Kolchak The Night Strangler (6 page)

Nineteen thirty-
one
?

Here it was again. In black and white. March 29 through April 16. Six strangulations. Certain “bizarre” information repressed by the authorities… although a reporter named Jimmy Stacks, God bless him, had nosed around until he uncovered the “unofficial” information that some of the victims were missing some blood.

The killer was never apprehended and, during this particular period—unfortunately—never spotted either.

“The pattern is always the same, John. Women. Always women.”

“Fascinating?”

“That’s the word, Mr. B.”

And again I found myself looking for patterns. I scribbled on one of the margins. “Hmmm… 1972 to 1952… 20 years. 1952 to 1931. Twenty
one
years.”

Berry picked up on that right away. “That’s right! I hadn’t noticed that! That’s most observant, Mr. Kolchak. Can you be thinking what
I’m
thinking?”

“Right you are, Mr. B. Let’s have a look.”

Berry scurried off and returned with two more volumes. The 1911 book had nothing of note. But the 1910 book was a positive revelation. This one looked like the rats had been gnawing on its edges. Its cover announced: March 1—May 15, 1910. I started flipping rapidly through it. It didn’t take long. Even in the rough-and-tumble years of Pioneer Square’s heyday murder was front-page news.

The headline read:

TERRIBLE MURDER OCCURS NEAR

PIONEER SQUARE

The dateline was Seattle, March 30.

Berry looked at me and our eyes met. We were on the same wave length. “Mr. Berry?”

“Mr. Kolchak.”

“Shall we try for 1889 and/or 1890, Mr. B.?”

“Indubitably, Mr. K.”

• • •

Back in Vincenzo’s office I stood triumphant while Vincenzo remained as stubborn as ever.

“I absolutely refuse to read it.”

But he read my notes anyway. I was beginning to have some faint hopes for Vincenzo. He had what looked like the very first faint stirrings of… curiosity, a trait he’d never exhibited before. I’d always wondered how anyone so uninterested in the world around him and people in general became a newsman. Probably because he couldn’t lie convincingly enough to become a politician.

“Five identical sets of murders every 21 years since 1889? Identical?”

“In every detail save that
this
time it is only the
twentieth
year. There seems to be that one break in the pattern. Maybe the killer’s in a hurry this time.”

“Identical. Now you look, Kolchak…”

“No
you
look Vincenzo. There may be
more
than five sets of six-victim killings. The
Chronicle’s
records only go back to 1873 when it was founded. I’m on my way to check the library…”

“Wait a second. Let’s not…”

“Read the
eyewitness
description in 1910. Never mind,” I cut him off. “I’ll quote it. ‘He had the face of a
dead man
… skull bones … ’”

“Just you hold it right there, Kolchak! Do you really and truly expect me to print a story about… about…” He choked on the words.

“… a
corpse
who’s been strangling women for the past 83 years?”

I just smiled at him and rocked back on my heels.

“You can’t deny facts, Vincenzo.
Published
facts. Eyewitness accounts. Right there in the
Chronicle
. Written by one Jimmy Stacks and predecessors. Employed by the
Chronicle
.
Paid
with Mr. Crossbinder’s own ill-gotten gains.”

I pointed to my copy. “There’s your story, Vincenzo. Interesting. Provocative. The only question is: Are you grown up enough for…”

“
Out!!
”

Chapter Seven

Monday, April 10, 1972

It was beautiful. Just beautiful! I opened my apartment door and there was the
Daily Chronicle
. Headline, in 96-point Bodoni Bold:

THIRD WATERFRONT SLAYING

Six Murders Every 21 Years

Since March, 1889

And a big fat “By Carl Kolchak.” Everything. Just as I had written it, with no deletions. And with the extra added attraction of a truly nasty-looking artist’s rendition of Joyce Gabriel’s accounting of what the killer looked like: flesh flaking off his face; teeth long and irregular; the cartilage of the nose protruding through drum-tight flesh; and eyes peeking out like baleful fires from beneath a skull-like brow devoid of eyebrows. What hair that could be seen was thin and white under the turned-down brim of his hat.

It was all just lovely. It had knocked a story on the first sustained B-52 bomb raids over North Vietnam since 1968 to one side of the bottom half of the front page.

The obit column listed give names: Claire Bisbee, 29, the killer’s latest victim; Hugh Moreland, 70, a former Seattle auto dealer (Puyallup area); Dr. William Cook, 87, who’d been a local GP for 37 years and had arrived the year of the Great Fire; Thomas Cotner, 20 of Winthrop; and Robert Miller, 15 (address unknown), who were both killed in separate auto accidents.

Another day had begun. Things were looking up. Even the weather prediction was for higher temperatures… 55 degrees and only
partly
cloudy skies.

I stumbled out to the hallway pay phone and called Louise to set up a lunch date. She suggested the Space Needle, which was fine with me. I’d never been up there and it was a good chance to get a look at the town.

I hummed to myself all through the shower and shave and my one-shot Scotch breakfast. Then I went to the office to kiss Vincenzo on both cheeks.

Things were really crackling when I got there and Vincenzo was nowhere around. All I could learn from one of my new colleagues was that he’d been called up to the “old man’s” office and that it didn’t bode well. Once again I had taken up residence inside a pressure cooker.

