The Frenzy Way

by Gregory Lamberson

  “Your name?”

  He told her.

  “One moment.” She picked up the house phone and said, “Captain Mace is here.” A moment later she hung up. “He’ll be down in a moment. You can look around while you wait.”

  “Thanks.” Despite Cheryl’s fondness for museums, he had never been to this one before, mainly because Cheryl’s fondness did not extend to deadly weapons. With a baby on the way, she didn’t even want his off-duty revolver in their apartment.

  Pushing open a pair of glass doors, he wandered inside and sawthat the walls and stone floor had been finished to resemble the interior of a castle. Turning a corner, he came face-to-face with three armed soldiers: mannequins outfitted in the bulky garb worn by U.S. infantrymen in Iraq and Afghanistan, their heavy weapons held at the ready. Rifles, machine guns, handguns, grenade launchers, and surface-to-air missile launchers occupied glass cases along the walls behind the mannequins.

  Imagining a military drumbeat, he thought of his younger brother Vince, who had wanted to be a policeman like him and had joined the National Guard to help pay his college tuition. Vince had spent his first two tours in Afghanistan and the third in Iraq. To read his letters, it was all the same shit. He’d spent that final tour manning a gun on top of a Hummer until a roadside bomb sheared off the top of his head. Four years later, their mother still hadn’t recovered. Vince had died a real hero, yet few people knew it, while a sensational true crime paperback had turned Mace into a famous crime fighter. It hardly seemed fair.

  Moving into the next chamber, he discovered similar mannequins, but their uniforms and the weapons on the wall looked older. Desert Storm. Meet the old war, same as the new wars.

  Each chamber represented a different modern combat era: Nicaragua, Grenada, Vietnam, Korea. He stood at the entrance to the World War II hall when he heard footsteps echoing behind him. Turning, he faced a short man with frizzy hair and a grizzled beard.

  “Captain? I’m Bruce Janson, the curator and owner.” He smiled. “And the janitor.”

  As they shook hands, Mace charted Janson’s features: round nose, ruddy cheeks, twinkling eyes. A forest green sweater with patches on the elbows stretched over his generous belly. He gave off the aura of an eccentric college professor. Was Glenzer like this once? “Pleased to meet you.”

  “The great modern wars are located on this floor. Upstairs, I have the American Revolution through World War I, and on the topfloor I have medieval weapons, Native American weapons, Norwegian weapons, and the like. Collecting weapons used to be my hobby—my obsession, my wife would say. She gave me an ultimatum: it was her or the weapons. She got the house and I opened this place.”

  “It’s impressive.”

  “I think so. Now, how can I help you? On the phone you said something about a sword?”

  “Yes, I brought some photos.” Opening his coat, Mace withdrew a manila envelope from his inside pocket and photos from the envelope. Patty had already turned the sword over to Evidence Control for safekeeping.

  Slipping on bifocals, Janson looked through the photos, growing curiosity visible on his face. “People consider me an expert, and I like to think of myself the same way, but I have to tell you, I’ve never seen anything like this before. It’s a shame the blade is broken. Do you have the rest of it?”

  Mace shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Come upstairs with me.”

  As Mace followed Janson up a wide stairway lined with period paintings, his cell phone rang and he took the call.

  “Fingerprints and dental X-rays confirm Glenzer’s our vic, Captain,” Patty said.

  “Thanks. Let Landry know.”

  “Roger that.”

  Mace shut down his phone. On the third floor they passed suits of armor and glass display cases housing gleaming swords. He marveled at the length of some of the blades. How had knights used such heavy weapons, especially while wearing chain mail and armor?

  “The sword is medieval in design, like those used by the Knights Templar,” Janson said as he approached a mannequin outfitted in chain mail and a white mantle emblazoned with a red cross. “The Templars were both monks and knights.” He unlocked a glass case containing a single sword. “Their order was formed in the aftermath of the First Crusade of 1096, and they were disbanded on Friday the 13th in October of 1307.” Drawing the sword from its niche, he held it in both hands, with the blade pointed at the floor and the hilt raised. “See how it looks like a cross? That was intentional.”

