The Frenzy Way

by Gregory Lamberson

  Patty watched his enormous shadow on the wall. “Can you run on those?”

  “I can walk briskly,” Ricky said through the werewolf’s mouth.

  “You can’t run.”

  Ricky became silent.

  “So jumping out of a second-story window, landing on the sidewalk, and running away are out of the question.”

  Ricky removed the mask. “None of the above, unless I used wires. Look, I like the man-in-a-suit routine. It’s classic. But it isn’t how things are done these days, at least on shows with real budgets. Everything’s CGI or motion capture. I’m old school, a renaissance man. But these suits are cumbersome. They would never allow you to perform the kinds of gymnastics you’re describing.”

  “Thanks for the demonstration,” Mace said.

  Ricky gesticulated with his wolf claws. “My pleasure.”

  As they turned to leave Patty said, “Good luck with your career.”

  Ricky walked over to the door. “Hey, you too. Good luck, I mean. Catch that werewolf!” He let loose a howl.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  On the walk back to the car Mace called Landry in the squad room for an update while Patty contacted various detectives in the field.

  “Nothing,” Patty said as she pocketed her cell phone. “We’ve tracked down all of Glenzer’s students, but no one’s been able to provide a link other than his class between Glenzer and Harper. I guess we should head back to the squad room.”

  “I want to stop somewhere first.”

  “I don’t have time—” “It’s related to the case.”

  A wooden sign swung on an iron bar extending out from bricks over the display window. The words Synful Reading had been etched into the wood in an old-fashioned European font, then burned and shellacked. Occult Curiosities appeared in the window in white lettering. A child’s coffin lay behind the glass, the raised lid displaying several books with the words magik, wiccan, and witchcraft in the titles. On each side of the coffin, thick candles dripped wax over human skulls.

  Patty drew on her cigarette. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I indulged your curiosity; you indulge mine.”

  “This is really thinking outside the box.”

  “Maybe we’ll learn something about Glenzer’s state of mind.”

  “I can tell you his state of mind: he believed in werewolves. That’s crazy.”

  “And he was murdered by someone pretending to be a werewolf.”

  “Opposites aren’t the only ones who attract. Birds of a feather …”

  “Let’s check it out.”

  Patty flicked her half-smoked cigarette at the curb, leaving it to smolder. As she turned to enter the shop with Mace, a pair of boys wearing backpacks passed them.

  “What do you call a wolf who falls into a washing machine?” one boy asked the other.

  “I dunno, what?”

  “A wash n’ wear wolf!”

  They watched the laughing boys melt into the crowd of punk rockers, drug addicts, and sidewalk salespeople.

  “School’s out,” Patty said. “The day’s half over.”

  Mace opened the door. “Not for you.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Inside the shop, exotic aromas assailed their senses, the sickly sweet scents rising from incense burning on the glass countertop. Mace almost gagged. They faced floor-to-ceiling wooden bookcases lined with jars of herbs. He saw a rack supporting red, white, and black robes. Beyond that, half a dozen customers combed through books. Mace focused on an older woman with a funky, downtown fashion sense and a tall young man with heavy eyeliner, dressed all in black.

  “Freak show,” Patty said in singsong under her breath.

  These people are weirder than weird, Mace thought. He had grown accustomed to Village eccentrics, but he found something disturbing about people who actually believed in the occult and the supernatural. White magic, dark magic, he didn’t care; in his book, just believing in such things corrupted people to their core. This went beyond a simple desire to live on the fringe of society. “May I help you?”

  Mace and Patty turned in unison, and Mace’s instincts prickled at the sight of the woman standing before them: five feet tall, with long, shiny black hair cascading over her shoulders. Her black leather dress hugged her tiny waist and curved hips, adding lift to her small breasts, and her pronounced cheekbones and full lips gave her an ethnic appearance. Mace wondered what intermingling had produced her genes.

  “Don’t look at me,” Patty said to herself in a low, dismissive voice.

