The Frenzy Way

by Gregory Lamberson

  Not an animal, he thought. Came in here as a man.

  Creeping forward, he heard his own labored breathing. Every doorway could mean his death. Sweat formed on his brow, and the butt of his Glock felt wet in his hands.

  At the bottom of the final flight of stairs, he gazed up at the sky. Mounting the stairs, he realized the door had been removed from its hinges. Outside on the roof, another perimeter sweep revealed that Angela had disappeared. Escaped or abducted?

  Mace stood on the divider and studied the steel traps that had been set and the arrow sticking out of the silver roof. They tried to take him out. Hearing sirens approaching, he made his way to the far side of the adjoining roof, where he stepped over Stalk’s bow and peered over the retainer wall. Stalk’s headless corpse lay splayed on the fire escape below, its torso split open and guts spilled out, the rusted metal dripping crimson. A dark splotch on the street marked the head’s impact point.

  The spectators scattered as two squad cars screeched to a stop outside the building. Turning to head downstairs, Mace noticed a crushed red rose at his feet.

  Mace’s hands shook as he sipped his coffee with Chu standing beside him. Six squad cars had cordoned off the street and uniforms held back the press, but he knew the cameramen were shooting the bloody fire escape with zoom lenses. Hector Rodriguez and his CSU team fanned out, covering the sidewalk, street, and building. The sun set and camera flashes joined the cruiser strobes in illuminating the scene. Flares on the asphalt spat green flames.

  “I saw it,” Mace said to Chu. “I fucking saw it. A goddamned werewolf. It was enormous.”

  “Don’t say anything now,” Chu said.

  They watched Dennis Hackley head their way.

  Bad sign, Mace thought. The big brass.

  “First one in broad daylight,” Hackley said with a grave expression. “Any other witnesses, Tony?”

  “They scattered like jackrabbits.”

  “There’s nothing else you can do here. Go back to the squad room and fill out your report.” He raised one finger. “Say nothing to anyone. Lou, I’m making you the primary here.”

  Looking displeased, Chu nodded. “Okay, as long as I don’t inherit the entire bag of shit.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Hackley said.

  Mace surveyed the scene. “I have to get out of here.”

  Neither of his superiors objected.

  Mace’s mind raced on the chauffeured drive back to the station. How was any of this possible? And how the hell was he going to report it? The bosses would crucify him if he told the truth, and with a baby on the way, he needed to keep his job.

  Four more years until I’m eligible to retire at minimum pay grade, he thought. Got to stick it out and protect my own neck. But what about Patty and the other murder victims? They deserved better than his silence. What about the city?

  In the squad room, Landry hurried over to him. “What the hell happened?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He saw Gibbons watching them from inside the command office. “What can I do?”

  “Assign a team to find Angela Domini.” Then he went into his office, sat at his desk, and took a deep breath. His knees shook as he keyed in his report.

  Mace smelled steaks cooking when he opened his apartment door, and a moment later Cheryl emerged from the kitchen. He had phoned her on the taxi ride home.

  “Hi,” Cheryl said. “Dinner will be ready in ten minutes. Where’s your coat?”

  “I need a shower.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  He kissed her, then went into the bedroom and stripped. In the shower, he allowed the steam to engulf him, burning his skin and opening his pores. He stood still, body absorbing the hot water and clearing his mind. When he sensed that ten minutes had passed, he shut off the water, toweled dry, and changed into sweatpants and a NYPD T-shirt.

  Sitting at the table in the dining area, he felt Cheryl’s eyes on him as he poured himself a glass of red wine. He had stopped drinking alcohol when she had given it up because of her pregnancy.

  “I think I felt a kick today,” she said.

  He mustered a smile. “That’s great.”

  “Are you going to tell me what happened? I saw you on the news. I know there was another murder. So why are you only home late instead of at some godforsaken hour?”

  He chewed on his food. “I saw it, babe.”

  “The murder?”