  After returning the sword to its case, he led Mace into the next chamber. “These hand-carved sculptures on the hilt intrigue me. The style appears Spanish.” They stopped before a bearded mannequin wearing the gleaming gold armor of a Spanish conquistador. “But look at this Spanish sword favored by the conquistadors.” He pointed at the sword in the case. “The blade is narrower than yours, and the hilt has this curved S guard to protect the fingers. There’s no relation at all. Still, the carvings scream Spanish Inquisition to me.”

  “Why is that?” Mace said.

  “The monk’s cowl, for one thing. And the dichotomy of the monk versus the wolf. All manner of people were killed during the Inquisition: Jews, Muslims, heretics—and people accused of being witches and werewolves. Ferdinand and Isabella formed the Inquisition in 1478, one hundred and seventy-one years after the Templars disbanded, to maintain Catholic orthodoxy in their kingdoms. It continued until 1834, over three hundred and fifty years later, when it was abolished during the reign of Isabel II. During that time, anywhere between one hundred thousand and five hundred thousand people were put to death or died from torture.”

  Religious extremism, Mace thought. Nothing frightened him more.

  “The contradictory designs intrigue me. It’s as if this sword links one inquisition to the other.”

  “I’m told our sword is made entirely of silver. Is that significant?”

  “Not really. Silver swords date back to the Romans and the Vikings.” Seeing the disappointed look on Mace’s face, he added, “I’m sorry I haven’t been more helpful. This is an extremely unusual weapon. I’d love to study the actual piece.”

  Mace ignored the plea. “Can you recommend anyone else whomight be able to identify it?”

  “No one on this continent knows more about historical blades than I do, and I’m telling you, there’s no record of any sword like this.”

  Patty stood waiting outside a West 10th Street apartment with Willy at her side. The sound of a trumpet rose from the building’s courtyard and through an open window near the stairway. The apartment door opened, and a young woman with shoulder-length blonde hair and green eyes peered out at them, the one-bedroom apartment’s clean white walls, adorned with artwork, visible behind her.

  “Yes?” she said. Her expensive-looking sweater hugged her figure in all the right places.

  Ten years earlier, as a student at City College juggling two jobs and living at her parents’ Queens home to save expenses, Patty would have begrudged the woman her beauty and pampered lifestyle. “Sarah Harper?”

  The woman looked from one serious-faced detective to the other. “Who’s asking?”

  Patty pulled back her jacket, revealing the gold shield clipped to her belt. “Detective Lane. This is Detective Diega. We’d like to ask you some questions about Terrence Glenzer.”

  Sarah furrowed her perfectly plucked brow. “Professor Glenzer? Is he okay?”

  “We’re from Manhattan Homicide South,” Willy said in a soft voice.

  It took a moment for Sarah’s expression to show that the meaning of his words had taken root. “Homicide? Oh, God.” She looked as if the wind had been knocked out of her. Then her eyes widened. “Did someone kill Professor Glenzer?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Patty said.

  The college student’s complexion paled. “When?”

  “Last night in his condominium.”

  “That’s awful. I’m sorry to hear it. Why do you want to speak to me? I barely kn
ew him.”

  “You’re one of the few students who didn’t drop his Native American mythology course over the summer.”

  Sarah shrugged. “Yeah, well, I considered it, believe me.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I took that class because I needed to make up an elective, and I thought it would be interesting and an easy grade. But from Day One Professor Glenzer was just too intense, you know?”

  “Tell us,” Willy said.

  “He was paranoid, like a drug addict. He kept insisting that ‘evil’ was lurking in our midst. Not a social or metaphysical evil—his words—but an actual presence. A ‘beast,’ he called it.”

  “How did the other students react to this?”

  “Like you said, most of them dropped the class. I don’t blame them. I would have dropped it too if I didn’t need it to attend school this semester.”