  The woman’s bright brown eyes registered amusement at Patty’s obvious disdain for her.

  “Yes, you can. We’re looking for this book.” Mace handed her a slip of paper with Landry’s handwriting on it.

  The woman looked at the title. “Transmogrification in Native American Mythology.” Looking deep into Mace’s eyes, she almost smiled. “Suddenly a very popular title.” She had a voice like black licorice.

  “You do carry it, don’t you?”

  She nodded. “Exclusively. But we sold out a couple of hours ago. Sudden celebrity breeds best sellers, even in our little niche world.”

  “Can you get it back in stock?”

  “I’m afraid not. We bought our inventory directly from Terry.”

  “You knew Professor Glenzer?”

  She nodded. “He was a very sweet man.”

  “How well did you know him?”

  The woman exaggerated the amusement in her smile, making it clear to Mace that she found him overly curious. “I carried his previous books. When he couldn’t find a publisher for this one and self-published it, I agreed to carry it on consignment.”

  “How many copies did you take?”

  “Are you a cop or with the IRS?”

  “We’re cops.”

  “In that case, thirty.”

  “And how many of those did you sell today?”

  “Maybe half. But we sold all thirty since his death. People can be such vultures.”

  Now it was Mace’s turn to suppress a smile. “My name’s Mace.” He offered her a business card.

  The woman’s gaze darted to the card, then up again. “Captain.”

  Mace gestured to Patty. “And this is Detective Lane. We’re investigating Professor Glenzer’s murder, and we’d really like to get our hands on a copy of that book. It could be germane to our investigation. Did any of your regular customers buy it, someone you could direct us toward?”

  “You should have said you wanted the book for that purpose. Terry gave my father and me each an inscribed copy when we agreed to carry it. My father’s too ill to read, and I don’t expect him to recover.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “He suffers from dementia. I haven’t told him about Terry’s murder, but I’m sure he’d want you to have his copy if it would help your investigation.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  She stepped behind the counter and returned with an oversized trade paperback. Mace recognized the cover from his online research: the face of a wolf with white and brown fur stared back at him. She handed the book to him, and he looked at the price on the back cover and fished for his wallet.

  “I wouldn’t think of accepting payment under these circumstances,” she said.

  Mace opened the cover to an inscription signed by Terrence Glenzer to Angus. Then he plucked a business card from the counter and read it. Angela Domini, Manager. “Thank you, Angela.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Patty’s cell phone rang and she answered it. Jamming one finger inside her other ear, she said, “Speak up. I can’t hear you.” She turned her back to Mace and Angela. “Are you serious? … We’re on our way.” Shutting off her phone, she said to Mace, “Let’s roll.”

  As they left the store, Angela said, “I hope you catch him.”

  “We will,” Mace said.

  “That was Landry,” Patty said outside. “The One-One-Four just called him. Our perp
was murdered.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “In France, between 1598 and 1600, a French magistrate ordered the executions of six hundred people accused of being werewolves. All told, some thirty thousand people were executed under that particular accusation.”

  —Transmogrification in Native American Mythology, Terrence Glenzer

  Pedro sat staring at his cell phone.

  “Bad news?” Father Hagen said. They sat in the priest’s office.

  Pedro shook his head. “Monsignor Delecarte just text messaged me the number of Professor Glenzer’s cell phone.”

  Father Hagen cocked one eyebrow. “What good will that do you?”

  Pedro tapped the cell phone in his hand. “He must want me to call it.”

  The priest knitted his eyebrows. “For what possible reason?”

  “If the professor was murdered for the Blade, it’s possible his killer took the phone. May I have a pen and a piece of paper?”

  “Of course.” Father Hagen handed the items to Pedro and watched the man jot ideas down on the paper, cross them out, think, and start over until he had completed a script.

