Kolchak The Night Strangler
Page 1
Copyright
Digital edition 2012
First MOONSTONE edition 2007
The Kolchak Papers: The Original Novels
© 2007 by Jeff Rice
All Rights Reserved
“Kolchak the Night Stalker” © 2007 by Jeff Rice
All Rights Reserved
Cover painting by Douglas Klauba
Without limiting the rights of the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form,or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording,or otherwise), without the prior express written consent of the publisher and copyright holder.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by Moonstone
582 Torrence Ave, Calumet City, IL 60409
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Prologue
It had been almost two years since my quiet, orderly life was jarred into a series of confrontations with un-cooperative police and government officials, frightened witnesses, and reports of “mysterious,” “convenient,” and “coincidental” deaths. I say jarred “into” rather than “by” because these events did not intrude into my life. I invited my life into them. Let me make this clear: I had no earthly reason to get involved. I had better sense. Or so I thought. Yet I fell for the bait—hook, line and sinker. I voluntarily joined “the hunt” and made myself a party to the subsequent loss of friends, business contacts, and the dissolution of my association with a Los Angeles advertising agency which shall remain nameless—the parting of the ways was not exactly voluntary and not at all pleasant. Now I am no longer in advertising. Not in Los Angeles. Not anywhere. Now I am a “novelist.” Now I sit alone and ponder how one seedy, aggressive, hard-drinking and frequently fired reporter could have wreaked such havoc upon my once placid existence.
His name is Carl Kolchak and he is a man out of his time. It is as if he stepped straight out of Hecht and MacArthur’s Front Page. When I met him, in his cups and down on his luck as a third-rate publicity man for a fourth-rate actor (who was doing voice-overs for one of our clients), he imparted some information to me that he claimed would lead to “one of the biggest crime stories of the decade.” He claimed that several young women had died at the hands of “a real, live vampire” in Las Vegas where he had worked for the Daily News and that all his efforts to get the facts published had been suppressed in the greatest cover-up in Las Vegas’ history. The story was fantastic. Idiotic. But, fool that I was, I became intrigued enough to investigate his claims. What I discovered led me to transcribe his notes and tapes into a report to which my publishers chose to affix the undignified (but reasonably accurate) title The Night Stalker. It took more than two years of struggles against the aforementioned suppression before I found a publisher courageous enough to print the entire account verbatim.
I lost contact with Kolchak in November of 1970, and for a time greatly feared he had been silenced permanently by the same sinister forces that seemed to have conveniently removed others who could have testified to the incredible events in Las Vegas.
Then, a few months ago, I received the following note, hastily scribbled on a sheet of the kind of pulp paper commonly found in newsrooms:
Dear Mr. Rice,
By now I’m sure you thought they’d finally put me away or shut me up for good. Well, I’m still alive—nominally—and kicking as usual. The enclosed tapes should be self-explanatory. Whatever needs additional explaining is covered in the accompanying notes. I know what you’re going to say: “Not again!” Save it. You know for yourself that such things do happen. And you proved you can do more than con the great unwashed into buying some useless product they don’t need. I saw the book. Aside from a few unkind and uncalled-for references to my character and the general quality of my thinking, you gave a fairly accurate rendition of what I went through. When I finally light somewhere long enough to receive mail—someplace I can find a job—I’ll get in touch with you and we can discuss how much of the royalty money you’re going to send me.
In the meantime, if you haven’t become too comfortably settled in your (hah hah!) new-found wealth and your investigative instincts haven’t atrophied, check out the enclosed and see what you can do with it. As usual, I’m on the run and short of the time and money to do it properly. And, as you will discover, I’m not exactly alone.
Yes, goddamn it, it’s happened again! At first I couldn’t believe it myself. But before I realized it I had gotten into it right up to my eyeballs. I’d write the damn thing myself except I’ve got to find something that pays and find it quick. I think I’ve got something here (you’ll find out from the tapes) and I don’t want to blow it. I’m getting a little old for second chances.
Well, don’t just sit there on your fat ass. Start writing. I don’t know about you, but I need the bread.
Carl Kolchak
P.S. If you think you could part with a few dollars to tide me over, put them aside and I’ll let you know where to send them.
• • •
At first, I must admit I was glad to discover Kolchak was alive and well and (hopefully) residing somewhere in the United States. But there was a still, small voice in my head that warned me against getting involved. Like many an unwitting man before me, I ignored it. It appears now that I have become the “voice-piece” for Kolchak, and I shudder to think that when he does contact me—I have heard nothing further from him as yet—he will embroil me in yet another of his escapades. At any rate, what follows I my earnest effort to relate Kolchak’s misadventure in his own terms as well as my talents will allow.
I must state here that I received something less than enthusiastic cooperation from Police Captain Raymond Schubert and none at all from Dr. Christopher Webb, the King County Medical Examiner, who dismissed me with a curt “No comment.”