  “Did Professor Glenzer have any arguments with anyone in class?” Willy said.

  “Oh no. He was a sweet man, sort of frail. No one in the class would argue with him.”

  “Did he have problems with anyone?”

  Sarah considered the question. “No, not really. I mean, he wasn’t happy with his publisher because they refused to release his new book. He made that clear when he gave us copies to use in class. I once saw him trying to give some away on St. Mark’s Place too. He claimed he owned the only weapon that could protect us from this creature he claimed existed.”

  Patty glanced sideways at Willy, who shrugged. “What did he call this weapon?”

  Sarah stared at them, eyes shining.

  “Miss Harper—?”

  “He called it the Blade of Salvation.”

  Patty’s heart skipped a beat. That had to be the sword! “Did he say what this blade was?”

  Sarah pondered the question, then shook her head. “Not that I recall. I’m sorry. I wish I could be more help to you.”

  Patty handed her a business card. “You’ve actually been very helpful. If you think of anything else—no matter how silly you might think it is—please call me.”

  Looking at the card, Sarah said, “I will.” Then she stepped back into her apartment and closed the door.

  As the locks tumbled, Willy said, drawing out each word in disbelief, “The Blade of Salvation.”

  Don Gibbons, Mace’s sergeant at Manhattan Homicide South, reported for duty at 5:00 PM, one hour later than the four-to-twelve shift because he remained on the premises until 1:00 AM when the Detective Bureau Manhattan shut down. He and Landry alternated running the day and night shifts on a weekly basis, and they shared the office adjacent to Mace’s. As soon as Gibbons entered the squad room, Mace brought him into his office and briefed him on the Glenzer homicide.

  Gibbons, a twenty-year veteran of the NYPD and a blue-collar type possessing neither the intention to retire nor the desire to rise above his current rank, raised his eyebrows and whistled. “Looks to me like the work of a grizzly bear, except a bear shits in the woods.” He often provided Mace with a salty counterbalance to Landry’s methodical and somewhat verbose nature.

  Exiting Mace’s office an hour later, the two men approached Patty, who sat at her desk keying in a report on her computer. “Anything?”

  “Not on any Blade of Salvation,” Patty said.

  “Where’s Willy?”

  Patty remained focused on her flat-screen monitor. “Taking a nap in interview room C.”

  Mace picked up the late edition of the New York Daily News from her desk and showed the headline to Gibbons. Skinwalker stretched across the page over a color photo of Glenzer’s building. He had already skimmed the brief article, which made little more than a passing reference to the American Indian legend, online. The article mined more sensational interest from the victim’s missing head. Glancing out the windows, he saw the orange sunlight on the granite building across the street growing darker. “How’d you do with the students?”

  Patty blew air out of her cheeks and gestured at the computer screen. “I’d say we got ahold of 60 percent of Glenzer’s students for the last two years and 90 percent of the ones for this semester.”

  “Not bad.” Mace scanned the bull pen. “Hand the rest over to Morrissey.”

  Patty looked across the room at James Morrissey, seated at his desk. Hungry for promotion, the chunky detective sat engrossed in the manual for the sergeant’s exam. “Morrissey’s an idiot. I’d rather finish this myself.”

  “I’m sure you would. But you and Willy have been on for eighteen hours. If you don’t go home and get some sleep you’re going to be useless to me tomorrow.”

  “The first twenty-four hours—”

  “I know all about the first twenty-four hours. I also know about exhaustion. And I need you on your game.”

  Her gaze darted to Gibbons. “Sarge—”

  “Don’t look at me, kid. I’d never disobey a direct order from my captain.”

  Sighing, she nodded. “Okay, you’re right. Both of you. I’ll go wake Willy.” Rising, she offered them a tired smile. “Good night.”

  “Straight to bed,” Mace said.

  “Yes, Captain.”

  They watched her head in the direction of the interview rooms; then Mace returned to his office.