  Then Pedro entered the phone number into his cell phone and waited. After a moment, he spoke in a very clear voice. “Hello. Do you need salvation? Your secret is safe with me. I’ve come a long way to meet you. Call me today.” Closing the phone, he exhaled. “Good. Monsignor Delecarte will be pleased.”

  Father Hagen admired Pedro’s ingenuity. “If you get a response …”

  “I will get a response.”

  “Until then, there’s nothing for us to do. Use this opportunity to see the city. Go to the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building. Miguel will escort you.”

  “I’d prefer to see the city alone.”

  “As you wish.”

  Watching Pedro leave, Hagen felt a sense of unease growing in the pit of his stomach. Pedro seemed hot for blood.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  As Patty drove over the Queens Bridge, Mace flipped through the pages of Transmogrification in Native American Mythology.

  “That was one strange chick,” Patty said.

  “She was playing a role. I don’t think she believes that nonsense. She’s just catering to a niche clientele.”

  “If you say so.”

  He read out loud, “‘The White Man declared war on the American wolf in 1620, when the howling of wolves awoke Pilgrims on board the Mayflower, anchored in Cape Cod Bay. The Pilgrims brought with them their European superstitions and prejudices, and ten years later, the Massachusetts Bay Colony implemented the first wolf bounty.”’

  “That goddamned White Man,” Patty said.

  “‘In 1632, the Virginia colony enlisted Indians to voluntarily help eradicate the wolves, but South Carolina’s 1695 Act for Destroying Beasts of Prey required Indians to turn over one wolf skin, one panther skin, or one bear skin. Those who refused were whipped. Thus, the White Invaders forced Native Americans to hunt and kill their own gods.’”

  Patty shook her head without saying anything.

  Mace turned the page. “Three hundred and thirty thousand wolves were killed between 1780 and 1799. In 1915, Congress appropriated one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars for the destruction of wolves, coyotes, and ‘other animals injurious to agriculture and animal husbandry.’ By 1920, the government employed four hundred federal hunters assigned to killing wolves.”

  “Sounds like we screwed the wolves even worse than we did the Indians,” Patty said.

  “Wolves are just animals.” Mace flipped through the pages, then came to a sudden stop, pulse quickening. “I don’t believe it.”

  Patty glanced over at him. “What?”

  “See for yourself.” He held the open book over the dashboard so she could see it without too much distraction. A full-page illustration depicted a sword with a long, wide blade and a large hilt. A detail of the drawing showed the hilt only, with a hooded man staring in one direction and a wolf staring the other way carved into the pommel. “The Blade of Salvation.”

  “Get the fuck outta here.”

  “Glenzer’s own book answers the riddle of the broken sword. ‘During the Spanish Inquisition, witches were burned at the stake, but werewolves were decapitated. The executioner of were-creatures wielded a sword forged in silver and blessed by the pope. The weapon later disappeared. It is likely the mythology that has sprung up over the centuries involving silver bullets and knives stems directly from the so-called Blade of Salvation.’ In Glenzer’s letter to that priest who came by this morning, he referred to the sword as ‘the Blade.’”

  Patty’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “He must have wanted the sword because of its connection to the church. Whoever killed Glenzer wanted it too. The question is, where did Glenzer get it, and what did he intend to do with it?”

  “You said he went on sabbatical to research this book. Maybe he discovered it then. His emotional problems at school didn’t start untilhe came back, right? It has to be valuable or he wouldn’t have locked it in that safe.”

  “And he wouldn’t have been torn to pieces over it.”

  In his mind, Mace assembled an imaginary puzzle. “The killer had to know Glenzer had the sword. He knew of Glenzer’s paranoia and played it to his advantage. He doesn’t believe he’s a werewolf at all.”

  “Then why keep up the charade when he attacked Sarah Harper?”

  Mace shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  The 114th Precinct, located on Astoria Boulevard in Queens, covered Astoria, Long Island City, Woodside, and Jackson Heights. Although a very large Greek population resided within the patrol area, a real melting pot had formed there in the last several years. Mace had heard grumblings within the department, increasingly louder talk of corruption reaching epidemic proportions. The clock was ticking on when several scandals would erupt.

