Seattle, I had to remind myself, whatever coincidences seemed to befall me, was not Las Vegas, where, as the Daily News’ assistant to the publisher, Bess Melvin, had said, “In Vegas we only ask, ‘Is it a page-one murder or a page-twelve murder?’ That’s how it is when you have three or four a week.” That’s how it is in a town where arson suspects can be found dead of “mysterious beatings” shortly after an arrest.
Seattle was definitely not Las Vegas. In fact, the city could boast the sharpest decline in serious crimes for 1971 of any major American city. There were 42 murders recorded there in 1971, which is considered “respectable” by the FBI for a metropolitan area containing more than a million persons (531,000 within the city limits; 1,935,000 in the Central Puget Sound area). While forcible rapes were up nearly a third, and aggravated assaults up a few percentage points, robberies were down slightly, as were grand larcenies, burglaries, and auto thefts.
Thus far in 1972, the murder totals for January, February and March were two, and one manslaughter (with no rapes and no auto thefts). For April, in addition to the five murders committed by the Pioneer Square Strangler, there was one homicide and three manslaughters, no rapes and two auto thefts.
No, I had blown it again. Lost my cool. And there’d be hell to pay. I was once told as a lad, when still very new in this news game, that I had a modicum of courage, an innate honesty, unbridled idealism and absolutely no sense of proportion. In plain English: I have never known when to let well enough alone.
When I walked into the news room, Janie was scowling as usual and pounding viciously at her Underwood, grumbling under her breath. I walked over to see what had got her riled up.
“Stupid jerks. Idiots. I might just have nailed the bastard.”
She regarded me balefully.
“Idiot policemen chased me off the streets last night. I was armed, for Pete’s sake. Had a hunk of lead from the composing room in a shoulder bag. But, oh no! The streets weren’t safe enough for little old me. So what happens? Hah! The killer strikes again! If I’d been out there I might have gotten him.”
“You might have gotten yourself killed, instead,” I mused.
“Killed! My Aunt Fanny’s behind! That gutless sneak only picks on weaklings. If I could back down Vincenzo, I could handle him.”
“Vincenzo is all mouth. This character means business. He is a killer.”
“So are some of the guys who come out of the woodwork with shotguns and Molotov cocktails every time there’s a cab war. They never chased me off the streets once, and I’m not about to let his coward get away with it. Or the boys in blue.”
She turned and went back to her grumbling.
I sat down at my desk and tried to organize my defenses. Vincenzo’s dulcet tones broke into my reverie. “Kolchak! You get your butt in here on the double!”
I took my time walking the thirty feet to his glassed-in sanctuary. He didn’t even fire a warning shot.
“I warned you the day you started at this paper! Crossbinder warned you! Didn’t we? Didn’t we?”
I was getting tired of our little game. “So what?”
“So… Schubert’s office just called Crossbinder. And Crossbinder just called me. And once again—thanks to you—I’m frying on the goddamn griddle!”
“Why?” I asked, trying to maintain that elusive cool.
“Why? You have the nerve to ask me why? Are you for real? You barge into Schubert’s office and tell him—a man three times cited for bravery—how to run his case. And then you have the nerve, the goddamn nerve to waltz in here and ask me ‘Why?’”
“Tony! They don’t know what they’re doing. The killer’s down there in that Underground! I know he is!”
“You know. Okay. Okay! Then please tell this poor old editor this: Why the hell didn’t they find him?”
“Because he’s in a part that’s hidden. A part nobody knows about.”
“How are they supposed to find it, then?”
“Break down walls if they have to. Better yet—uncork the area. Send armed policewomen in. Girls who are experts in karate. The killer’s got to land his sixth victim by Tuesday.”
“Or…?”
“Or he disappears for another couple of decades.” A thought came to me. “The old man… he’s got a lot of clout, doesn’t he?”
“What are you getting at?” he asked, eyeing me as if I were a leper.
“You’ve got to talk him into pressuring the police; bringing him around to where they can see that I’m right, that what I say makes sense.”