  Mace used the drive home to unwind from the day’s events. His shirt collar made his neck itch, and he wanted to change into some casual clothes. When he entered the apartment around 9:00 PM, he saw that Cheryl had left his dinner on the table, covered in foil. He went into the bedroom, where she sat reading in bed.

  “Hey,” he said as he peeled off his jacket. “Sorry about dinner.”

  Smiling, she lowered her book. “How do you feel?”

  He loosened his tie. “Beat. I’m getting—”

  “Way too old for this shit?”

  Grunting, he changed into gym shorts and an NYPD T-shirt. “How was your day?”

  “Better than yours, I bet. We’d already wrapped when we got the news.”

  He rotated his shoulders, then twisted his trunk. “What news is that?”

  “Werewolves are stalking Manhattan.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “They have an appetite for batty old college professors.”

  “Your sources are good.”

  “Care to comment?”

  He shook his head. “I have no comment.”

  “Surprise, surprise. Such a good police captain.”

  Mace had known Cheryl as a TV reporter for New York One News. Sexual tension developed between them during the high-profile serial killer case that had catapulted his stock in the department, and they dated for a year before he proposed. When they decided to start a family, Cheryl took a less visible position behind the scenes of a local talk show, which enabled her to work a more humane schedule. Her reporter’s instincts made her a good producer, often to Mace’s consternation.

  He went into the kitchen, switched on a jazz station, and nuked his cold pasta in the microwave. After he finished eating, he washedthe dishes, then poured himself a glass of red wine and stood at the living room window with the curtains open. A full moon shone down on the Upper East Side condominiums that rose high into the air, lights twinkling in the deepening darkness. Six years ago, Rodrigo Gomez, the Full Moon Killer, had murdered five strippers over two months. Somewhere out there, at least one new predator lurked in the darkness.

  Mace crawled into bed, and Cheryl closed her book and cuddled with him. He slid his hand over her belly, which had become his habit.

  “I think it’s a boy,” Cheryl said.

  “Oh yeah?”

  She nodded. “If I’m right, I want to name him Vincent.”

  Mace waited several seconds before answering. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a nice gesture, but I would think of Vince every time I looked at him. It wouldn’t be fair to the child or me.”

  “How about as his middle name?”

  “Maybe.”

&nb
sp; “I want him baptized.”

  Mace refrained from voicing his opinion of the church. “I know you do.”

  “And?”

  “We’ll baptize him.”

  She kissed him. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  “I want a house on Long Island.”

  “Not a chance. We’re going to Bay Ridge.”

  “Brooklyn?” Sighing, she turned off the light.

  The clock flashed 12:40 when Mace answered his ringing cell phone. He felt Cheryl stirring beside him as he spoke to Don Gibbons.

  “What is it?” Cheryl said as he hung up and climbed out of bed.

  “We’ve got another one.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “The wolves then came, attracted by the stench of so many corpses, in such great numbers that they devoured them all, and even attacked the poor sick Indians in their huts, so that the few healthy ones had enough to do to drive them away.”

  —Swedish scientist Peter Kalm describing the aftermath of a smallpox outbreak in 1700s Pennsylvania.

  As Sarah Harper opened the door to her apartment, her companion’s arms encircled her waist before she could locate the light switch, and their touch made her tingle with excitement. Her right palm pressed the wall switch, and the overhead light came on. Turning in his arms, she pushed the door shut, then bit his lower lip and giggled.

  “Come on,” she said, leading Jaime into her living room. The heels of her boots clacked on the hardwood floor, and she set one hip on the sofa and unzipped them. “My landlady lives right under me. She bitches whenever I don’t wear slippers.”

  Jaime let his olive-colored duster slide off his solid frame. He wore brown Italian slacks and a crisp green shirt. She thought he looked good in earth tones.

  “What’s she going to say when she hears us fucking?”

  Sarah stepped out of her boots. “I don’t care.” She crossed over to an open doorway, conscious that her tight black dress squeezed and shaped her ass.

  Jaime picked up a business card from her coffee table. “What’s this?”