The Frenzy Way (13 page)

Hackley clapped his back. “Now tell me about Lane. Is she really up to this?”

Looking past Hackley, Mace saw Stokes and Patty engaged in conversation. “She’s good. One of the best I have.”

“This case is already getting national scrutiny. Contrary to popular opinion, there is such a thing as bad press. You need to close this fast.”

“We’re doing everything we can. I’ve got my whole team working the case.”

“Stokes told me about Carmen Nassise.”

“What would you have us do? It was a good bust.”

“I actually think it was a good move.”

Mace did a double take. “Oh?”

“The press is eating it up. It will be the story of the day, just the distraction we need. Look, I’d like you and Lou to call me every few hours with a progress report until we collar this basket case. Dunegan’s breathing down my neck.”

“Sure thing.”

“What are you doing here, anyway?”

“We have an appointment with Psych.”

Hackley nodded at Patty. “Keep an eye on her, will you? One slipup and we’ll all have to answer for it.”

Mace said nothing. In his experience, a single fall guy answeredfor every disaster.

Looking over his shoulder, Hackley said, “Let’s go, Carl!” Stokes said good-bye to Patty and joined the COD. “Give Cheryl my best.”

“I will,” Mace said.

Hackley and Stokes headed toward the doors, and Mace and Patty boarded an elevator alone. When the door closed, Mace said, “Was Stokes giving you a hard time?”

“No, he asked me to dinner.”

That hypocrite
! “What did you say?”

“I’m not eating a real dinner until I catch my perp. What did your rabbi want?”

“For me to keep an eye on you.”

“What did you say?”

“That I would.”

She laughed. “You’re all alike.”

“Men?”

“No, bosses.”

“Lycanthropy is a mental illness,” Dr. Jessica Lockhart said to Mace and Patty, who sat facing her desk. Straight black hair framed her coffee-colored features, and sunlight poured through the tall windows behind her. “We call it ‘clinical lycanthropy’ to distinguish it from the tall tales. In folklore, lycanthropy refers to the ability of a human being to transform into a wolf. Folk etymology links the word to
Lycaon
, the Arcadian king who was transformed into a hungry wolf as punishment for attempting to serve human flesh to Zeus. In clinical lycanthropy, the patient believes he’s a wolf or has been transformed into one.”

Patty said, “Would a man suffering from lycanthropy tear another human being to pieces and feed on those pieces?”

Lockhart shook her head. “Not at all. Wolves are timid creatures, frightened by human beings.”

“What if the person suffering from lycanthropy doesn’t know that?”

“Lycanthropes exhibit the animalistic behavior of wolves. I’ve never heard of such a patient behaving violently toward others.”

Mace sat forward. “What about Rodrigo Gomez?”

“Rodrigo wasn’t a true lycanthrope. He didn’t believe he was a wolf; he believed he was meant to be a wolf, much as a transgender case believes he or she was meant to be a member of the opposite sex.”

“We’re working on the theory that our perp may actually have worn a wolf costume when he committed these murders.”

“The act of putting on a costume and removing it dispels the notion of clinical lycanthropy. The subject would have to be consciously aware of what he was doing. A true lycanthrope believes he’s a wolf around the clock.”

“What if he was sleepwalking? Or under hypnosis?”

Lockhart said, “You’re grasping.”

“I’m just trying to rule out the obvious. Anything to narrow down the list of possibilities.”

“Let’s apply your questions to the actual homicide cases. Could a sleepwalker or hypnosis subject put on a costume, travel around the city, persuade your victims to let him into their apartments, commit atrocious murders, jump out second-and third-story windows, run away, return to his sanctuary, and remove his costume without being seen or waking up?”

Patty stared at the doctor. “What if he put the costume on inside the apartments?”

“I’d call that extremely unlikely, even in Greenwich Village.”

Mace said, “In each case, the victim’s head was missing, and teeth marks were discovered on the remains.”