  “That too. I saw the killer.” He summoned the words. “It wasn’t human.”

  She held his gaze. “What was it, then?”

  “A werewolf, for lack of a better term.”

  She said nothing.

  “It was some sort of creature that looked like a wolf as much as it did a man. It sure as hell wasn’t a costume.” He described Stalk’s murder without divulging the bloody details.

  Cheryl listened to his story wide-eyed, then said, “Were there any other witnesses?”

  “Yeah, but most of them took off.”

  “And you reported what you just told me?”

  He nodded.

  She squeezed his hand. “You can’t speak to anyone outside the department about this. In fact, don’t speak to anyone in the department about it. The media will eat you alive. It will mean more than your job; it will mean your reputation for the rest of your life.”

  “I know that. One true crime book is enough.”

  She rose. “I’m going to bed. Coming?”

  “In a while. I’m going to take care of these dishes, then watch some TV.”

  She kissed him. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.” As he watched her go into the bedroom, he wondered if she believed him. How can she?

  Lying on the sofa, he surfed the channels. Cable news. Everywhere he looked, the Manhattan Werewolf’s latest murder rated the top spot and extra coverage. At a press conference, Carl Stokes assured reporters that the killer was human and the NYPD was following leads. On a tabloid news show, artists’ renderings of werewolves filled the screen. On The History Channel, a somber voice detailed medieval European mythology. AMC showed a movie called Dog Soldiers. On Fox 5, the ten o’clock news devoted twenty minutes to the story. On nearly every channel, man-in-the-street interviews revealed that fear had gripped the city.

  True to his word, Stokes had made Mace the case’s face. More than once, Mace heard the phrase “NYPD hero cop.” But he didn’t feel like a hero.

  At 11:35, after the last local news broadcast, he went to bed. Turning on his bedside lamp, he climbed in next to Cheryl and opened Terrence Glenzer’s book. Neither Chu nor Hackley had called him with a reaction to his report.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  “We can’t just let nature run wild.”

  —Alaska Governor Walter Hickel

  “This report is fantasy,” Dunegan said with a scowl as he raised a printed report in both hands and dropped it on his desk. “A piece of fiction. Bad fiction at that. The kind you read on an airplane when you forget your good book at home.”

  Mace sat between Chu and Hackley, with Chiles behind him. Stokes stood gazing out the window, his back to the other men in the room.

  Mace shook his head. “I’m afraid it isn’t. It’s what I saw. It’s what happened. And every one of us in this room has to deal with it.”

  Dunegan drummed his fingers on his desk. “Werewolves don’t exist, Captain. No matter what the more sensationalistic members of the media would have the citizens of this city believe.”

  Mace chose his next words carefully. “I didn’t say it was a werewolf. I called it a ‘lupine creature.’”

  “Lupine as in—”

  “Wolflike.”

  “And creature—”

  “As in nonhuman. A previously unidentified species, just as the FBI suggested.”

  “According to the FBI, that report was given in confidence off the record. Your report is an altogether different breed of animal. What about your previous theory that the killer simply
wears a costume?”

  Mace didn’t blink. “Having seen it with my own eyes, I find that extremely improbable.”

  “More improbable than the Wolf Man taking a bite out of the Big Apple? Whatever you saw, you witnessed from four stories beneath a fire escape. There’s no way you had a clear view. It’s completely understandable that your eyes deceived you under those circumstances, especially with your mind filled with nonsensical press headlines and easily discredited eyewitness accounts.”

  He’s trying to give me an easy way out, Mace thought. “I’m only the first living cop to see what at least one hundred civilians have seen. I won’t be the last.”

  “That just makes you the latest victim of mass hysteria. Don’t you see? It’s the media that’s created this monster.”

  Not this time, Mace thought as he sat forward. “What we’re dealing with is mounting evidence of a killer the likes of which this city—this country—has never seen. At least not since the Indians sold this island for twenty-four dollars. I’ve been to every crime scene. I’ve seen the aftermath of this perp’s handiwork. I just missed seeing what he did to Patty Lane. And I saw what he did to John Stalk with my own eyes. The more evidence we’re presented with, the more we dig our heels in and refuse to accept the truth.”

