Grief Street

“Grief Street”—the title of a murder mystery for the stage. The playwright, who wishes to remain anonymous, has spoken by telephone exclusively to the New York Post.
Dead—for real—are a popular young rabbi who ran a neighborhood soup kitchen, and seven parishioners of the Roman Catholic Church of the Holy Cross. The end came on yesterday’s separate but equally sobering holy observances for Jews and Christians— an overlapping day of religious meaning that began with murder in the morning blackness, and ended in an evening sniper attack.
First to die was Rabbi Marvin Paznik, 36, of Temple Ezrath Israel on West 48th Street. Shortly after midnight, during prayer services for the Day of Remembrance for the victims of the Holocaust, an unknown assailant rose from a pew to attack the rabbi. Police reports state the killer used a large knife, mortally wounding Rabbi Paznik, then escaped the synagogue in the presence of horrified worshipers. From confidential sources, the Post has further learned that the rabbi was mutilated during the attack. Specifically, the killer cut away a substantial portion of skin covering the rabbi’s head and neck—apparently fleeing with the grisly prize.
Later, during a Catholic street pageant, seven men bearing a large crucifix were shot dead by sniper fire from the rooftop of the National Video Center building on West 42nd Street. The victims were: Ronald Barron, 58, Daniel McLendon, 31, Charles Haley, 50, Lester Knightly, 49, J. C. Turner, 33, Frank Esser, 38, and Kim Behm, 47.
While the plot of “Grief Street” broadly hints at the real-life murders, even more ironic are certain facts obtained by the Post from sources within the police department and elsewhere:
• On Thursday, less than 24 hours prior to the first murder, an anonymously mailed copy of the “Grief Street” script was received by Ruby Flagg, the actress-wife of hero NYPD Detective Neil Hockaday.
• Hockaday—familiar to Post readers for solving many of the city’s most notorious serial murder cases—was a friend of Rabbi Paznik. The ace detective had spent all day Friday investigating his friend’s slaying.
• Hockaday and Ms. Flagg reside in a Hell’s Kitchen apartment that overlooks the block of West Forty-second Street where the seven marchers were slain.
Earlier last night, the playwright—or his agent—sent pages of the script of “Grief Street” to the Post offices. The pages came in a plain manila envelope, marked to the attention of this reporter. Likewise, in his phone call, the playwright asked for this reporter. His voice was so muffled it was clear only that he was male.
In the partial script, a charitable rabbi is murdered, as are several ardent Catholics. However, the action and themes of the play occur in Hell’s Kitchen of some 100 years ago. Among the main characters is a policeman of Irish extraction.
“The script has been sent to actors around town, including Ruby Flagg,” said the playwright by phone. “We're currently looking for financial backers, and to that end we have contacted several parties who will very soon be treated to a staged reading of the play.”
The playwright declined to provide any further details. When asked why he had singled out Ruby Flagg for his cast, he abruptly hung up the telephone.

    I abruptly stopped reading at this point. The rest of Slattery’s story was the same compilation of spooned-out facts as I had heard on the radio. The part about Marv Paznik being mutilated, though—that had taken some solid digging-Another reason I stopped reading Slattery was because my driver was acting up again.
    “Didn’t mean to bust your chops, Detective,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m only saying—publicity like that, it can really help a guy in your position.”
    “You didn't mention your name, friendly.”
    “Baize.”
    “What position would you be talking about, Officer Baize?”
    “You know.”
    “I’m afraid not.”
    “Come on... A cop who needs buffers, you know?”
    “No I don’t.”
    “All right. Skip it.”
    “I’m writing down your name, Officer Baize.”
    Of course I knew what he was talking about. A cop bringing up a tribal brother on charges is serious aggravation for the department—for the city, too. Cops tend to take sides as firm as granite cliffs in such matters. And when thirty thousand persons with guns are squared off in a city that never sleeps, nobody hears the lullaby of old Broadway.
    In the edgy process of