“It’s not unusual for a serial killer to take a personal item belonging to his victim. The items most commonly taken are jewelry, clothing, a photograph, or a driver’s license. The souvenir acts as a reminder of a pleasurableencounter and may be used for masturbatory fantasies. The offender’s likely to hold on to the souvenir for a long period of time or give it to a significant other. A trophy is different from a souvenir. It may be the same kind of object and may be used for the same masturbatory purpose, but it represents a victory or conquest to the criminal. The offender who takes a trophy is typically aggressive and unlikely to retain the item and may dispose of it or give it to a significant other.”

“You think he’s jerking off on the heads?” Patty said. “Glenzer was an old man, Harper a young woman. I guess we have a bisexual werewolf.”

Dr. Lockhart did not seem put off by Patty’s comment. “Sexual confusion often contributes to rage, Detective. And when I look at these photos”—she indicated the stills on her desk—“rage is what I see. Tony, you mentioned teeth marks on the remains. An anthropophagus receives sexual gratification from eating human flesh, which we also call cannibalism, or drinking their victims’ blood—vampirism. It’s easy for me to reconcile sexual confusion or inadequacy with the rage of anthropophagism. Do you know Professor Glenzer’s sexual orientation?”

“Not really,” Mace said.

“He was an old bachelor who lived in the Village,” Patty said. “He may have been gay, but those who knew him say he was asexual. They never saw any inclination from him toward one sex or the other.”

“Then it’s entirely possible he was a closet homosexual. It’s easy enough to imagine a scenario in which our subject went home with Glenzer, then became enraged when the gentleman made an advance or after they engaged in some form of sexual activity.”

“Sarah Harper was blonde and beautiful.”

“Her murder occurred one night after Glenzer’s. Perhaps the subject went to her hoping to prove his heterosexuality to himself. He could have failed and become enraged all over.”

“But there’s a link between the victims.”

“I know Glenzer was Harper’s college professor. Maybe the subject solicited Harper’s attention specifically because she knew Glenzer.”

“The first two murders occurred under full moons.”

“There’s no evidence that the lunar cycle affects human behavior, but 81 percent of mental health professionals believe it does anyway.”

“It affected Rodrigo Gomez,” Mace said. “I know you believe that as much as I do.”

“Yes, it did. We just don’t know why.”

“Our concern is that this guy will disappear for a month like Gomez did. We need to put pressure on him so he’ll slip up. That can’t happen if he goes underground.”

“Assuming he strikes again tonight,” Patty said, “we won’t know until tomorrow night if he’s following the moon’s cycle or not.”

“Let’s discuss something else,” Dr. Lockhart said. “The messages on the walls.”

“Written in the victims’ blood,” Patty said.

“A desperate cry for attention. We live in a celebrity-driven society. Everyone craves their fifteen minutes of fame. Some will go to greater lengths than others to achieve it. Someone willing to kill for attention is faced with the challenge of topping increasingly outrageous acts of violence.”

“I have another theory,” Mace said. “Oh?”

“The messages he wrote were different versions of ‘werewolf,’ one American Indian and the other Mexican. Witnesses claim they saw a large black dog jump out of Sarah Harper’s window and run away on two legs, which is why we believe the perp wore a costume. Harper’s landlady said she heard barking. One of the definitions of a ‘skinwalker’ is a shaman who wears an animal skin to become that animal, and that was the first word he used. I think he needs us to believe he’s a monster before he can do so himself.”

Lockhart’s expression suggested she was considering his analysis. “I taught you well.”

Mace smiled. “So what’s our profile?”

“Caucasian male, approximately thirty years old. He’s a loner, extremelybright and creative. He’s had at least some higher education. He likes to play games, which is why I’m not sure I agree with your assessment. He’ll strike again tonight. I’m sure of it.”

“That’s it?” Patty said.

Mace shot her a look. “Patty …”

“A fortune-teller could have given us that much.”

