District of Columbia Chief Detective Comagee trudged into his temporary NYC office on January 6th. Little Christmas to some. There was one last stocking stuffer for him to unwrap to close out the holiday season. A fresh case waiting for him at his desk. Murder. It was the season for saviors and Comagee was feeling the pressure. He’d been sent to the Big Apple to try to fix their low clearance rate with some of the genius that had made him a legend on the Capitol force.
Landreaux, his local point of contact while Comagee was on loan to the NYPD, came up behind him and, looking at the death photos over the older man’s shoulder, recapped the state of play. “Body found this morning in The Bowery. Shot just after midnight. With a gold bullet. Witnesses saw a bearded man walking just after midnight in the general area wearing a long flowing green silk robe and what was described as a crown.”
Comagee spent the rest of the morning trying to make sense of the crime. Around noon he opened the last of the turkey sandwiches he had been making every day from the Christmas leftovers that Landreaux’s wife Missy forced on him after he reluctantly agreed to stop by their house New Year’s Eve.
Before he could finish lunch, a young detective ran in with a new file. “We just found another body. Same neighborhood. Looks like this one was choked to death with a rag soaked with expensive perfume. Body found an hour ago right around the time there were reported sightings of another bearded man this time in a red gown and large turban.”
Comagee was at a loss. He wracked his brain for what he knew about Yuletide in various cultures. Were these cases connected? Were the odd get-ups some version of some people’s Father Christmas? Did the method of disposal, with gold and then perfume have any significance? He sat at his desk facing the large open squad room, watching maintenance disassemble the large plastic manger scene that went up the day after Thanksgiving. Back into storage went the baby and his family, the barnyard creatures and finally, the three colorful guests from the East. Then it hit him.
“Run a search for local men in the age range of the unknown suspect with first name of Gaspar, Balthazar or Melchior,” he barked. “A name like that could make a kid an outcast and nudge him towards some anti-social behavior. It could be especially triggering this time of year.”
“Are you going where I think you are with this?” asked Landreaux. “I remember Sunday school.”
“Exactly,” said Comagee. “Looking at our office nativity display has got me thinking maybe this is one killer. Impersonating the three wise men. Dressed like the Magi. Today is Three Kings Day after all. The 12th day of Christmas. The first kill was with precious gold. Second with fragrance, what the ancients would call frankincense.”
“Don’t tell me his next kill will be with myrrh, where in hell would you find that in the five boroughs these days?”
“Myrrh had many uses, but one was to preserve corpses. Maybe he’ll try to get his hands on some embalming fluid? Maybe check out local funeral homes.”
Before the results of the data base name search came back, a call indeed came in about a robbery of a funeral parlor in the lower East side by a hirsute man in a flowing caftan and ornate red felt hat. Worse still was the report that quickly followed of a baby snatched from his mother’s arms a block away from the undertaker by someone matching that same description, straight off a Christmas card.
“Now I’ve got a hunch,” said Landreaux, who knew his hometown better than the visiting Comagee could, for all his genius. “There’s a big outdoor crèche in that neighborhood on the corner of E. 2nd St. by the old church there. Maybe that’s where he’s headed.” The detectives blared their sirens all the way downtown. Sure enough, they found there a gorgeous full-sized tableau of the barnyard birth of the Messiah. Only one problem. There were four wise men. And one of them was on the move. He was holding a bundled infant under one arm. As Comagee crept closer, the madman kicked the mannequin Christ child from the ersatz manger and substituted the live baby. He then reached under his garish cloak and withdrew something that looked like a long hypodermic needle.
Whatever mystical powers of the East this madman was channeling, they were no match for a NYPD standard service issue Glock 17 Gen 4.
At the morgue it was confirmed the syringe was in fact filled with mortician’s grade formaldehyde.
In the meantime, the results of the data base search had come back.
“Well, professor,” said Landreaux, “it looks like you’ve done it again. Our perp is indeed a Balthazar, from lower Manhattan. But you are not gonna believe his last name. Wisemen. Honest to God. Now that would screw up a boy.”
Three kings may well be a winning hand in Atlantic City but on this day at least they were no match for a pair of coppers.
Landreaux found Comagee gazing out the precinct window.
“What are you doing, boss?”
“I’m looking up at a star from the East, and it’s telling me to follow it to The Bethlehem Pub. East 25th Street, to be exact. And it says you’re buying.”
Scott MacLeod is a father of two who writes in Central Florida. His work has appeared recently in Every Day Fiction, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Twin Bill, Punk Noir, Rmag, Micromance, Free Flash Fiction, Westwords, Microzine, Dead Mule, Close to the Bone, Roi Faineant, Urban Pigs, Wrong Turn Lit, JAKE, Underbelly Press, Bristol Noir, Havok, Witcraft, NFFD Write-In, Coffin Bell, 10 By 10 Flash, Frontier Tales, The Yard: Crime Blog, Yellow Mama, Short-story.me and Gumshoe, with more forthcoming. His Son of Ugly weekly flash newsletter can be found on Substack at scottmacleod1.substack.com, on Instagram @scottmacleod478 and at facebook.com/scott.Macleod.334.
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