From Lucius Crossbinder, publisher of the Seattle Daily Chronicle, I quote: “If you have come here seeking something to lend credence to the lunatic blatherings of that incompetent lout Kolchak, Mr. Rice, you are a bigger idiot than he, sir, and I’ll have no truck with you or any of your ilk. On the Daily Chronicle, sir, we are concerned with fact—hard fact—and not sensation. Now kindly leave, sir, or I shall be forced to have you ejected from these premises.”
However, I should like to acknowledge the following persons who rendered varying degrees of assistance in preparing my text:
A.A. Vincenzo, Managing Editor, Las Vegas Daily News, who tersely confirmed what occurred in Seattle but refused permission for any direct quotes.
Janie Carlson, an associate editor on the same newspaper, whom I contacted at her home on Overland Avenue and who gave the same response, and who, possibly not incidentally, does most of her work from her home nowadays and rarely goes into “the office” anymore.
Dr. Charles L. Adams of the English Department of the University of Nevada at Las Vegas who, in turn, put me in touch with his former colleague:
Dr. Kirsten Helms, a recognized authority in the field of myths and legends, who granted me a few minutes of her time and held back nothing, as she packed in preparation for a “research tour” of Rumania.
And, also for their invaluable assistance and cooperation:
Boyd Hayden, Research Chief.
Cindi Booth, Research Assistant, Seattle Chamber of Commerce.
Marti Braun, Front Counter, Seattle Post-Intelligencer.
Jeff Rice
Las Vegas, Nevada
January, 1973
June 6, 1889
The Great Seattle Fire had been raging for hours, virtually unchecked. A flaming glue pot in a print shop had spread death across the entire city. And the fire couldn’t be stopped.
Fraud and malfeasance of duty had once again reared their ugly heads above “Skid Road,” the boom-or-bust town. There was the little problem of the privately owned water system which was required by franchise to supply the necessary water pipes to the city; which it did. Seattle’s Solons had wisely set up a specified number of fire hydrants by ordinance. Unfortunately, there was nothing in said ordinance that required those pipes to be hooked up to the aforementioned hydrants.
Result: Virtually the entire city, sixty-six square blocks of brick and frame buildings, went up in flames with the smoke blotting out what had begun as a bright summer’s day.
Among the structures in the path of the inferno was the magnificent Westside Mercy Hospital, a five-story brick and wrought-iron structure with not one, but two hydraulic-electric elevators, which had opened its doors only seven years before. Except for a few areas, a fire-proof laboratory, and parts of the central court, the building was gutted, and in the rebuilding that followed, abandoned. As with most of Seattle’s other buildings, all records stored within its business offices were destroyed and there is no accurate accounting of how many persons perished in the holocaust.
In Memoriam
James Stackhaus
1892-1965
John Berry
1904-1972
Chapter One
On Saturday, April 1, 1972, Merissa, one of three belly dancers employed at a scabrous downtown Seattle night spot called Omar’s Tent, was making her way through the drizzle to St. James Street where she hoped to catch the 3 a.m. bus that would take her to her small apartment in the Shoreline Park area. She was tired and ready for a good night’s sleep. As was her usual custom, she planned to take a shower and go right to bed.
Merissa—born Ethel Parker. Five-foot four-inches tall and, at 130 pounds, just a shade plump and almost beautiful.
Ethel Parker. Thirty-two years old. A professional dancer for 13 years who had never really made the grade. She had worked in small clubs in Boston and Montreal and Chicago, in both Vancouvers, and finally in Seattle.
Ethel Parker. A woman alone. Well, not quite alone.
As she shivered in the 45-degree temperature, her heels clicking hollowly on the pavement, she suddenly froze near an alley. She thought she heard footsteps nearby. She listened but heard nothing.
Satisfied it was only her nerves on edge, she resumed her walk, when she heard sounds of a bottle falling to the pavement in the nearby alley and rolling about. Once again she stopped and turned toward the alley. Again, nothing.
But now Ethel Parker was frightened. The men who leered at her and drooled as she undulated at Omar’s Tent had tried to pick her up before, and she could remember an ugly incident only three months earlier and found herself thinking she should have spent the money for a cab.
Ethel Parker had begun to run now in panic. From what, she did not know. She darted out into St. James Street and froze in the sudden glare, falling back as she was almost sideswiped by a taxi that screeched to a halt a few yards past her. She ran to the cab and grabbed the handle of the rear door. It was locked.
“Please!” she begged. “Can’t you take me? I only want to go to Shoreline Park. Please!”
The cabbie had other things on his mind. “Off duty,” he growled, and pulled away, leaving her standing alone and shivering in the street.
Ethel Parker. A lady of few words. “Hell!” She spied the bus stop and began to run toward it, but the lights of another cab suddenly brightened St. James Street. She has started to wave frantically now, dashing down the block. Halfway there she stopped, panting and disgusted, as the can passed by, splashing water on her.
