The Frenzy Way (14 page)

“How did you get involved in this line of work?” Mace said.

“It’s not an occupation; it’s a mission. I didn’t have any ambition when I was in school, but look at me now. I’m up to my ears in blood and loving every minute of it. Film is forever!”

Patty moved between them. “How about the demonstration I requested?”

“Sure thing.” Ricky walked over to a shelf and brought back a furry over-the-head mask mounted on a Styrofoam bust. Two gaping eye holes flanked a lupine nose and fangs. “This is my take on the makeup Jack Pierce created for Lon Chaney Jr. to wear in
The Wolf Man
in 1941. Chaney didn’t do his own makeup like his old man, who was a genius. But Pierce was just as brilliant: he designed Boris Karloff’s makeup for
Frankenstein
, and that’s an iconic creature design. Looks like the wolf man here has an afro, doesn’t it? Believe it or not, werewolf makeups like this were the norm until the early eighties, when two geniuses named Rob Bottin and Rick Baker changed everything with
The Howling
and
An American Werewolf in London
.”

Ricky set down the mask and picked up a larger werewolf head. He stuck his hand inside it and operated it like a puppet. The fearsome-looking creature’s brows scrunched up, his gums pulled back, and his fangs snapped at the air. “I built this for a trauma film called
Yo Mama’s a Werewolf.
It was supposed to revive blaxploitation horror flicks like
Blacula
, but they never completed it, so they turned it intoan X-rated flick called
Doggie Style.
I couldn’t stop them from using the footage they already shot, but I retain ownership of my props, so I took my wolf back. Even I have standards.”

Mace gestured at the mask. “May I?”

“Oh, sure!” Ricky handed the mask over. “Be my guest.”

Using both hands, Mace pulled the mask over his head. His field of vision narrowed through the eye holes, and his hearing became muffled.

“I designed the mouth so you can operate the jaws with your own.”

Mace bit down on a metal control coated in foam latex and opened and closed the jaws.

Patty touched his fake teeth. “Would it be possible to replace these with a real wolf’s teeth?”

Mace could not even see Ricky, who said, “Anything you want.”

“How about replacing whatever this is with real wolf fur?”

“Yeah, I guess. But it would be expensive.”

“Claws that could cut like razors?”

“Anything.”

“We have witnesses who claim to have seen someone in a costume running away from a crime scene on what were described as ‘dog legs.”’

“Really?” Ricky seemed impressed. “Let me show you something. I’ll be right back.” He disappeared into a walk-in closet.

Mace pulled off the mask, took a deep breath, and wiped sweat from his forehead onto his sleeve.

“What do you think?” Patty said.

“I couldn’t see squat.”

“Can you picture someone committing those murders in a getup like that?”

Mace shook his head. “Not a chance.”

Ricky returned a minute later, wearing a full body suit covered in fur. The legs needed to be zipped and the fur conditioned. He grabbed two identical metal devices two feet long and sat on the barber chair. “I built these myself because the bastard producers didn’t want to shellout a few extra dollars.” He strapped his legs into the braces and stood, rising and falling on shock absorbers. Standing a foot and a half taller, he moved around the room with apparent ease. “See how they extend from my feet? It makes it look like my legs are jointed the same way a wolf’s are. Can you hand me that head?”

Mace gave the mask to Ricky, who pulled it over his head, completing the illusion. The hyperactive little effects man had become a panting werewolf in minutes. He snarled and clawed at the air. Nothing about his appearance remained human.

Patty watched his enormous shadow on the wall. “Can you run on those?”

“I can walk briskly,” Ricky said through the werewolf’s mouth.

“You can’t run.”

Ricky became silent.

“So jumping out of a second-story window, landing on the sidewalk, and running away are out of the question.”

Ricky removed the mask. “None of the above, unless I used wires. Look, I like the man-in-a-suit routine. It’s classic. But it isn’t how things are done these days, at least on shows with real budgets. Everything’s CGI or motion capture. I’m old school, a renaissance man. But these suits are cumbersome. They would never allow you to perform the kinds of gymnastics you’re describing.”

“Thanks for the demonstration,” Mace said.

Ricky gesticulated with his wolf claws. “My pleasure.”

As they turned to leave Patty said, “Good luck with your career.”

Ricky walked over to the door. “Hey, you too. Good luck, I mean. Catch that werewolf!” He let loose a howl.

On the walk back to the car Mace called Landry in the squad room for an update while Patty contacted various detectives in the field.

“Nothing,” Patty said as she pocketed her cell phone. “We’ve tracked down all of Glenzer’s students, but no one’s been able to provide a link other than his class between Glenzer and Harper. I guess we should head back to the squad room.”

“I want to stop somewhere first.”

“I don’t have time—” “It’s related to the case.”

A wooden sign swung on an iron bar extending out from bricks over the display window. The words
Synful Reading
had been etched into the wood in an old-fashioned European font, then burned and shellacked.
Occult Curiosities
appeared in the window in white lettering. A child’s coffin lay behind the glass, the raised lid displaying several books with the words
magik, wiccan
, and
witchcraft
in the titles. On each side of the coffin, thick candles dripped wax over human skulls.

Patty drew on her cigarette. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I indulged your curiosity; you indulge mine.”

“This is really thinking outside the box.”

“Maybe we’ll learn something about Glenzer’s state of mind.”

