by Ronnie Allen
All the while, she pondered her next move with Clancy.
***
Manhattan never slept even in the dead of winter, but this area in the lower west side dozed.
Pushing out the door into the snow-filled streets, Clancy staggered and onlookers moved to avoid him. “The nerve of that bitch to ignore me like that.” Some young hookers on the street rushed past him. “Who are you lookin’ at?”
The streetlights made round reflections in the snow, which was dirty from the traffic and pedestrians struggling their way through it. It was eerie walking here at this hour. The sleaziness. The danger. The loneliness. Clancy liked it this way. He had a lot to hide and the less people saw him, the better.
Out of breath, with frigid air coming out of his nose, he wobbled and struggled to keep himself upright. He passed a couple of vintage furniture stores, a modern art gallery, a theater, a tailor shop, and a park that closed at three a.m. He made it down the brownstone and tree-lined side street to the abandoned house on the corner. It was the perfect temporary home for him. With broken windows, doors boarded up, bricks falling down from the sides, and graffiti sprawled all over, no one would care about the non-rent-paying tenant.
Walking down the steps to the studio basement apartment, Clancy eyed two rats scrounging around the overflowing garbage pail. He threw his knapsack over them to scoop them up, taking them by surprise.
“These little cocksuckers’ll be put to good use soon,” he mumbled as he zipped up the sack. With his fingers trembling from the cold, he turned the key in the padlock to open the door. He plopped down on the weathered Salvation Army couch he got for twenty bucks and scanned the room. He’d developed this habit every time he returned to make sure everything was still there. The cameras--Arriflex 35 mm, and an old Mitchell along with different lenses, a stead cam, base tracking, and hand held cameras, and a photo developing tent in one corner, which had not been used in years, since the industry went from film to digital--were all he had left. Against the wall was a shelf with statues. Some Emmys and one Oscar. He picked up one of the Emmy’s, read the inscription with his name, Clancy Davis, as if he needed to remember they were his. He hurled the Emmy onto a table holding a stack of Cinematography magazines. The head broke off and rolled onto the floor.
***
In her palatial, six-room, Central Park West apartment the stripper relaxed on her six-thousand dollar royal blue, velvet, wing-arm couch in the living room. She had updated the apartment’s 1950s era décor during the last twelve years since she “inherited” it. She flipped open the laptop on the mirrored glass coffee table. Lights reflected off every wall and item of furniture. She lived in a maze of glass. Fragile glass that could shatter in a moment’s notice. Fragile, just like her life.
It was six a.m. She hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours.
Googling Clancy Davis, she found him on the first page.
Oh, yeah. I could sure use your talents, Clancy. This is a tad dated but I’ll find you. I always do. I’ll find you. Use you. And dispose of you. Just like all the others. And you’ll never know what hit you. Just have to make sure the cops aren’t after you. Can’t afford them busting in here. I’m much too precious to be in a cage. Nope. That’s not even an option. Now, to make sure.
She reached for a wooden box on the coffee table. The painted eagle and the Native American woman on the top of the dark blue box peered into her eyes. She opened it and lifted a deck of tarot cards into her left hand. She asked a question. Is Clancy the right man for this mission?
She shuffled the deck, split it in two, revealing the Major Arcana card, The Magician, and the Nine of Cups, also known as the Genie card.
Perfect. The two most positive cards in the deck. I’m on a roll now. Thank you, Universe.
She slipped the two cards back into the deck, kissed the top card, compressed the deck to her heart, replaced it in the box, and then leaned back on the couch.
She pulled off the wig, shook her head, revealing long, highlighted blonde hair. She popped out the emerald contact lenses and then pulled off the boots, emptying the contents onto the hand-woven, sky-blue shag carpet that mimicked the color of her eyes. Out flew bills in twenties, fifties, and a few hundreds.
Last to hit the carpet with a bounce was a Charter Arms Pink Lady .38 caliber.
My closest and dearest friend. My only friend.
