Suddenly I was in the middle of a street… it may have been First, but I wasn’t sure. The only thing I was sure of was that I was alone. I listened for her footsteps. Any footsteps.
Then I heard the squeal of brakes and running feet. I took off, following the sound.
I came racing around the corner of an old brick building and skidded to a halt, almost falling over and dropping both the gun and my camera. I ducked back into a doorway.
A block away, its red lights flashing angrily, was a squad car… and Louise. The police had caught her. She walked toward the headlights, stood a moment talking to the officer riding shotgun, then got in the car and it moved off.
That tears it! I thought in disgust as I threw my hat down in the street. The police car turned a corner and I moved out to retrieve my hat.
A blinding glare hit me, and before I could duck back into the shadows again, a car almost ran me down. Its tires screaming, the car careened to a halt. It was a squad car.
Busted. Again!
And while Louise and I were being taken for a ride by Seattle’s finest, the cashier of Trattoria Aversano was fighting for her life, backing away from the killer, stumbling over small tables with red-checked tablecloths in a hopeless effort to stay alive a few seconds longer.
The killer had his final victim. And the ball game was over.
Chapter Sixteen
Wednesday, April 19, 1972
Louise and I had been booked, separated, and taken to our cells. I figured anything could happen from here on in, but that most likely I’d get a light sentence for interfering with an officer (or officers) in the performance of his (or their) duty and afterwards be run out of town on a rail. I couldn’t blame them. Not truly. My meddling had accomplished absolutely nothing. On the other hand, they had not listened to me and the results were: Dead. Michelle Briand, Manager of Aversano’s. Tall. Young. Lovely. But dead. (I didn’t know of this when I was still in the slammer, but it made no difference to Mlle. Briand. Dead is dead.) Then I remembered I’d been carrying a concealed weapon. That was going to keep me in Seattle a long, long time.
Sometime around 3 a.m. (I’m not sure, because they took my watch and other personal belongings at the booking desk) an officer unlocked my cell door and told me to follow him. I was taken down a maze of hallways and suddenly bumped into Louise, looking fit to be tied, on the arm of a stout matron. We were brought back to the booking desk, which was the center of a three-ring circus of activity; a madhouse of reaction to the sixth and final kill.
Schubert was charging around like an enraged bull, bellowing orders, taking phone and radio communications. Even he, it seemed, gave every indication of knowing the jig was up and that, barring a miracle which I did not believe would occur, the killer had gone to ground again and wasn’t going to show his corpselike (or handsome) face again for twenty or twenty-one years.
This reporter knew it too. And was fit to be tied. Let alone handcuffed.
Schubert came bustling by me with officers trailing like streamers from both arms.
“Hey, Schubert! I…”
He didn’t even stop. Goddamn idiot! Bravery citations! But no brains.
“Kolchak!
The voice was familiar. The tone was familiar. The face was Vincenzo’s. Red. Like a danger flag. He was stuffing a handful of Maalox pills down his throat.
I turned to Louise, who just shook her head.
An officer ran by, and I grabbed at his shirt. “What the hell’s going on here?”
“The strangler got another one.”
He tried to pull away but I tightened my grip.
“Who? Where? When?” I already knew how and why.
He filled me in and then broke free.
“I told him it was gonna happen! But did he listen? Oh, No!”
“Carl, not now!”
“Kolchak, you…”
Schubert the battleship came cruising down the hall again, officers and secretaries in his wake.
“’I’ve been a policeman for thirty years’… and a moron for fifty! Hah!”
Vincenzo grabbed me and hauled me over to the side of the booking desk, near the elevators. He looked like he was in the first stages of a coronary.
“You were supposed to be admiring daffodils in Puyallup. I… uh… Christ, my guts are killing me! I would like to leave you in here forever! I would like to see you in a jail cell for a million years.”
“Now, Tony…”
“Don’t you start, Kolchak. So help me, if you don’t button up that satchel mouth of yours, I’ll…”
“You don’t look so good, Vincenzo. You ought to see a doctor.”
“Sign here, please,” said the desk sergeant.
Vincenzo pressed down so hard he snapped the ballpoint in half.
