The Frenzy Way

by Gregory Lamberson

  Mace wore his best poker face. “May I ask what this artifact is, Father?”

  “Certainly. It’s a sword—rather, the hilt of a sword—with a broken blade. Was it recovered from Mr. Glenzer’s condominium?”

  “What can you tell me about this sword?”

  The priest offered a slight shrug. “Nothing really, I’m afraid. As far as I know, it’s an unknown quantity, a mere historical curiosity.”

  Mace clasped his hands. “Now I’m the one who’s in an awkward position. Unless you can present me with proof of ownership, I’m unable to divulge what we found in Professor Glenzer’s residence for fear of compromising our investigation.”

  Father Hagen considered this, then nodded. “I see. Perhaps these would be of help.” Reaching into his inside jacket pocket, he removed a long envelope with a ragged tear along its top. Then he removed several folded letters, which he handed to Mace. “I have here correspondence between myself and Mr. Glenzer.”

  Mace unfolded the letters. Holding one of them up, he said, “Your personal stationery?”

  Father Hagen’s expression showed just a suggestion of agitation. “Yes, my interest in this sword is purely personal, not on behalf of the church. It would have been improper for me to use church stationery.”

  Mace scrutinized the letters. “Forgive me, but my eyesight isn’t what it used to be. Do you mind if I scan these so I can enlarge the handwriting?”

  The priest furrowed one eyebrow, then relaxed his facial muscles. “As you wish.”

  “Thank you.” Mace fed the letters into his desktop scanner, handed them back to Father Hagen, and faced his computer screen. Opening the files, he skimmed the letters. “Neither one of you is very specific. You both keep referring to ‘the artifact,’ almost as if in code.”

  Father Hagen leaned across Mace’s desk. “Actually, Mr. Glenzer makes reference to ‘the Blade.’” He pointed at a paragraph in one of Glenzer’s letters.

  The Blade of Salvation. “Ah yes,” Mace said. “That could mean a sword, couldn’t it?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  Mace opened another file. “Father, this isn’t exactly cut-and-dried. I’m not sure I can tell you what you’d like to know right now. Even if we do have what you’re looking for, it’s still evidence in our investigation.” He pressed the Print Screen button. “I’m going to give you some forms to fill out. Mail them to the address on them. Even under the most optimistic of scenarios, we won’t be releasing any of Mr. Glenzer’s items any time soon. With any luck there will be a trial, and that’s likely to be a drawn-out process.”

  “I’m disappointed to hear that.”

  “Father, is this sword you’re inquiring about valuable enough that someone might have murdered Glenzer to get their hands on it?”

  “I really couldn’t say.”

  “Well, how much did you initially offer him for it?”

  “It was a modest sum, I assure you.”

  Mace stuffed the forms into a large envelope, which he handed to the priest. “Here’s my card. May I have yours? If I’m able to share further information with you I promise to look you up.”

  “Of course,” Father Hagen said, locating a card. “In return, I’d appreciate it if you contact me if you learn anything else about this sword of Professor Glenzer’s.” Subtle enough, he thought.

  Father Hagen’s eyes showed a flicker of understanding. “I appreciate your candor.”

  Mace showed the priest to the door. “Thank you for coming by.” He watched the man exit the squad room, then sat at his desk and keyed the information on the business card into his contacts folder.

  The apartment door opened, and Graham Hanson looked out at Patty and Willy. The college student wore no shirt, and his ripped abdominal muscles, sweaty hairline, and heavy breathing suggested he had either been working out or having sex.

  Patty thought she saw disappointment in his eyes. “Hi, Mr. Hanson. Remember us?”

  “Like it was yesterday,” Graham said. “Oh, it was yesterday. Did you think of something else to ask me?”

  Patty wanted to strangle the smug wiseass. “Actually, this isn’t about Professor Glenzer. It’s about your classmate Sarah Harper.” Graham’s facial muscles froze. “Ah. Sarah. Bad news, that.” Patty refrained from looking at Willy. Something interesting here. “How well did you know her?”

