reports of their existence continue to be filed on Indian reservations today, where they’ve been known to attack vehicles and cause car accidents. Besides shape-shifting, Navajo skinwalkers put hexes on people and rob graves to eat the dead and steal their jewelry.”

  Willy crumpled the wrapping for his lunch and launched the makeshift ball into the wastebasket. “Those are some ill witches.”

  Landry ignored him. “The Hopi Indians have their own skinwalkers. During the Ya Ya Ceremony, tribal members supposedly changed into various animals by wearing the skin or hide of the animal they chose. The ceremony enabled them to view the world through the animals’ eyes. Unfortunately, it also caused blindness, so it was banned.”

  Patty set down her coffee cup. “Glenzer wrote a book on Indian werewolves—”

  “Indian were-creatures,” Landry said.

  “—and his murderers referenced those make-believe creatures. They also killed him during this month’s first full moon. The question is, why? If they wanted the broken sword, why call attention to Glenzer’s fascination with Indian folklore?”

  Willy jammed a stick of gum into his mouth. “To throw us off track?”

  Mace cocked his head toward Landry. “There’s a Native American population in Brooklyn, transplanted there to build the city’s bridges.”

  “‘Sky walkers,’” Landry said. “They actually prefer to be called American Indians.”

  Mace bowed to political correctness. “See if we have any American Indians in the department—civilian, uniform, detective, I don’t care—who can help you sort this research out.”

  “I have a few names for you,” Willy told Landry. “That doesn’t mean they know anything about their ancestors’ legends. I don’t know mine.”

  “I don’t know mine, either,” Mace said.

  “Skinwalkers aren’t just an Indian legend,” Landry said, consulting his notes once more. “The Norse believed in them too, which supports the theory that Vikings were the first white men to set foot in America. They believed a skinwalker was a person who walked in the skin of an animal to learn its secrets or gain its special qualities. A warrior who took on the strength of a bear by wearing its skin was a ‘bear shirt,’ or a ber sarkur—a berserker. There were wolf warriors too: ulfheonar. These ‘wolf coats’ possessed the aggression of the animal spirits they worshipped.” Landry looked up for a reaction. Getting none, he spread his hands apart. “The end.”

  “You got all that off the Net?” Mace said.

  “Every word.”

  “Good work.” He surveyed the detectives’ faces. “Now we know that we’re looking for an Indian shaman or a Viking who can transform into a coyote, a wolf, a bear, an owl, or a crow. He shouldn’t be too hard to spot.”

  “I didn’t hear anything about a sword,” Willy said.

  “Maybe the sword’s unrelated.”

  “With that wolf head on its handle?”

  “Glenzer was obsessed with wolves. Maybe he only wanted the sword because of the wolf head.”

  “Must have wanted it pretty bad to take it all broken like that.”

  “Good point.”

  “Somehow I don’t make a connection between that sword and Indian lore.”

  “The Spaniards massacred American Indians,” Patty said. “I’m sure they used swords.”

  “Don’t look at me. My people use baseball bats and two-by-fours.”

  “What about Glenzer?” Patty asked Landry.

  “He wrote four books that were published: Ancient Hopi Mythology, Navajo Cultural Superstition, Native American Religion, and European Influence on Native American Culture. All out of print but available at NYU’s library.”

  “Don’t forget my favorite,” Willy said. “Transmogrification in Native American Mythology.”

  “You can get that here in the city,” Landry said, checking his notes. “At an occult bookstore downtown. Here it is: Synful Reading off St. Mark’s Place.”

  “Glenzer was an expert on this stuff,” Mace said. “But did he really believe in it? More important, did his killers? Or were they simply mocking him?”

  “Patty has six detectives standing by to help her and Willy run down Glenzer’s students and find out,” Landry said.

  “Double that number.”

  “What about the sword?”

  Mace eyed the weapon. “I’ll check into that myself.”

  Blank faces stared back at him.

  “Patty needs to concentrate on those students.”

  Landry spoke up first. “If it’s a question of manpower I could take it …”

  “It isn’t, and I want you in charge here. That ugly thing has piqued my curiosity, and I could use some fresh air.”

  Landry turned to Patty. “You were still at the crime scene when the press was admitted. How’d they react?”

  “Most of the mess had been cleaned up by the time we let them in, but the writing was still on the wall. They acted like a pack of jackals.”

  He gestured to the sword. “What about that?”

  “It’s our secret,” Mace said, his gaze roaming from face to face. “But those reporters use the same search engines we do. By this evening, half the city will at least know what a skinwalker is”.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Standing in Father Hagen’s church office while the priest sat at his desk, Pedro held the telephone in one hand while he waited for the long-distance operator to connect his call. Father Hagen squirmed in his seat, and his fidgeting irritated Pedro. The ugly green roll-down rug and dusty bookshelves lacked the opule
nce Pedro had observed in churches throughout Italy, including the poorer ones. At last a male voice on the other end answered in Italian, and Pedro jammed a finger into his free ear to better hear him.

  “This is Pedro Fillipe,” he said in the man’s language. “I must speak to Monsignor Delecarte.” He felt Father Hagen’s eyes on him and sensed the priest’s frustration at being unable to follow the conversation.

  “The monsignor is resting.”

  “He’ll speak to me. Tell him, ‘The wolf is at the door.’”

  “One moment.”

  Several minutes passed before an aged voice came over the line. “Pedro?”

  “Forgive me for disturbing you, Monsignor. I arrived this morning, but the city isn’t what I expected.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m on Glenzer’s street now, but the gentleman you spoke of no longer lives here. His salvation is beyond our reach. Should we see a policeman?”

  A pause. “See no one for now. Relax, enjoy the city. I’ll contact you tomorrow with my recommendation.”

  “As you wish, Monsignor.”

  The line went dead, so Pedro returned the phone to its cradle.

  “What did he say?” Father Hagen said.

  “We wait.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mace entered the Historical Weapons Museum, located in a four-story building on Museum Mile. It felt refreshing to be uptown, not far from his neighborhood, but the drive had been time consuming. Inside, he approached a young woman with strawberry blonde hair, standing behind a counter with a flat cash register. He supposed she was a college art history major, working as an intern or for minimum wage.

  “May I help you?” Her name tag said Becca.

  “I have an appointment with Bruce Janson,” Mace said.