She embraced the mother-of-pearl, pink-marbleized grip in the palm of her hands, bringing it up to her lips. She adorned it with a long sensual kiss, running her mouth from the short handle to the end of the metallic pink barrel. She then moaned an exaggerated, long, and relaxed sigh. Coming back to the present, she removed its five bullets and put them into a heart-shaped jeweled treasure box coated in its entirety with emeralds and rubies with a diamond tiara serving as the handle. She then placed it back on the far right corner of the table--its permanent place.
She had decorated the apartment in yellows, blues, and accents in hot pink, which were very calming to her anything-but-calm life. She loved her cartoon paintings, many of them of princesses from contemporary artists. She received peace in the sense of magic, charm, and whimsy, but no child had set foot in this home.
This was her private haven, where she escaped from all of the death around her. All of the death she’d caused. All of the deaths she planned to cause.
CHAPTER 2
Chief of Forensic Psychiatry, Dr. John Trenton, PhD, MD, had a few uninterrupted hours in which to write his reports from the huge stack on his desk in his office at Manhattan Psych.
The patient follow-up treatment plans, pre-trial evaluations, and criminal profiling he had to complete for the NYPD had stringent requirements and deadlines. He hand marked every document with the date he intended to complete it. More importantly, he had to make sure his patients met the criteria for being under the umbrella of “forensic” patient. Once a treatment plan was modified, or a patient was deemed fit to stand trial, their classification changed. His mind ruminated over the few patients to whom this applied.
Those files would be on hold for just for a few minutes as he stared blankly at the title of a medical text he was writing scrawled on a yellow note pad. Holistic Forensic Psychiatry: Making the Mind-Body Connection. Today he had trouble making his own connection.
With his elbows on the arms of his chair and his hands clasped under his chin, he swiveled around and contemplated his framed diplomas on the wall above the couch. Encased in matching wood frames were his degrees and organizational affiliations with The National Medical Association, The United States Academy of Psychiatrists and The Law, and The United States Psychiatric Association. He was proud that these depicted his codes of ethics and standing in the forensic psychiatry community, as they were more prestigious than those just issuing licensure. At forty-five, he had achieved more than most doctors. He was the youngest department head in any New York City hospital.
And after today, his accomplishments would be all he had left.
As much as he tried to concentrate, his gaze kept going back to framed photos on his oversized colonial desk. Not a day went by that he didn’t reflect on these photos. His beautiful wife Vicki, with a golden blonde ponytail, wearing a light pink T-shirt, short shorts, and flip flops sat in the bright sun on a lounge poolside. He picked up the photo and smiled at the date. Exactly a year ago. Her contagious smile and sparkling, round blue eyes showed contentment in her rural Central Florida hometown. And she was leaving him tonight on a five p.m. flight to go back home. No matter how hard she tried, she never considered New York City her home. He hadn’t been able to sleep or drum up the energy to work out since she told him she was leaving two weeks ago. How could he deny the woman he loved so much her happiness? He couldn’t. He was going to have to let her go. He sniffled to hold back emotions that would flood out of him had he not had control. He felt his eyes burn. He began to sweat. He loosened his shirt collar. But he was at work. He had to hold it in. He put down the photo of Vicki, pu
t his lips to his platinum wedding band, and lifted the other photo.
Five-year-old Ricky and he had slept together, wrapped in each other’s arms with Ricky’s blond curly head on John’s bare muscular chest. Ricky’s tanned skin made John ghostlike in comparison. He noticed his hair. It was jet black then, wilder, and a little longer--a couple of inches below his neck. He ran his fingers through his hair, acknowledging the change. He’d become gray at the temples and through the crown. But he still had all of it. He couldn’t believe it. Three years made such a difference. His life was so different. It had been so much better until two weeks ago. Tears welled in his eyes again, and his breathing became stifled as he went into a daydream and saw five-year-old Ricky being taken away on a September morning in Florida by Social Services. He thought about him every day. He sent out messages to the universe to bring Ricky back.
So far no answers.
***
An arthritic left hand, with the crippled fingers of an aging man, slipped unnoticed behind the stainless steel counter in the hospital’s kitchen and depressed the silver panic button.