  Graham smirked. “Better than some.”

  “Would you mind being a little more specific?”

  “Okay, sure. We hooked up once at a bar. Then we went to her place.”

  “What bar?” Willy said.

  “I don’t know, man. Some joint down here. They all bleed together, you know?”

  “What happened at Sarah’s apartment?” Patty said.

  Graham snorted. “We made beautiful music together, and then she kicked me out. She was only interested in one thing. Forget about making me breakfast.”

  Go figure. “Were you aware of any relationship she might have had with Professor Glenzer?”

  Graham did a double take. “That crazy old man? Please.”

  “How long ago did you and Sarah hook up?”

  Graham shrugged. “I dunno, a couple of months ago.”

  “Thanks for your time. There’s something you need to know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Sarah had genital warts. You’d better get yourself checked out. I hear the laser surgery is a painful remedy.”

  Graham’s cocky attitude drained from his face.

  “Have a good day, Mr. Hanson.”

  Father Hagen climbed into the front seat of his Cadillac.

  “Well?” Pedro said beside him.

  “They have the sword. The captain wouldn’t come right out and say so, but he wanted me to know they have it.”

  “Can we get it from them?”

  Father Hagen shook his head. “It will be very hard. You and I don’t have the influence it will take. The monsignor will have to make other arrangements. Will you be returning to Rome now?”

  “No,” Pedro said. “Not until I’ve killed this Beast, with or without the sword.”

  I was afraid of that, Father Hagen thought.

  “And I’ll need your help.”

  Willy laughed as soon as they exited the building. “Sarah Harper did not have genital warts.”

  “It felt good to watch that arrogant little shit squirm.”

  They stopped at a hot dog vendor, and Patty lit a Marlboro Light while Willy bought a sausage loaded with sauerkraut and onions.

  “I hope you have breath mints,” Willy said as pedestrians swarmed past them.

  Patty exhaled. “Like your breath isn’t going to stink after eating that.”

  Biting into the sausage, Willy gestured at a newspaper vending machine stationed on the sidewalk. “It’s starting already.”

  The headline on the front page of the Post screamed, Greenwich Village Monster!

  “Did you think it wouldn’t? Leave it to the Post.”

  A man crashed into Willy, driving the sausage straight into his tie as a woman shouted, “Somebody stop that man!”

  “Ahhhhhhhh!” Willy said.

  Turning her head, Patty saw the man sprint down the sidewalk, heading toward Broadway. She made him: five foot six, brown leather jacket, dark head shaved to the skin. He gripped something black in his right hand.

  “Stop him! He took my purse!” An Italian woman in her late thirties ran toward them from the opposite direction.

  Patty took off after the thief.

  Willy threw his sausage on the sidewalk, frowned at the onions on his hand, and followed her. The thief rounded the corner ahead, and Patty followed. Willy heard car horns honking and knew his partner and her quarry had darted across Broadway. Sure enough, as he ran aroundthe corner, he saw Patty weaving between stopped cars. Somewhere in the background a jackhammer chewed into sidewalk.

  Damn it! Holding his left arm out, he ran across the avenue.

  Horns blared, and angry
voices with thick accents make derogatory comments.

  The thief leapt over the concrete steps at the edge of Union Square. Running along the sidewalk in the shaded park, he darted around a young couple walking hand in hand, then veered to his left, making for the wide subway entrance. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Patty in hot pursuit.

  “Hold it!” she shouted.

  Pumping his arms like pistons, he lengthened his stride. At the mouth of the entrance, he leapt into the air, waving his arms and kicking his feet. For a moment, Patty thought he was going to crash headfirst into the concrete retainer above the stairs. Instead, he sailed beneath it, disappearing into the cool darkness below.

  Motherfucker! She raced down the stairs as fast as she could. At the concrete bottom, she drew her Glock. Moving into the fluorescent light, she spotted the thief running down the corridor, his shadow stretching along a white ceramic tiled wall. Planting her heels, she leveled her weapon, taking careful aim. As her finger tightened on the trigger, a civilian stepped around the corner ahead, facing her with a shocked expression. The thief ducked around the terrified man and disappeared.

