The night things changed, he was working the latter half of a double shift, partnered with a ten-year vet named Sal Petrello. Quiet night. They’d chased a few kids who were obviously planning mischief out of the park, helped a German tourist find his way back to Fifth Avenue, investigated an assault that turned out to be a middle-aged couple bickering loudly. Ten minutes before midnight a call came in: male mental case, running around naked near Central Park West and 81st.

When they got there, they found nothing. No maniac, naked or otherwise, none of the witnesses who’d called it in, no people at all. Just darkness and foliage in the park, the sounds of traffic from the street.

“Probably a fake-o,” said Petrello. “Someone screwing around.”

“Probably,” Katz agreed. But he wasn’t sure. Something was tickling the back of his neck-so insistently that he actually reached back there to make sure no bug was exploring his skin.

No bug, just an itchy feeling.

They searched for another five minutes, came up empty, called it in as a fake-o, and started to leave.

As they made their way back to the car, Petrello said, “Better this way. Who needs lunatics?”

They’d almost made it when the guy jumped out and planted himself in front of them, blocking the pathway. Big muscular guy, square-faced and heavy-jawed, with a shaved head, pecs like sides of beef. Naked as a jaybird.

Excited, too. He howled and slashed at the air. Something shiny in his left hand. Petrello was closer to him and drew back, reached for his weapon, but not fast enough. The guy slashed again and Petrello screamed, grabbed his hand.

“Steve, he cut me!”

Katz’s gun was out. The naked loony was grinning, moving toward him, stepping into filtered street light, and now Steve could see what was in his hand. Straight razor. Pearl handle. Rust-red with Petrello’s blood.

Katz kept his eye on the weapon while sneaking a glance at his partner. Sal had one hand pressed tight over the wound. Blood was seeping out. Seeping, not spurting. Good, didn’t look like an arterial cut.

Sal groaned. “Motherfucker. Shoot him, Steve.”

The maniac advanced on Katz, waved the razor in tiny concentric arches.

Katz aimed at his face. “Freezedon’tmove!”

The loony looked down at his own crotch. Real excited.

Sal screamed, “Shoot him, Steve! I won’t say nothing. Jesus, I need a Band-Aid. Would you shoot him, for chris-sake!”

The maniac laughed. Eyes still on his erect member.

Katz said, “Put the razor down. Now.”

The maniac lowered his arm, as if to comply.

Laughed in a way that curdled Katz’s blood.

“Oh, God,” said Sal.

He and Katz stared, unbelieving, as the crazy man made a quick downward chopping motion and left himself minus an organ.

The department sent Katz and Petrello to shrinks. Petrello didn’t mind because he was getting paid anyway, planned on taking some serious leave. Katz hated it for all sorts of reasons.

Valerie knew what had happened because it was in the Post. For once, she seemed to want Steve to talk, so finally he did.

She said, “Disgusting. I think we should move to New Mexico.”

At first, he thought she was kidding. When he realized she wasn’t, he said, “How can I do that?”

“Just do it, Steve. It’s about time you were spontaneous.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She didn’t answer. They were in their apartment on West 18th, Valerie chopping salad, Katz fixing a corned beef sandwich. Cold beef. Valerie was okay with his eating meat, but she couldn’t stand the smell of it cooking.

Several frosty moments later, she stopped, came over, put her arm around his waist, touched her nose to his. Withdrew, as if the gesture hadn’t worked for either of them.

“Let’s be honest, Steve. Things haven’t been going so great between us. But I’m going to believe it’s not us. It’s the city sucking out our energy. All the spiritual pollution. What I need at this point in my life, Steve, is serenity, not toxicity. Santa Fe ’s serene. It couldn’t be more different than here.”

“You’ve been there?”

“When I was in high school. My family took a trip.

They went shopping at the Gap and Banana Republic, typical. I hit the galleries. There are tons of them there. It’s a small town with great food and clubs and most of all art.“

“How small?”

“Sixty thousand.”

Katz laughed. “That’s a block here.”

“My point exactly.”

“When were you thinking of doing this?”

“Sooner the better.”

“Val,” he said, “I’m years from a serious pension.”

“Pensions are for old sick people. You’ve still got a chance to be young.”

What did that mean?

“I’ve got to do it, Steve. I’m choking.”

“Let me think about it.”

“Don’t think too long.”

That night, after she’d gone to bed, he got on the Internet and found the Santa Fe Police Department Web site.

Dinky little department and the salary scale didn’t match NYPD. Some nice things, though. Lateral transfers possible, a sixty-mile vehicle take-home policy. One opening for a detective. Lately, he’d been thinking about trying for detective, knew he’d have to wait in line at the Two-Four or any of the neighboring precincts.

Sal Petrello was telling people Katz had frozen, that it had only been luck that the loon had sliced off his own dick and not one of theirs.

He played with the computer awhile longer, pulled up some color pictures of Santa Fe. Pretty, that was for sure. No sky could be that blue, probably trick photography.

More like a village than a city.

Probably boring as hell, but what fascinating things was he doing in the big bad city anyway? He turned off the lights, got into bed, snuggled next to Valerie, put his hand on her butt, and said, “Okay, let’s do it.”

She grunted, removed his hand.

Most of what they owned was crap, and what they couldn’t get rid of at a sidewalk sale they left behind. After packing clothing and Valerie’s art supplies, they flew to Albuquerque on a warm spring day, picked up a rental car at the airport, and drove to Santa Fe.

The sky could be that blue.

All the space and the quiet threatened to drive Katz nuts. He kept his mouth shut. Last couple of nights he’d been dreaming about the maniac with the razor. In the dreams, not such a happy ending. Maybe he really did need to cleanse his soul.

They rented a house off St. Francis, not far from the DeVargas Center. Val went to buy art supplies, and Steve dropped in at the police department.

Teeny little place, plenty of parking out back. Relaxed pace. So quiet.

The chief was a woman. That might be interesting.

He picked up an application form, took it home, found Valerie all excited, emptying a bag full of paint tubes and brushes onto the folding table they ate on.

“I went back to Canyon Road,” she told him. “There’s an art supply store there. You’d think it would be expensive, but it’s like two-thirds of what it cost me back in New York.”

“Great,” he said.

“Wait, I’m not finished.” She inspected a tube of cadmium yellow. Smiled, put it down. “While I’m waiting I notice a check taped to the wall behind the register. Old check, the paper’s yellowed. From the fifties. And guess whose it was?”

“Van Gogh.”

She glared. “Georgia O’Keeffe. She used to live right there, before she bought the ranch. She bought her stuff right there, the same place I did.”

Katz thought: As if that would help.

He said, “That’s awesome.”

She said, “Are you patronizing me, Steve?”

“No way,” he insisted. “I think that’s really cool.”

Bad liar. Both of them knew it.

It took her three months to leave him. Ninety-four days to be exact, during which Katz got a Police Officer III job and a promise to be considered for the detective position within sixty days if no one with more experience showed up.