“Damn!”
The sergeant handed him another pen which he punched clean through the receipt form trying to get it to write. He threw it across the office.
Another officer began giving me my things as Louise collected hers from a clerk. I extended my pen to Vincenzo, who grabbed at it savagely.
I moved off with Louise toward the elevators. She grabbed my arm. “What have you done to that poor man? I’ve never seen a human being so close to coming apart at the seams before. Carl… listen to me!”
I pulled away from her. Something had caught my attention. Two officers were leaning against a wall nearby, talking in hushed tones. But Louise wouldn’t let up.
“Can’t you see he really cares? For God’s sake, thank him and get out of…”
”Shhh!”
“We had him cornered! In those alleys in back of the Richards Clinic. And then he just… disappears!” The officer snapped his fingers. “Like that!”
I turned to Louise. “Bingo!”
The ride down in the elevator with Vincenzo was made in total silence. The noise started when we got to his car, an aging T-Bird convertible. It started as a low rumble and built to a roar which lasted all the way to my apartment where he dumped me off with the promise that I go straight to bed. I got Louise to stay with me. I tried to thank him but I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. All he kept muttering as he drove away was, “Never again… never again…”
By 4 a.m. Louise and I had managed to get down to the Richards Free Clinic. This time, she wasn’t so anxious to be in on the hunt. But I was. I could smell blood. Maybe no one else knew what was going on, but I was damned sure I did. Our quarry had to have a way in and out of that clinic which was built over the old hospital, and undoubtedly connected up with the main part of the Underground. I became another crime statistic when I broke a basement window and started inside.
“Carl, enough is enough. You said you were just coming down here for a look. Let’s get out of here.”
“No… I want a good look. Wait here and keep an eye peeled for the fuzz. Give me the flashlight.”
I crawled through, putting yet another tear in my coat, and passed through a boiler room. It took almost ten minutes, but I finally found what I’d been looking for. A trap door, hidden under some boxes.
I tugged and it opened. Smoothly. It had been in recent use. It was well-oiled and made no sound. I ducked my head through it.
What I saw was absolutely incredible. I blinked my eyes but it was no mirage. It was really there.
Chapter Seventeen
I scurried back to the window.
“Louise… c’mere. We’ve hit pay dirt! The whole hospital’s down there. Just like it was described in the old news articles I read in the morgue. Fire-scorched but intact! What’s more, the gas lamps are working! They’re lit! I’ll bet he’s got his lab down there and it’s in working order too!”
“Are you out of your mind? What if he’s down there?”
“I’ll worry about that problem when I come to it. Besides, I’m a pretty fast runner.” (I lied.)
“Listen… give me thirty minutes, then phone the police and tell them where I am. Tell them to surround this damn building and to m
ove in from the trap door in the basement boiler room and also from the Underground.”
“Carl… you are not going back in there.”
“Yes I am, sweetie. Now hustle your bustle and get out of here before you’re spotted.”
“What do you need thirty minutes for? Why don’t we call them now?
“Oh, no. This is my exclusive!” And I went back to the trap door.
There was a wrought-iron ladder leading down from the trap, which must have originally been a fire-escape access to the roof, which was a glass skylight, most of the original glass blown out by the fire.
The gold-tile and red-brick walls had been scorched, and a few windows remained in the doors, but the place seemed to be in unbelievably good condition. There were old wicker wheelchairs scattered about, and leaves and trash and old newspapers everywhere.
Starting from what had been the top floor, I tried the doors and most were locked. The ones I found open were to rooms that appeared gutted. Apparently, most of the central building was built of reinforced brick, concrete and steel. Only the outer wings, with their wooden floors, had collapsed from the fire.
Off to the rear of the ladder was a door marked LABORATORY. It was ajar, and there was light in there. I moved in very slowly.