Dr. Lockhart maintained her composure. “I’m sorry you’re dissatisfied, Detective Lane. I’m just as puzzled as you are by this case. Our perceptions of were-creatures are derived from entertainment and pop culture. Your killer has been influenced by movies. That he’s familiar with different translations of the terminology suggests he’s also well-read. In various forms of entertainment, the werewolf, or wolf man, is a shaggy second cousin to the more respected vampire. Modern vampires are romanticized versions of European legends from previous ages. They’re portrayed as seducers and tragic lovers, the sharing of blood being a distinctly sexual act. The werewolf is different. A man transforming into a wild beast is an act of rebellion against society, and it’s a metaphor for puberty: all those raging hormones. In recent years, novels and films have tried to link female werewolves to a woman’s menstrual cycle—a ‘curse,’ if you will, but also a sign of empowerment. The subject is consumed with anger, and he’s got an ax to grind against a society he refuses to join. He wants to shake things up. If this city panics, it’s because he wants it to.”

Patty parked the unmarked Cavalier at the Times Square police station, and she and Mace walked to Forty-fourth Street, off Broadway. They found the door they sought sandwiched between the entrance to a third-rate hotel and a fourth-rate saloon.

Mace opened the door for Patty and followed her inside, where they confronted a walk-up unlike any he had seen before: four flights of stairs heading straight up and back. Age and water had warped the rubber-coated wooden stairs, which curved and twisted left and right like something out of a Salvador Dali painting. “What floor do we want?”

“Four.”

“Figures.”

Halfway up the mountain, Patty said, with her chest heaving, “I have to quit smoking.”

Mace’s thighs ached by the time they reached the top, which reminded him that he’d missed his morning run two days in a row. A plaque on the wall next to the wide door read, The Gore-Gore Guy, Special Makeup Effects. Seeing no bell, Mace knocked on the door. The sound echoed across the steep stairway.

On the other side of the door a male voice said, “Come in!”

Mace pulled the heavy door toward him, and darkness crept out of the space ahead. A strange odor he could not identify wafted up his nostrils. He walked inside, eyes instantly shifting to an outline of light around a window blind to his right. Patty stepped beside him.

“Hello?” Mace said.

Patty started to speak, but the overhead light came on, dazzling their eyes. A body dropped from the ceiling, a noose tied around its neck and a machete buried in its head, blood oozing from the wound and caking a coarse beard. Its open, unblinking eyes stared at them like glass marbles. Mace’s heart skipped a beat, and Patty uttered a startled cry. They reached for their Glocks at the same time.

Mace’s heart rate slowed when he realized they faced a dummy clad in a red plaid shirt and blue jeans. As an angry sigh escaped Patty’s lips, a man barely five feet tall emerged from behind the dummy, which he had modeled after himself: the beard, hair, features, and clothing were identical. It was like seeing a ventriloquist and his dummy, only they were both the same size.

“Detective Lane?” the man said in a high-pitched voice, ignoring Mace. “I’m Ricky.” He extended one hand, blood dripping from his fingers. Seeing Patty’s dismayed expression, he wiped the hand on the front of his shirt. “Whoops, sorry. It’s just Karo syrup, the industry’s standard formula for blood. The great Dick Smith created this mixture.”

Patty handed Ricky her card. “This is Captain Mace.”

Staring at Mace with shining eyes, he spoke in staccato bursts. “Hope I didn’t scare you too much. Well, that’s not true. I hope I really
did
scare you! I love scaring people. I guess that’s why I do this thing I do. I’m basically just a rascally little kid at heart.”

Mace surveyed the special effects laboratory. Plaster life casts filled one entire wall, the sculpted faces of creatures another. A barber’s chair stood before a vanity mirror. Buckets of Karo syrup and liquid latex covered the floor.

“Quite a place you have here,” Patty said.

“Thanks! It’s not home, but that’s why I like it.” Leaning close to Patty he said, “I live in my parents’ basement. You wouldn’t believe how expensive the rent on this shit hole is.”

Mace offered Patty a discreet smile.

“Anyway, I’m really glad you called me. Things are slow right now, you know? So I don’t have a lot to do. Slasher movies are on the decline again. Man, I really hate to see that subgenre go. It was my life as well as my livelihood.”