  Patty snapped her hands back, aiming the Glock at the ceiling. Damn it all! Hearing Willy’s footsteps behind her, she resumed the chase. If the thief made it to the platforms below, he might board a train before she could stop him. As she turned the corner and found herself in congested foot traffic, she saw him vault over a turnstile.

  “Pay your fare!” a voice boomed over the loudspeaker.

  Shoving her way through the commuters, Patty swung the emergency gate open and charged through it.

  “Pay your fare!”

  Willy held his shield high for the clerk to see as he followed Patty. A train rumbled alongside the R train platform below. Seizing the edges of a heavy garbage receptacle, the thief hurled it into Patty’s path. She leapt over it, and the thief’s eyes widened as she crashed into him, dropping her weapon in the process.

  “Oh, shit!” one teenage boy said to another.

  As the thief landed on one hip, he threw Patty over his head and groped for her gun.

  Rolling onto one side, Patty swung her right leg forward, kicking the Glock beyond his reach. Then she swung the same leg back, kicking his face with her heel.

  Slapping one hand over his face, he cried out, “My eye! My eye!”

  Willy scooped the Glock from the filthy gray floor. Aiming the gun in the man’s direction, he helped Patty up, then handed the Glock to her.

  “My purse! My purse!” The Italian woman ran through the gate into the station.

  “Pay your fare!”

  Willy retrieved the purse.

  “She kicked me!” the thief said.

  “Yeah, I know; she fights like a girl. Name?”

  “Barack Obama.”

  “Uh-huh. You got ID, Mr. Obama?”

  “Must’ve left it at home.”

  Willy handed the purse to Patty, but it slipped through her fingers and struck the cement floor with a hard whack.

  “Uh-oh,” Willy said, bending down.

  “That’s okay,” the Italian woman said. “I’ll get it.”

  “Do you have a permit for this?” Willy stood up, clutching a .38 revolver that had fallen out of the purse.

  “Not on me,” the woman said.

  “Kick her in the eye!” Barack Obama said.

  Patty shot him a look. “Shut up.”

  Willy narrowed his gaze at the woman. “Hey, don’t I know you?”

  “I’m sure we’ve never met,” she said in an indignant tone.

  Snapping his fingers, Willy faced Patty. “She’s Carmen Nassise!”

  Patty rolled her eyes, but the woman seemed to gain stature from Willy’s recognition of her.

  “Oh, shit!” Barack Obama said. “Little Anthony Nassise’s daughter! I used to watch your reality show.”

  Carmen looked flattered. “Really?”

  “I know he’s in jail, but do you think you could put in a word with him for me? I’m a good earner.”

  Carmen’s goodwill vanished as soon as the conversation turned away from her. “You should be more worried about getting out of town alive.”

  Staring at the revolver’s cylinder, Willy angled the gun so the overhead fluorescent light shone down on it. The harsh light glinted off the bullets. “Hey, wait a minute …” He discharged the bullets into the palm of his hand and rolled them back and forth. “These are silver!”

  “A girl’s gotta protect herself,” Carmen said, her Staten Island accent becoming more pronounced. “This lunatic who’s running around is an animal!”

  “Where the hell did you get silver bullets?”

  “I’m no rat.”

  “We’re taking them both in,” Willy said to Patty.

  “Fine, but they’re your collars. I have too much to do.”

  “You’re the one who ran after him!”

  “He had her purse in his hand …”

  “Yeah,” Carmen said.

  Willy turned the thief around and handcuffed his wrists behind his back. “Can you at least cuff her?”

  “I can do that.”

  “You’re not making me do no perp walk,” Carmen said.

  Patty took out her handcuffs. “Miss Nassise, turn around so I can cuff you, or I’ll call for backup and we’ll take you out of here in restraints.”

  “Yeah,” the thief said. Carmen turned around. “Foul pig bitch.”