Both Vincenzo’s eyebrows shot up. They fairly climbed into his hairline. “Do you realize what you’ve just said?”
“Of course I realize what I just said. I said it, didn’t I?”
Vincenzo walked around his desk and slumped in his chair. He picked up his pica pole and began tapping it against his left temple. Then he looked up very slowly and put the pole down on this desk very gently. But his color was rising… along with his blood pressure. He whipped off his dark glasses, coughed, and started rubbing his stomach with his free hand. I thought he might be getting ready to throw up.
“You tell me—the managing editor of a major city daily—that I’ve got to talk to the owner of that major city daily and make him pressure the police into doing what you say!!
“It’s finally happened, Kolchak. You’ve gone completely freako! You’ll be wearing robes and a crown next.”
“You gutless worm! One more crack about my mental stability and I’ll take your goddamn typewriter and bust your skull with it!”
Vincenzo grabbed a heavy, brass ashtray and heaved it at me. I ducked, and it bounced off the back of one of his padded armchairs across the room. I made a dive for his typewriter. It was heavier than I thought and my aim was off. To the accompaniment of Vincenzo’s bellow came the crash of his glass divider as the typewriter missed his head and went rocketing into the newsroom. The clatter of machines ceased as an audience began to gather.
“They really cut your guts out when they made you an M.E. and gave you this fancy office, didn’t they? You’ve sold out!”
“Sold out!” He came out swinging as I danced away, and he skidded heavily into the armchair, slumped onto it, and grabbed his stomach. The ulcer.
“You… miserable… egocentric sonofabitch. You’re off the story.”
“Why not fire me altogether?”
“I’ll fire you when I’m damn good and ready. And that will be after you pay for the typewriter and the window. It will be taken out of your paycheck in weekly installments.”
“Well, then…” and I walked over to the empty typewriter table, picked it up, walked back to the windowless divider and shoved it legs first into the unmarked wooden lower panel. “Add that to the bill. And when the repairs are made, I want every piece of glass and that particular panel sent to my place. I’m going to mount the panel and use the glass for your goddamn tires!”
I stormed out and sought refuge in the Chronicle’s morgue.
“Mr. Berry,” as he sat there placidly at his desk, “you are my last hope. Have you got anything at all?”
“Only one small item, I’m afraid.”
“Lay it on me. I’ll take anything right now.”
Berry retreated behind a stack of books and returned with a large scrapbook, opening it to a marked page as he laid it down before me. What was pasted inside was very old and very yellow. The edges had flaked away and lay in the center of the two pages, against the binding pegs.
INTERVIEW WITH MARK TWAIN
Noted Author Comments
On His Seattle Visit
“Mark Twain?”
Berry licked his lips. “Check the fifth paragraph down.”
Mr. Twain noted, with typical dryness of tone, that he had a most intriguing conversation with a local physician who claimed that physical immortality was not only possible but probably; indeed, completely practical.
Mr. Twain’s remark at this was …
“Mr. Be
rry… this is… ver-ry good!” I read on.
… said of the physician, identified as Dr. Richard Malcolm …
Malcolm. Malcolm. That name rang a bell somewhere. Malcolm. Malcrom? Doctor Malcrom. No. Impossible. Just another coincidence.
“Ah, Mr. Berry. Anything more on this Malcolm?”
“Only one small item at the moment.”
Berry produced a folder from a desk drawer and opened it, removing a yellowed sheet of paper upon which was pasted a cracked photograph in sepia tones.
“Dr. Richard Malcolm was one of the original staff members of the Westside Mercy Hospital when it opened in 1882. This is the original story copy and photograph.”
Original was right. This was not just the story as printed in the Chronicle. Somehow, Berry had unearthed the photograph itself along with the original copy in the hand of some long-forgotten reporter. The ink was faded and almost illegible in spots. The photograph had also deteriorated somewhat, but it was clearly the photograph of a bearded officer in a Union Army uniform; the face of a man, slim of build, good looking, and about 40-45 years of age.