“I can tell you his state of mind: he believed in werewolves. That’s crazy.”

“And he was murdered by someone pretending to be a werewolf.”

“Opposites aren’t the only ones who attract. Birds of a feather …”

“Let’s check it out.”

Patty flicked her half-smoked cigarette at the curb, leaving it to smolder. As she turned to enter the shop with Mace, a pair of boys wearing backpacks passed them.

“What do you call a wolf who falls into a washing machine?” one boy asked the other.

“I dunno, what?”

“A wash n’ wear wolf!”

They watched the laughing boys melt into the crowd of punk rockers, drug addicts, and sidewalk salespeople.

“School’s out,” Patty said. “The day’s half over.”

Mace opened the door. “Not for you.”

“Tell me about it.”

Inside the shop, exotic aromas assailed their senses, the sickly sweet scents rising from incense burning on the glass countertop. Mace almost gagged. They faced floor-to-ceiling wooden bookcases lined with jars of herbs. He saw a rack supporting red, white, and black robes. Beyond that, half a dozen customers combed through books. Mace focused on an older woman with a funky, downtown fashion sense and a tall young man with heavy eyeliner, dressed all in black.

“Freak show,” Patty said in singsong under her breath.

These people are weirder than weird
, Mace thought. He had grown accustomed to Village eccentrics, but he found something disturbing about people who actually believed in the occult and the supernatural. White magic, dark magic, he didn’t care; in his book, just believing in such things corrupted people to their core. This went beyond a simple desire to live on the fringe of society. “May I help you?”

Mace and Patty turned in unison, and Mace’s instincts prickled at the sight of the woman standing before them: five feet tall, with long, shiny black hair cascading over her shoulders. Her black leather dress hugged her tiny waist and curved hips, adding lift to her small breasts, and her pronounced cheekbones and full lips gave her an ethnic appearance. Mace wondered what intermingling had produced her genes.

“Don’t look at me,” Patty said to herself in a low, dismissive voice.

The woman’s bright brown eyes registered amusement at Patty’s obvious disdain for her.

“Yes, you can. We’re looking for this book.” Mace handed her a slip of paper with Landry’s handwriting on it.

The woman looked at the title.
“Transmogrification in Native American Mythology
.” Looking deep into Mace’s eyes, she almost smiled. “Suddenly a very popular title.” She had a voice like black licorice.

“You do carry it, don’t you?”

She nodded. “Exclusively. But we sold out a couple of hours ago. Sudden celebrity breeds best sellers, even in our little niche world.”

“Can you get it back in stock?”

“I’m afraid not. We bought our inventory directly from Terry.”

“You knew Professor Glenzer?”

She nodded. “He was a very sweet man.”

“How well did you know him?”

The woman exaggerated the amusement in her smile, making it clear to Mace that she found him overly curious. “I carried his previous books. When he couldn’t find a publisher for this one and self-published it, I agreed to carry it on consignment.”

“How many copies did you take?”

“Are you a cop or with the IRS?”

“We’re cops.”

“In that case, thirty.”

“And how many of those did you sell today?”

“Maybe half. But we sold all thirty since his death. People can be such vultures.”

Now it was Mace’s turn to suppress a smile. “My name’s Mace.” He offered her a business card.

The woman’s gaze darted to the card, then up again. “Captain.”

Mace gestured to Patty. “And this is Detective Lane. We’re investigating Professor Glenzer’s murder, and we’d really like to get our hands on a copy of that book. It could be germane to our investigation. Did any of your regular customers buy it, someone you could direct us toward?”

“You should have said you wanted the book for that purpose. Terry gave my father and me each an inscribed copy when we agreed to carry it. My father’s too ill to read, and I don’t expect him to recover.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“He suffers from dementia. I haven’t told him about Terry’s murder, but I’m sure he’d want you to have his copy if it would help your investigation.”

“I appreciate it.”

She stepped behind the counter and returned with an oversized trade paperback. Mace recognized the cover from his online research: the face of a wolf with white and brown fur stared back at him. She handed the book to him, and he looked at the price on the back cover and fished for his wallet.

“I wouldn’t think of accepting payment under these circumstances,” she said.

Mace opened the cover to an inscription signed by Terrence Glenzer to Angus. Then he plucked a business card from the counter and read it.
Angela Domini, Manager.
“Thank you, Angela.”

“You’re welcome.”

Patty’s cell phone rang and she answered it. Jamming one finger inside her other ear, she said, “Speak up. I can’t hear you.” She turned her back to Mace and Angela. “Are you serious? … We’re on our way.” Shutting off her phone, she said to Mace, “Let’s roll.”

As they left the store, Angela said, “I hope you catch him.”

“We will,” Mace said.

“That was Landry,” Patty said outside. “The One-One-Four just called him. Our perp was murdered.”

“In France, between 1598 and 1600, a French magistrate ordered the executions of six hundred people accused of being werewolves. All told, some thirty thousand people were executed under that particular accusation.”

—Transmogrification in Native American Mythology
, Terrence Glenzer

Pedro sat staring at his cell phone.

“Bad news?” Father Hagen said. They sat in the priest’s office.

Pedro shook his head. “Monsignor Delecarte just text messaged me the number of Professor Glenzer’s cell phone.”

Father Hagen cocked one eyebrow. “What good will that do you?”