“Get a list of those students.”
She glanced at her watch. “The dean’s supposed to be faxing it over as we speak.”
“How’s the identification of the corpse coming?”
“Glenzer was on the faculty medical plan,” Willy said, “so we were able to trace his medical records. His dentist is sending over X-rays. We’re also matching the tips on those severed fingers to his print records. We’ll have confirmation before the end of the day.”
“Okay,” Mace said to Landry. “Let’s hear what you dug up.”
Sitting forward on his chair, Landry opened a manila folder. “All right, but I’m warning everybody right now there’s a lot of crazy stuff here, so save your wisecracks for someone else.” He focused on the printed pages. “According to Native American lore, a person with the ability to turn into animals is called a ‘skinwalker.’ The legends ofthe skinwalkers bear certain similarities to other tales around the world, especially those of werewolves in Europe. Skinwalkers are most commonly associated with Navajo tribes. Mohawks called them ‘limikken.’”
“How do you spell that?” Willy said.
Landry looked up at him. “I printed copies for each of you.”
Willy nodded his approval.
Landry located where he had left off. “The Navajo
Yee Naaldlooshii
was a witch, usually male, who practiced a ritual called ‘the Frenzy Way’ to walk the earth in animal form. These witches had the power to become
Yee Naaldlooshii
when they were inducted into the Witchery Way. Skinwalkers are supposedly fast, agile, and impossible to catch. Reports of their existence continue to be filed on Indian reservations today, where they’ve been known to attack vehicles and cause car accidents. Besides shape-shifting, Navajo skinwalkers put hexes on people and rob graves to eat the dead and steal their jewelry.”
Willy crumpled the wrapping for his lunch and launched the makeshift ball into the wastebasket. “Those are some
ill
witches.”
Landry ignored him. “The Hopi Indians have their own skinwalkers. During the Ya Ya Ceremony, tribal members supposedly changed into various animals by wearing the skin or hide of the animal they chose. The ceremony enabled them to view the world through the animals’ eyes. Unfortunately, it also caused blindness, so it was banned.”
Patty set down her coffee cup. “Glenzer wrote a book on Indian werewolves—”
“Indian were-creatures,” Landry said.
“—and his murderers referenced those make-believe creatures. They also killed him during this month’s first full moon. The question is, why? If they wanted the broken sword, why call attention to Glenzer’s fascination with Indian folklore?”
Willy jammed a stick of gum into his mouth. “To throw us off track?”
Mace cocked his head toward Landry. “There’s a Native American population in Brooklyn, transplanted there to build the city’s bridges.”
“‘Sky walkers,’” Landry said. “They actually prefer to be called American Indians.”
Mace bowed to political correctness. “See if we have any American Indians in the department—civilian, uniform, detective, I don’t care—who can help you sort this research out.”
“I have a few names for you,” Willy told Landry. “That doesn’t mean they know anything about their ancestors’ legends. I don’t know mine.”
“I don’t know mine, either,” Mace said.
“Skinwalkers aren’t just an Indian legend,” Landry said, consulting his notes once more. “The Norse believed in them too, which supports the theory that Vikings were the first white men to set foot in America. They believed a skinwalker was a person who walked in the skin of an animal to learn its secrets or gain its special qualities. A warrior who took on the strength of a bear by wearing its skin was a ‘bear shirt,’ or a
ber sarkur
—a berserker. There were wolf warriors too:
ulfheonar.
These ‘wolf coats’ possessed the aggression of the animal spirits they worshipped.” Landry looked up for a reaction. Getting none, he spread his hands apart. “The end.”
“You got all that off the Net?” Mace said.
“Every word.”
“Good work.” He surveyed the detectives’ faces. “Now we know that we’re looking for an Indian shaman or a Viking who can transform into a coyote, a wolf, a bear, an owl, or a crow. He shouldn’t be too hard to spot.”
“I didn’t hear anything about a sword,” Willy said.
“Maybe the sword’s unrelated.”
“With that wolf head on its handle?”
“Glenzer was obsessed with wolves. Maybe he only wanted the sword
because
of the wolf head.”
“Must have wanted it pretty bad to take it all broken like that.”
“Good point.”
“Somehow I don’t make a connection between that sword and Indian lore.”
“The Spaniards massacred American Indians,” Patty said. “I’m sure they used swords.”
“Don’t look at me. My people use baseball bats and two-by-fours.”
“What about Glenzer?” Patty asked Landry.
“He wrote four books that were published: Ancient Hopi Mythology, Navajo Cultural Superstition, Native American Religion, and European Influence on Native American Culture
. All out of print but available at NYU’s library.”
“Don’t forget my favorite,” Willy said. “Transmogrification in Native American Mythology.”
“You can get that here in the city,” Landry said, checking his notes. “At an occult bookstore downtown. Here it is: Synful Reading off St. Mark’s Place.”
“Glenzer was an expert on this stuff,” Mace said. “But did he really believe in it? More important, did his killers? Or were they simply mocking him?”
“Patty has six detectives standing by to help her and Willy run down Glenzer’s students and find out,” Landry said.
“Double that number.”
“What about the sword?”
Mace eyed the weapon. “I’ll check into that myself.”
Blank faces stared back at him.
“Patty needs to concentrate on those students.”
Landry spoke up first. “If it’s a question of manpower I could take it …”
“It isn’t, and I want you in charge here. That ugly thing has piqued my curiosity, and I could use some fresh air.”
Landry turned to Patty. “You were still at the crime scene when the press was admitted. How’d they react?”
“Most of the mess had been cleaned up by the time we let them in, but the writing was still on the wall. They acted like a pack of jackals.”
He gestured to the sword. “What about that?”
“It’s our secret,” Mace said, his gaze roaming from face to face. “But those reporters use the same search engines we do. By this evening, half the city will at least know what a skinwalker is”.
Standing in Father Hagen’s church office while the priest sat at his desk, Pedro held the telephone in one hand while he waited for the long-distance operator to connect his call. Father Hagen squirmed in his seat, and his fidgeting irritated Pedro. The ugly green roll-down rug and dusty bookshelves lacked the opulence Pedro had observed in churches throughout Italy, including the poorer ones. At last a male voice on the other end answered in Italian, and Pedro jammed a finger into his free ear to better hear him.
“This is Pedro Fillipe,” he said in the man’s language. “I must speak to Monsignor Delecarte.” He felt Father Hagen’s eyes on him and sensed the priest’s frustration at being unable to follow the conversation.
“The monsignor is resting.”
“He’ll speak to me. Tell him, ‘The wolf is at the door.’”
“One moment.”
Several minutes passed before an aged voice came over the line. “Pedro?”
“Forgive me for disturbing you, Monsignor. I arrived this morning, but the city isn’t what I expected.”
“Oh?”
“I’m on Glenzer’s street now, but the gentleman you spoke of no longer lives here. His
salvation
is beyond our reach. Should we see a policeman?”
A pause. “See no one for now. Relax, enjoy the city. I’ll contact you tomorrow with my recommendation.”
“As you wish, Monsignor.”
The line went dead, so Pedro returned the phone to its cradle.
“What did he say?” Father Hagen said.
“We wait.”
Mace entered the Historical Weapons Museum, located in a four-story building on Museum Mile. It felt refreshing to be uptown, not far from his neighborhood, but the drive had been time consuming. Inside, he approached a young woman with strawberry blonde hair, standing behind a counter with a flat cash register. He supposed she was a college art history major, working as an intern or for minimum wage.
“May I help you?” Her name tag said Becca.
“I have an appointment with Bruce Janson,” Mace said.
“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.”