  Patty fastened the cuffs around Carmen’s wrists hard enough that the woman cried out.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  From his office, Mace saw Patty and Willy march two people into the squad room and seat them by their desks: an African American male and a familiar-looking Italian woman. Entering the bull pen he said, “What’s going on?”

  Petty gestured at her partner. “Willy caught this guy stealing Carmen Nassise’s purse.”

  Carmen gave Mace an intimidating stare. “You in charge here?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I want to file a complaint against this Irish cunt for using unnecessary force.”

  “Miss Nassise had a .38 loaded with silver bullets in her purse,” Patty said.

  Mace raised his eyebrows. “We’ll see that you’re made comfortable now, Miss Nassise. My office, Detective.”

  “Yeah, you set her straight,” Carmen said. “You hear me, paisan?”

  In his office, Mace picked up a folder from his desk as Patty closed the door. “You’ve got too much on your plate to be collaring strays—don’t you think?”

  “I couldn’t just let him go, Captain. He resisted arrest and went for my gun. Willy will book him.”

  “That perp doesn’t concern me. Do you have any idea how much press arresting Carmen Nassise will attract? Willy’s going to have his hands full all day.”

  “I couldn’t let her go, either.”

  Mace suppressed a smile. Patty was good police. “I received a preliminary report from the coroner on Glenzer and Harper. It was ‘eyes only’ for me.”

  “What? That’s my case!”

  “That’s why you’re in here now and Landry isn’t.”

  Patty took a deep breath. “Right. Thanks. What’s it say?”

  Mace opened the folder. “‘The killings were identical. Each body was dismembered and disemboweled. Teeth marks were found on the remains of each body, as were black hairs. The teeth marks are identical and canine in nature. The first hairs, found on Glenzer’s remains, are similar to that of a wolf but not identical. The hairs found on Harper are expected to match.’”

  Patty blinked. “What kind of wolf?”

  Mace closed the file and set it down. “He didn’t say it was a wolf. He said the teeth marks were ‘canine in nature’ and that some of the hairs were ‘similar to that of a wolf.’ There’s a difference.”

  “Okay, then, what kind of wolf was the hair ‘similar in nature’ to?”

  “I’m not a zoologist. We’ll have to wait for the actual DNA test
results.”

  “That will take days … or weeks. Jesus, what the fuck are we dealing with here?”

  “I made an appointment for you with Dr. Lockhart in Psych at One PP in forty minutes.” One Police Plaza. “She’s good and might be helpful on this. We worked together on the Gomez case. Let’s at least get a profile worked up.”

  “I don’t have a partner …”

  “I’m all yours.”

  “Really?”

  “Until Willy’s available.”

  “I’m still the primary?”

  “You think I want to be responsible for this bag of shit?”

  Patty grinned. “Thanks, Captain.”

  Patty drove Mace downtown to One Police Plaza, also known as the Puzzle Palace, in an unmarked unit. She parked in the lot, and they crossed the redbrick walkway, dwarfed by the Brooklyn Bridge and the Civic Center. They entered through a revolving door that admitted them into a lobby with marble walls and high ceilings. Presenting their shields to the security officers, they circumvented the metal detectors. As they neared the elevator bank an elevator door opened, and Carl Stokes exited with a stocky, middle-aged man wearing a classic tan trench coat.

  Smiling, the man grasped Mace’s bicep. “Hey, Tony! How are you?”

  “Great, Dennis, except for this crazy case.” Dennis Hackley, the chief of detectives, had been Mace’s supervisor and “rabbi” when Mace had been promoted to detective in the Armed Robbery squad.

  “Which we were just discussing,” Hackley said, gesturing to Stokes. “How’s that going?”

  Shaking his head, Mace said in a quiet voice, “No concrete leads yet. We’re working every possible angle, though.”

  Hackley raised one finger. “Not every angle. There’s always one more.”

  Mace noticed Stokes appraising Patty. “Dennis, I’d like you to meet Detective Patty Lane, my primary on this. Patty, Dennis Hackley, our COD.”

  With a warm smile, Hackley extended one hand. “I’ve heard good things about you, Detective.”