“Civil War?”
“He was a surgeon with the Union Army.”
“Get me a magnifying glass, could you.”
Berry had one in his hand. He had anticipated everything. I could have kissed him. I went over the photo, very slowly studying the face. There was a thin white scar almost straight up from his right eye, just cutting through the eyebrow. The face was handsome, a bit aristocratic, and, to me, somewhat cold.
“Is this .. uh… Westside Mercy Hospital still in operation?”
“I don’t believe so, Mr. Kolchak.”
My spirits fell along with my shoulders. “Oh, hell!”
“It was badly gutted by the Great Fire. However, if I’m not mistaken, it was refurbished later on and there’s a clinic there now.”
“Mr. Berry, I don’t dare give voice to what I’m thinking. Are you game for a little adventure?”
His eyes brightened.
“Come on, then.”
“The game’s afoot?”
“Exactly!” I was laughing like an idiot. “Come on, Watson!”
Berry shrank back. “Uh… no, Mr. Kolchak. This,” he swept his hand around the room, “Is my world. As I said, the chase is not for me. But you be sure to let me know what you find.”
Chapter Thirteen
What I found was a very old four-story building in a semi-dilapidated state just off the waterfront, not five blocks from Pioneer Square. A restful place within good listening distance of the traffic rumbling down Alaskan Way.
What I found inside the main area stopped me dead in my tracks.
“My God!” I pushed a passing nurse out of my way and made for the nearest telephone booth to summon Mr. Berry.”
“John, bring all that stuff out to the Richards Free Clinic. NO! I need you, Mr. Berry. Right now! I need a witness. Now move! Please!”
There was an immense photograph hanging in an ornate, gilt-painted frame over a fireplace. The face belonged to Dr. Richard Malcolm, but it was clean shaven and wearing clothing from the Woodrow Wilson era. Bearded or beardless, in uniform or out, it was the same man. Right down to the scar over the right eye!
I kept pacing up and down and went through half a cigar until a nurse told me to put it out. Finally I lost my patience. I climbed up on a nearby cabinet and then onto the mantelpiece. Balancing precariously, I took a grease pencil from my pocket and began to draw a beard on the good Doctor Richard’s cold, handsome face.
A nurse raced over and began to yell. “If you don’t get down from there this instant, I’m calling the police.”
I ignored her and completed the moustache.
“Do you hear me, sir?”
She grabbed my leg as I was working up the beard, and I almost fell off. I shook my leg free and kept right on working.
“All right. All right!! I warned you.” She moved off. I finished the beard and, just for good measure, drew a Union Army officer’s hat over his close-cropped hair. It was perfect.
The nurse was still shouting.
“Fisher! Call the police. Tell them there’s some nut here destroying property. Get them over here, stat!”
I was just climbing down when Mr. Berry arrived and walked timidly into the commotion. We were surrounded by nurses, and orderlies were moving in on me.
“This is dreadful, Mr. Kolchak.”
“Let’s see that photo again, Mr. B.” He pulled it out of an envelope. The old tintype and the poster-sized blow-up matched very nicely.
“Mr. B., do you know what that little brass plaque under that photo up there says? It says ‘Malcolm Richards, M.D., Founder of the Richards Free Clinic. The Doctor Saint of the Waterfront.’”
“Dreadful. Dreadful.”
“What do you mean, dreadful? It’s great! This is what we need!”
Then I remembered my camera. I’d forgotten it back in the office. Berry had it bulging out of one pocket.
“You’re a lifesaver.”
“Well, I just thought… I mean that’s why it took me so long.”
“Never mind.” I did kiss him on his thinning thatch and began shooting pictures of the “Doctor Saint.”
“There he is, officers!”
And that’s when I got busted.
Before they got the cuffs on me, I slipped the camera to Berry and told him what to do. Then I ran around the admitting area creating as much havoc as possible so Berry could slip away unnoticed. It was probably his second greatest talent, going unnoticed. Finally, after about 30 seconds, a very large, very angry policeman cornered me up against a wall.