***
“Dr. Trenton, Code Silver, STAT!”
Hearing his page snapped John back. “How the hell did that happen? There’s the word maximum before security for a reason! Damn it!”
He took a precious moment to grab a black tourmaline log from his desk, holding it in the palm of his right hand. One deep breath to ground him. That’s all he allowed himself. He replaced the log on his desk. Then he took off his Rolex and secured it in a locked box in his desk drawer.
Throwing his long white lab coat over his dark gray pin striped Armani suit, he ran out of the room, preparing his mind and body for a lengthy confrontation. This would be a serious one, as serious as it could get in this facility. He had taken control of these crisis interventions with the most severe psychopathic and psychotic criminals in New York City for the past ten years, since finishing his psychiatric residency and fellowship training here. As well trained as he was, the outcomes were always uncertain.
“Dr. Trenton! Kitchen.”
Kitchen? They’re kidding me, right? The Kitchen? The food isn’t that bad.
***
“Yous stay in the corner.” Hal, the twenty-four-year-old patient, stood blocking the exit and pointed to the far left corner in the kitchen next to the largest counter space, as he grabbed the paring knife off the prep counter. Waving the knife, he almost dropped it from his trembling hand.
Stan, the head chef for the past thirty years, and twenty-two-year-old Bobby, both wearing cooking whites and hairnets, huddled in the corner. Stan took a pill out of his pocket and popped it under his tongue. A nitro.
A burning odor permeated the space. Smoke came out of the pilot lights on the stove.
“What you lookin’ at, Stan?”
“Hal, the food is burning.”
Hal stared at the stove. The chicken soup for lunch boiled over in both of the two twenty-quart commercial stainless steel pots. The chicken stock, carrots, celery, onions, and the soft meat that fell off the bones, overflowed onto the stove-top and then onto the floor.
“Good. Let it burn.”
Stan struggled to get up.
“Don’t you think of movin’, Stan.” Hal crinkled his nose at the odor, too, but ignored it. He would have liked a fire. It would have been his way out.
He pulled on a locked drawer so hard that it broke and fell out, sending a bunch of different-sized knives crashing to the floor. He contemplated what else he could do, picked up a twelve-inch serrated butcher knife from the floor, and raced to the fridge holding all of the facility’s food. He opened the door and scanned the fridge. Amazed at how much food was in there, he stared at it for a minute, standing in front of the door with it open while the cold draft on his body sent shivers down his spine. He was undeterred. He pulled out a large boiled ham, so weighty he almost dropped it. He hauled it to the counter and “Bam,” he sliced the ham in half with the largest blade. Very proud of his accomplishment, he waved the big, now-slippery knife at his two terrified hostages.
He decided to try the smaller blade on himself. In full view of his audience, he picked up his institutional gray shirt and without any fear or hesitation ran the blade in his right hand across his emaciated chest, only stopping at the beginning to look at the initial cut. Then moment by moment, he progressed until the knife made a cut in his skin from his left side to his right. He drew blood and moaned with almost orgasmic relief. The dripping blood seeped through his shirt, but he barely paid attention. His gaze remained glued on his hostages. He put the smaller, blood-stained blade in the elastic waistband of his pants. He then waved the bigger blade to threaten and torment Stan and Bobby.
“This is sick,” Bobby said as he snuck out from behind the counter.
Stan yanked Bobby away from him, grabbing his arm using a lot of his strength, which wasn’t much.
“Hal, just go back to the rec room!”
“Stan, you know this creep?”
“For the past three years.”
“I’m not taking this shit,” Bobby said. “Ya got balls Hal, come here.” Bobby cocked his head toward Stan. “I can take him easy. Just watch, old man.”
Bobby lunged at Hal but Hal got the better of him. Like a wrestling pro, he wrapped himself around Bobby, knocking him with a slam to the hard concrete floor, banging his head and almost knocking him out. Hal cut Bobby right across his stomach with the smaller blade. It was barely a surface cut but Bobby screamed in terror.