Ethel Parker was standing in front of yet another alley. She glanced at her watch. It was 2:47 a.m. Her hands shaking, she dug into her purse for a pack of Marlboros, extracted one, and lit it with a throw-away butane lighter. Then she turned around to head back to the bus stop.
Ethel Parker took one last drag on that king-size cigarette. One last drag as two icy hands grabbed her neck from behind and jerked her off her feet, cutting off her scream. She grabbed the hands, kicking, but she couldn’t reach the ground. The struggle was silent. The smoke curled slowly from her mouth in a thin string that was pelted to the ground by the rain. Her eyes began to protrude as her tongue swelled in her mouth. Her fingers scraped desperately at the hands around her neck and she was dimly aware of something clammy coming off on them. And that, possibly, was the last thing she was aware of. Seconds later she was dead, lying in a grimy Seattle alley.
And her killer was very busy doing other things to her body.
While Ethel Parker, a.k.a. Merissa, was watching the lights of St. James Street flicker out for the last time, I was sitting and chewing the stub of a dead cigar in the Flick Adult Cinema on Pike and watching Tempting Tales from the corner of one bloodshot eye, a small bottle of White Horse nestled lovingly between my legs.
In the time since I had left Las Vegas—or, to be truthful, since I was run out of Las Vegas—things had gone pretty much downhill. I had wound up in L.A. and had spent months trying, unsuccessfully, to get work on a paper there. My reputation had not preceded me, but L.A. was suffering one of its periodic slumps. Things in the motion-picture industry were disastrous. Advertising was not much better. The aerospace industry was in complete rout.
I got myself a job on the Hollywood Citizen and it folded the next day. I tried the Herald-Examiner and was just nosed out of a job by a character from Boston. On my way out of the building I was roughed up by a picket who looked twice my age. At the Times, an old Vegas contact, Noel Greenwood, said, “I’d like to help, but right now there’s a hiring freeze on and you couldn’t get a job here sweeping out the composing room.”
I decided to start free-lancing my so-called talents as a press agent for a character actor I knew who was getting ready to make his fourth “comeback” doing voice-overs for commercials. During that time I tried as best I could to get my experiences in Las Vegas down on tape with the hope of getting them to a publisher. Not one I talked to would touch the stuff with a ten-foot pole.
Finally I made contact with Jeff Rice, an L.A.-based ad exec and former Las Vegas newsman who was willing to listen to me. At that point I was so low down I told him to write the goddamn book, which, to my admitted surprise, he proceeded to do. But before I got the chance to see any profits from the project, that venal little runt, Rupert Koster, a henchman of Vegas’ District Attorney Paine (now out of the office) came snooping around my place, and I decided the time had come for me to blow town.
Things went from bad to worse and a good bit of what happened afterward is pretty fuzzy. Anyhow, I ended up in Seattle in the last week of March, 1972, and there my car died. What money I did get for the old “Blue Bitch,” as I called my Camaro, would have to be used to tide me over in a last-ditch effort to land a job. If I couldn’t do it in Seattle, I figured Canada was my next stop. I could go up there and freeze my butt off with the rest of the drop-outs.
I got myself a pretty decent little place in the Charbern on Belmont for $87.50 a month and prepared to make my stand. Carrying my scrapbook of clippings in one hand, and my semi-written manuscript on the Skorzeny affair in the other, I began to make the rounds. Between visits to nearby taverns. It was very discouraging. I was alone in a strange town. I’d lost most of my friends. My girl had dropped out of sight. And the only action I could afford—and probably was capable of—was sitting and getting stewed in a porno house.
The Seattle Times had no opening and neither did the Post-Intelligencer, but Marti Braun, a very nice girl at the P-I’s front
desk, suggested I try the local press club for a contact. It took me a few days to work up the nerve to try.
Finally, one night I walked in with my scrapbook, ordered a double Scotch neat, and ended up in a harangue with some young punk who had the audacity to call himself a reporter. He worked for the Daily Chronicle and he told me very kindly that I was drunk or nuts. I can remember screaming at him, “Where the hell have you been living? In a cave? There’s a whole goddamn world outside! A world of facts. Why don’t you stumble out and take a peek at them sometime; get your brain out of hibernation.”
He struggled to be polite and simply withdraw, but I grabbed him by his lapels and forced his nose into my scrapbook, spilling my drink all over it. He looked scared.
“What the hell does that say? Can you read or shall I tell you what it says. ‘Vampire,’ that’s what it says. Official Coroner’s Report! You know what that is, sonny? Blood drained from the victim’s body! Body found in…”
He pulled away from me and appeared to be complaining to some guy by the bar, then he looked my way, snickered, and moved on down the bar. The man at the bar was partially hidden from me but he was holding a glass of milk. He came over to my table. The snarl was familiar.
“Hello, Carl.”
I almost fell off my chair.
“Vincenzo! You old sonofabitch! What the hell are you doing in Seattle?”
He was just as warm and responsive as I had remembered him.