  “You keep contradicting yourself,” Stokes said, turning around. “Earlier you called our unknown subject a ‘lupine creature.’ Now you call him a ‘perp.’ Which one is it?”

  Mace hesitated. “Maybe both.” He felt, rather than saw, Chu and Hackley distancing themselves from him. “We found discarded clothes on the stairway of that building—”

  “Crackheads,” Hackley said.

  “They were designer threads, clean, left there that same day. The perp sure as hell looked human in that video when he attacked Patty, and he sure as hell didn’t look human when he disemboweled Stalk.”

  “A costume, like the deputy commissioner suggested,” Stokes said. “Or two different perps. A man and a wolf.”

  “Wolves can’t be trained.”

  “Then a mixed breed, half dog and half wolf. That would explain the suspect DNA.”

  “Maybe we should just call out Animal Control,” Mace said, losing his patience.

  “I grant you we’re dealing with something that’s extremely difficult to categorize,” Stokes said, “but that doesn’t mean we have to drag the supernatural into the situation. The public is frightened enough as it is, and I don’t need you making my job any harder.”

  Mace gave Stokes a hard look. “I appreciate your position. But you haven’t made my job any easier by making my face as associated with this case as our rendering of the perp.”

  “I had to give them something.”

  “So it might as well be me, right?”

  Stokes became quiet again.

  “Since when is it our job to keep the truth from the media? Our job should be spreading the truth. Our job should be finding the truth. Our job—”

  “Thank you for the lecture,” Dunegan said. “You look tired. Maybe you need some rest.”

  “Respectfully, Commissioner, I’ll get plenty of rest when this case is closed. You put me in charge, and I intend to see it through, regardless of the consequences.”

  “And just how do you propose to do that? You’re no closer than you were after the first murder.”

  “First of all, I’ve put out an APB for Angela Domini. Stalk was staying at her apartment, and he left our custody with her. She witnessed his murder from ten feet away, so maybe you won’t dismiss her account as easily as you have mine. She’s either missing or hiding. Her two brothers run a crematorium, but they say they don’t know where she is. The occult bookstore she owns closed early yesterday before Stalk was murdered. She’s the key to this whole thing. And I’d like to point out to every one of you that our unknown subject didn’t leave messages at the scenes of Patty’s murder and Stalk’s murder because we were hot on his tail, so we are getting closer.”

  “Occult bookstore,” Dunegan said with disgust. “What else?”

  “I want the Emergency Services Unit to deploy all its Hummers to Lower Manhattan and keep them in rotation there.”

  “That’s a little over the top—don’t you think?” Chiles said. “The Village will look like a war zone.”

  “After seven murders I don’t think it’s over the top at all. I’d also like the Aviation Unit to fly choppers carrying tactical and Hercules counterterrorism units over the killing zones around the clock.”

  “Do you have any idea how much that will cost?”

  “If a tactical team had been airborne yesterday it could have taken out our unknown subject.”

  “Anything else?” Dunegan said.

  “I’d like to employ some rather unorthodox methods to bring our boy down.”

  Dunegan smirked at Mace. “Do tell.”

  “I want to arm our people with silver bullets.”

  “The entire force? Just how fat do you think our budget is?”

  “At least some select officers, then. Like the chopper snipers.”

  “Your requests have been noted—especially the one about the silver bullets—and they’re denied. How is it you just happened to stumble onto yesterday’s homicide, anyway?”

  Mace’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t stumble on it. I went to Domini’s apartment looking for Stalk. I just got there too late.”

  “And what was so damned important that you deserted your command when you were supposed to be supervising this investigation?”

  Mace felt his throat turning dry. “As the primary detective, I have to be free to work in the field. I wanted to speak to Stalk about the case.”