***
The four large men--Sergeant Dave Shipman, NYPD Officers Milt Browne, Jackson Maxwell, and Mike Kramer--wore bulletproof vests and exuded the power and strength of the most highly trained combat unit in the city, the Emergency Service Unit. Or as they called it ESU. Carrying a laptop and cases with their guns and ammo--Springfield Armory 1911 pistols, Colt M16A2 rifles and the Heckler and Koch UMP .45 caliber--they entered their Lenco Peacekeeper armored vehicle, fully equipped with shepherd hooks, shields, Tasers, and beanbags to annihilate the perp.
Exiting a police department garage in their headquarters in Battery Park, this Manhattan North ESU knew their trip to Seventy-Seventh Street was going to take a while, with the traffic on the FDR and the heavy snow.
While sitting on a bench at the back of the truck, Sergeant Shipman booted up the laptop. He saw the hostage situation in the kitchen, in real time. His attention darted around the screen to get the What, Where, When, How, and Why. “All right, listen up, guys. It’s thirty by sixty, no outside windows so that makes our job harder. Just air vents, ten feet apart, on the ceiling. Everything is stainless steel, counter tops, doors, closets. All drawers locked. Huge islands in the center of the space. Refrigerator is on the opposite wall. There’s a communication center already on the wall so we’ll be able to make contact. Looks like food is cooking on the stove, but don’t expect us to stay for lunch. Mike, you’re on today to take down this guy.”
“Got it, Sarg. How many hostages?”
“Looks like two, food-prep workers. One guy, looks early twenties. One guy, a senior. That one’s a problem. Never can tell with their health.”
“That’s for sure. Some precincts will send the negotiators and they might be there before us, but from the looks of this, they can talk till they’re blue in the face. Just let me get in there. This is one hostage taker who’s coming out in a body bag. I gotta get home, guys. The baby’s keepin’ us up all night.”
“What did ya expect Mike? He’s four weeks old! Okay, the HT is a forensic patient--Caucasian, young, thin, early twenties, if that--waving large serrated butcher knives. That’s all I know now. Dr. Trenton will be there to fill us in. I’ll work on the outside diverting traffic and wait for the other area teams. With this weather, and most of the teams doing rescues, manpower might be tight. We need the roofs of all surrounding buildings covered and the stairwells inside. Leave nothing to chance. This guy got in and I’m sure he can find a way out.
No civilian casualties today, guys, not on our watch. And, Jackson, keep the media away. Trenton hates it.”
“Will do, Sarg.”
“Hey, Jackson, you two know something we don’t?”
“Yeah, we do. Four years ago, before the doc got married, the camera jockeys labeled him as one of New York City’s most desirable and handsome bachelors. Since then, they’re up his ass whenever he’s with a woman.”
“Ouch! I should be so lucky.” The men laughed. “Without a doubt the paparazzi puts a crimp in his relationships, which put them on his shit list,” the sergeant added.
The Lenco sped up the FDR. drive, going north, with its red lights flashing. Vehicles moved out of its way. The truck changed lanes, sometimes missing the cars they cut off by a slim margin. The three-lane highway was packed twenty-four-seven and maneuvering took skill, which Milt had until they got into bumper-to-bumper traffic.
“We got a problem, guys.”
“Can’t afford one, Milt. This is a serious one. The HT is attacking one of the hostages. This looks bad and it’s escalating.”
Their truck came to a halt in the left lane along with the other two lanes. Sergeant Shipman rolled down the window and extended his body out into the frigid air. Snow slapped his face in the gusts of wind. Fire engines and ambulances were on the scene, with an accident about one-hundred-fifty feet in front of them, blocking all three lanes. A silver Toyota Corolla lay overturned in the center lane at Thirty-Fourth Street. It was so bad that firefighters used the jaws-of-life to cut into and remove the side of the jeep and rescue a screaming and horrified pregnant woman on the passenger side. Two other cars, a red sedan and blue compact, had compressed into each other. The red sedan in the front had its windshield blown out. The passenger, who had flown out of it, lay on an ambulance stretcher with a sheet over him and was covered by the blowing snow.