“You’ve got me, officer. I cannot tell a lie. I am the Scarlet Pimpernel!”
I was hustled over to the Municipal Building in handcuffs and brought directly to Schubert’s office. Schubert and his officers were there in shirtsleeves.
So was Vincenzo.
And so was Mr. Crossbinder.
“Listen, Tony, I’ve got…”
”Shut up, Kolchak.” It was Schubert. Another precinct heard from. Vincenzo looked at me like I was a bug, took two large-sized Maalox tablets from his suitcoat pocket and began to chew them slowly.
Crossbinder opened the festivities in a rolling voice worthy of a Shakespearean actor.
“It is to be regretted, Mr. Kolchak, that the use of leg irons and mouth blocks was outlawed some years back.”
“Now hold on, Mr. Crossbinder. Let me explain.” I turned to Schubert. “Will you take these damn cuffs off me?”
“I warned you, Kolchak.”
Crossbinder crossed his pipe-steam legs, his American Flag pin twinkling as he moved.
“Congratulations, Mr. Kolchak. You have plumbed a new depth: the desecration of a saint. What do you do for an encore? Set fire to an orphanage?”
I turned to Vincenzo.
“Vince…”
Crossbinder also turned to Vincenzo.
“Yes, Mr. Vincenzo. Have you some illuminating comment to make?”
“I took him off the story, Mr. Crossbinder. What more could …?”
“For Christ’s sake, everybody shut up! You wanted facts Vincenzo. All right. I’ve got facts for you.
“I did not invent the resemblance between Dr. Malcolm Richards and Dr. Richard Malcolm! I did not invent the fact that Westside Mercy Hospital—of which Dr. Richard Malcolm was a staff member—is buried underneath the site of the present Malcolm Richards clinic. Any fool can…”
Crossbinder wasn’t through, however.
“Charming. Just charming. Why not an expose on Dr. Schweitzer, Mr. Kolchak? The lowdown on Mahatma Gandhi? The real scoop on the Pope?
“You and this eternal youth garbage. I can’t stand it!”
“I can see why you, you old…”
”What did you say?”
Schubert broke up the fight. “All right, hold on. We’re not here for personal vituperation.”
I couldn’t restrain myself. “
You know that word, Captain?”
“You’ve been arrested, Mr. Kolchak. You are one one-hundredth of an inch from being thrown in jail and…” He broke off and looked toward his door. So did I. Mr. Berry—good old Mr. Berry—was standing there with Sheila McCallister. He was shyly wiggling his fingers at me.
“There he is! That’s the man I’m waiting for! John! Come right on in here!”
Sheila opened the door for him and marched him in like a small, reluctant truant. “I apologize for interrupting your meeting sir, but this gentleman…”
Crossbinder bellowed, “Who is this man?”
“He works for you.”
Crossbinder looked blank, and Berry spoke up for himself in a very timid voice. “D-down in Research, sir… for… thirty-five years.”
Crossbinder was genuinely shocked. “Good God! I must get down there more often.”
Berry was still carrying the envelope.
“Is this it?”
“Yes, Mr. Kolchak. I thought perhaps…”
“You have thought correctly, Mr. B. Bless you!”
I was having trouble with the envelope because of the handcuffs.
“Captain, will you open this for me?”
“Kolchak, you were brought to this meeting. It was not arranged for your convenience!”
I couldn’t stand it any longer. This was definitely my last chance. Sink or swim.
Will you please, for God’s sake, listen to me? Please! These are facts here. Cold, hard facts! Not suppositions!
“Item: Dr. Richard Malcolm lived in New York City and served in the Union Army throughout the Civil War. He returned to New York until 1868 and then he moved to Seattle.
“Item: Several months before he moved, six women were strangled over a period of eighteen days. Their larynxes were crushed and their necks broken. Two of them had small wounds at the bases of their skulls. The sources of this information are available to check out.
Kolchak The Night Strangler Page 8