  “Because he believed in werewolves?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And just a few hours before that you took a field trip out to Sing Sing to see your Full Moon Killer, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is he a werewolf too?”

  Mace shrugged. “Possibly.”

  Sitting back in his chair, Dunegan glanced at Hackley. “I’m sorry. I know he’s your protégé, but I’ve heard enough.”

  Hackley offered a defeated smile.

  “Captain Mace, you’re off this case as of now. In fact, I want you out of Homicide. I don’t ever want you in a real command position again. Clear out your desk; you’re suspended until further notice, pending a psychiatric evaluation.” He faced Chu. “Since Dennis designated you the primary investigator on the Indian’s murder, you fill out the report on his death. Use the same case number Mace did.” He returned his attention to Mace. “I order you not to discuss this case with anyone. Do not discuss werewolves, vampires, or ‘previously unidentified species.’ Do you hear me? Not even to your shrink.”

  Mace snorted. “I’ve got sixteen years in on the job. I didn’t ask for this bag of shit to be dumped on me.”

  “Actually, you did,” Dunegan said. “You specifically took it over when Lane was murdered, rather than assign it to your lieutenant or another detective. But we all get handed cases we don’t want. For instance, Inspector Chu and Chief of Detectives Hackley are now goingto take over this case, and I’m sure neither one of them is very happy about it. You have no one to blame for your present predicament but yourself. Go off and manage our evidence. Be an overpaid file clerk. Or resign. I really don’t care which of those options you choose. But if anything we’ve discussed here surfaces in the press or in any book, I swear I’ll find a way to bring you up on charges.”

  Mace rose, then looked from Chu to Hackley. Dunegan was right; neither of them looked very happy. “Ken Landry and Willy Diega know the case inside out. They’ll ensure a smooth transition. If you change your mind, you know how to reach me.”

  “Turn your weapons over to Inspector Chu.”

  He had not expected that. Chu avoided his eyes as he accepted the holstered Glock and the .38 that Mace wore strapped to his ankle. Then Mace left the commissioner’s office for the last time. />
  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  After calling Cheryl to give her the news, Mace hailed a taxi and instructed its driver to take him to Queens. His days of personal police escorts were over. Sitting in the backseat, he loosened his tie and spied a copy of the Manhattan Werewolf suspect rendering taped to the back of the driver’s seat. Someone had drawn animal features and fur over the likeness. It pleased him that the driver played reggae music because he had no interest in listening to the news. He had grown sick of the coverage resulting from a twenty-four-hour news cycle.

  As the taxi sped along Queens Boulevard, he asked himself why he was following his present course of action when he had been dismissed from the case and suspended. After sixteen years of loyalty, he owed the department nothing. The answer came to him in a series of names: Terrence Glenzer. Sarah Harper. Mandy Lee. Patty Lane. Matt Schwaebel. Alberto Santana. John Stalk. And even Peter Danior. No matter what his superiors did to him, this was his city and he was still a murder police.

  As the taxi turned onto Jamaica Avenue, he studied the faces and activity on the street. The area was a long way from the Village; it feltlike a different country. Busy and ethnic and more concerned with supermarket sales than artistic pretenses or fashion trends. This neighborhood felt free of the fear that hung over the Village. A church came into view, and the driver pulled over. Mace paid the man, collected a receipt, and got out.

  Passing the gated driveway, he climbed the concrete steps leading to the front doors and entered the vestibule. He counted three people spread out among the pews in the worship hall. As his rubber-soled shoes padded across the carpeted aisle, he focused on the crucifixion statue mounted on the far wall above the pulpit. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man mopping the floor in the far right-hand corner: short, muscular, Hispanic. As he approached the man, he guessed he was a Dominican in his midtwenties. Well groomed but not pampered. The man looked up, and Mace registered a dangerous glint in his eyes.

  He can tell I’m a cop. Maybe he’s an ex-con. But he’s no gangbanger.