  “I grew up in Jackson Heights,” Patty had said as they drove beneath the elevated train tracks.

  “I guess the neighborhood’s changed a lot.” Mace gazed out the window at the multiethnic civilians moving from shop to shop.

  “Every neighborhood has,” she said matter-of-factly.

  Standing outside the interview room, they observed a female suspect through the one-way viewing window. Her curly black hair hung down around her shoulders, and she wore a vest over her blouse, her sandaled feet extending from her skirt.

  “She’s cold, that one,” Detective Taylor Wood said. “Just told the officers on the scene, ‘I killed my husband.’” Wood wore his hair ina buzz cut and his belly over his belt. His wide tie hung loose around his neck.

  “What’s her name?” Patty said.

  “Aishe Danior. Husband’s name was Peter. He drove a gypsy cab at night. She’s a gypsy and so was he, and he drove a gypsy cab. Funny, huh?”

  “Hilarious. How’d she do him?”

  “She says she poisoned him, stabbed him in the heart, cut off his head, and torched his body in the bathtub. We can confirm those last three, but we need toxicology to test the body for poison. Good luck with that; it’s toast. FDNY arrived on the scene first and put out the fire.”

  Mace said, “And she killed him because …”

  “He was a loup-garou—a werewolf. That’s why we called you. You’re the big monster hunters, right?”

  Patty said, “Mind if we take a crack at her?”

  “Be my guest,” Wood said, gesturing at the door. “But I don’t see the point. She already confessed. Just remember, if there’s a book in this, I’m the arresting detective.”

  Patty went through the door alone.

  Wood gave Mace a conspiratorial look. “You got my sympathy.”

  “Save it for someone who needs it.” Mace followed Patty inside the interview room and closed the door. They sat in metal folding chairs on the opposite side of the table from Aishe, who looked younger and more attractive up close.

  Patty said, “Mrs. Danior—”

  “Don’t
call me by that name.” Her voice was like ice.

  “What would you like us to call you?”

  The woman’s gaze shifted from Patty to Mace and back. “My maiden name is Petulengro. I am Aishe Petulengro.”

  “Aishe. That’s a pretty name. What does it mean?”

  Aishe smiled in an unconvincing manner. “It means ‘alive.’ Something Pitti can no longer claim.”

  “Pitti?”

  “My late husband. The animal I murdered. Pitti and Peter are the same. He tried to Americanize himself. I did not. Do you want to know what Danior means?”

  “Sure.”

  “It means ‘born with teeth.’” She said this as if it had great significance.

  “That’s a lovely accent you have.”

  “My family is from France.”

  “Is that where Pitti was from too?”

  “Of course not. Pitti was a peasant. His family is from Spain.”

  “If you were from different countries, and you disliked him so much …”

  “We were both Roma people, gypsies. That is what matters. Our parents arranged our marriage so I could come here for a better life.” She laughed, a sarcastic sound.

  “And what went wrong?”

  Aishe looked at Patty as if she were a fool. “You mean, why did I kill him? I already told the fat cop. Because Pitti was a loup-garou, a werewolf.”

  Patty held the woman’s gaze. “So he was the man who committed the murders the last two nights and claimed to be a werewolf?”

  Aishe snorted. “He did commit those murders, and he was a werewolf. Believe what you want.”

  “Let’s discuss what you believe. Why do you think your husband was a werewolf?”

  Aishe pointed above the bridge of her nose. “He had a single eyebrow across his forehead.”

  “A unibrow?”

  “And his palms were hairy. Have you ever seen a man with hairy palms, either of you?” She glanced at Mace, who shook his head. Turning back to Patty, she said, “He liked to fuck me from behind, like a dog. Always when the moon was full.” She leaned forward. “Only when the moon was full. Can you imagine? How could he not be a loup-garou?”