Just before lunchtime he showed up and motioned me to join him in his office. He was drinking milk from his ever-present quart carton. A sure sign of trouble.

“I knew it! I
knew
it!” He was holding a badly wrinkled copy of “our” paper. He slammed it down on his desk, took another gulp of milk, burped, and picked up a note. His face was livid.

“Permit me to read you a brief memorandum. Quote:

‘Any repetition of this morning’s front page assault on the minds and sensibilities of our readers will result in the instant dismissal of all responsible persons.”

• • •

“Unquote. Signed… Guess who?”

I ventured an answer. “God?”

“You’re almost right.”

He began muttering to himself. “How could I let this happen to me again? How could I?”

Vincenzo feeling sorry for himself was a disgusting sight. Besides, now that I had gotten him to progress this far I couldn’t let him backslide without a fight.

“Now just hold on, Vincenzo. We wasted an awful lot of time in Las Vegas fighting tooth and nail against the obvious. Vampires don’t exist! Everyone kept saying it! And women kept right on dying! Let’s not play that stupid game again! Besides,” I grinned, “if I do say so myself, it’s a great story.”

“It’s a goddamn piece of toilet paper, is what it is! Fabricated!
Filled
with screwball speculations!!”

“Speculations!? How the hell can you…”
He cut me off again. “Give me facts, Kolchak.
Facts!
Or stay the hell away from me.
Capiche?
”

“What the hell’s the matter with you, Tony? Going soft in the belly or something?”

He must have been because immediately he grabbed his stomach and doubled over in obvious pain.

“If you’d scream a little more you wouldn’t have that ulcer.”

“
Bastardo! Stupido!
Out! Get OUT!”

Things had returned to normal. In a way it was almost like coming home again. Vincenzo slapped his forehead.

“And I went out of my way to hire this… this… Vincenzo,
sei un cretino!”

I left him growling in his mother tongue and caught a cab to the Space Needle. At least on the Seattle
Daily Chronicle
there was a small expense account for such niceties. I intended to take advantage of it.

As Louise and I rode the elevator up to the Space Needle restaurant I couldn’t help blurting out my feelings.

“It’s like
déjà vu
, I swear it is. Every detail of it! Multiple murders. A weird-looking, way-out killer. Vincenzo on my neck. The owner-publisher down on my copy. Facts being soft-pedaled to prevent a panic, I tell you, Louise, I have been this way before.”

Louise shifted uncomfortably as the others in the elevator stared at me. But my big mouth just kept flapping.

“You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?” And, of course, she didn’t. We had been busy with other things and I didn’t wand to blow our burgeoning relationship with anything that would lead her to think I was missing some of my marbles.

“When I was working for Vincenzo in Las Vegas last year, I covered a series of murders that turned out to have been committed by a vampire… a
real
one! You know—out of the coffin at night and go for the jugular.”

“Carl, shut up, will you please?” Louise was actually embarrassed. It had been a long time since I had met a woman who could
be
a woman and still get embarrassed.

“Okay. Okay. Have it your own way. If you don’t want to listen, fine and dandy. You don’t want to believe? Okay.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Nobody believed it at first. But finally they had to. Except that after it was over, they clamped down on the story and kept me from reporting what I’d seen by hanging a murder rap over my head—I’d pounded a wooden stake through the sonofabitch’s heart, you see…”

The elevator stopped, the doors opened, and Louise shoved me out into the restaurant. The other passengers crowded past us and openly stared at me. I did my best to look innocent. I turned to Louise who looked disgusted.

“What do you think?”

“
I
think those people will remember this elevator ride for the rest of their lives. I had no idea was riding this elevator with a certified looney. And a stake-wielding killer to boot.” She grinned and dug me in the ribs.

I watched the view outside as Seattle slowly revolved below. The restaurant turns very slowly but continuously. “I’m beginning to wonder if maybe it isn’t them… but me.”

“Come on, Carl. We came here to have lunch and enjoy the view.”

“No! There’s
something
crazy going on here. There’s no getting away from it. Six women strangled every 21 years since 1889—except for this most recent series which is a year short of the pattern period. Vagaries of a madman’s mind? Some new development? Or someone new trying to duplicate the pattern? No! While common sense tells me I’m nuts, deep in my gut I
know
every one of them was strangled by the same man. But what
kind
of man? Some character more than a century old? A guy who looks like a corpse?

“Another vampire? Ah, that just doesn’t make sense.”

“Carl, let’s order something. I’m famished. Thinking comes better on a full stomach.”

She was right, of course. It also comes better in good company and by now I was beginning to feel very attached to this particular belly dancer. No doubt the silly dreams of an over-the-hill scribe.

After we had eaten and driven back to her houseboat, she looked at me and said, very levelly, “Carl, from what you’ve told me, you’ve been up against it for a long time. I’m not saying you should cop out. But why not go easy for a while? Just till you build up a stake. You’re new in this town and you don’t want to get off on the wrong foot.”

I kissed her goodbye and told the driver to take me to Fourth and University.

“Just doesn’t make any sense, eh? Well I’m gonna
force
it to make sense, by God!”

“What’s that?” the cabbie queried.

“I said I’m gonna force it to make sense! Sense! He wants facts, does he? I’ll ram them down his damn Sicilian throat!”