The entire room was lined with racks of test tubes, retorts, flasks, Bunsen burners; a weird combination of ancient and modern equipment. There were kilns, refrigerators, a small centrifuge—the works. And the burners were going. Someone was using the lab. But he wasn’t around. That might mean he’d been prevented from getting back, but I wouldn’t bet my life on it. Somehow, the fire hadn’t touched the lab. Only a few signs of scorching near the entrance. And then I saw why. The lab had walls of concrete and brick at least two feet thick. And a sliding fire door just inside the ordinary one. It was like a bunker. Unless I missed my guess, Dr. Malcolm, or whatever his name was, had had a hand in designing Westside Mercy Hospital and had prepared himself for the contingency of fire, as well as for an explosion in the lab which, according to what I’d read, was an ever-present danger in the heating process used for alchemical purifications.
I backed out of the lab and made my way to the landing of the nearest stairwell. Scorched wooden banisters were still securely in place on wrought-iron posts. Rusted but intact. The flooring of the stairs was pinkish marble supported by wrought-iron cross braces. They had remained intact, almost untouched by the flames. There was one set at what I guessed to be the east side of the building and an almost identical set across the court. Half way in between, on either side of the court, were two ancient elevators rising in open-air shafts through the center of the building.
Slowly I descended the stairs, pausing at each landing to make a quick survey of the doors. Some of the rooms had office furniture, great blocky wooden desks scorched in spots; some had examining tables. Most were gutted. The fire had taken a capricious tour of the building, touching some places and ignoring others.
Fog had somehow seeped into the building and lay like a smoky white carpet along what had been the foyer and admitting area. The front of the building had collapsed in spots and I could just see out of one hold in the wall.
Outside, yet another fantastic sight. Far more impressive than anything I’d seen on the Underground Tour. Bill Speidel’s eyes would have bulged to see it: an entire Victorian street, gaslit, with cobblestones—the works. Of course it only ran a block or so, and then the inevitable dead end against the foundations of Seattle’s post-conflagration streets.
At one end of the “ground-floor” court were two ornate, very tall double doors. I could swear I heard music coming from the room beyond.
I pushed through them, the fog swirling at my feet, and by God I was right. Something by Lehar. Some waltz I couldn’t quite remember. It sounded very old and scratchy, like a badly worn record.
The room beyond was magnificent in its scope and ruination. This Malcolm must have done quite well for himself, either through his gold speculations or through transmutations in his lab. For this was certainly not part of the hospital proper. It was akin to a baronial hall, about 75 or 80 feet long, with a high, vaulted ceiling and hand-painted beams, from what I could tell in the dim, flickering light of the gas lamps.
About 40 or 50 feet wide, its oriental carpet ruined by seepage from the nearby Elliott Bay, covered in spots by a mulch of leaves and dead branches poking in through what once must have been magnificent bay windows, it looked like a luxurious mausoleum. Down here, close to sea level, the rot was pronounced, as was a smell like the mixture of sewage and sea water.
I made my way slowly through the room, snapping off photos every few feet. The velvet plush furniture was sagging and rotting with mildew on its frames of gilded wood (no doubt, mahogany) and the wood-paneled walls were cracked in many places.
The farther I went, the colder it seemed to get. And the music got louder. Only now one passage seemed to repeat, eerily, over and over; no longer a waltz but a dirge.
I passed a harpsichord, its gilded paint peeling. Someone had viciously pounded a couple of nails through the lid over the keys. They were rusted. No one had played this since who knew when. And no one ever would again.
I checked my watch. Fifteen minutes had passed. Louise would call the cops in fifteen minutes. That might give me 20 or 25 to get all the material I needed.
There was light showing through a crack in the gloom ahead, which as I approached, turned out to be yet another set of double doors. The music was louder. And there was something else along with the smell of decay… a smell of… food?
I wished to hell I still had my gun. Well, in for a dime, in for a dollar.
I listened for any sounds other than the music, but heard none. So I pushed on through.
What greeted me beyond the doors was a sight so ghastly it was almost amusing. One tends to laugh when on the brink of insanity. Charles Addams would have appreciated the scene. But the music should have been Saint-Saens.
There were three of them, seated around an ornate, cobweb-encrusted diner table, taking their mid-dinner ease. I snapped off a couple of quick shots. They didn’t rise to greet me or acknowledge my presence. For which I am eternally grateful. They didn’t move at all. They hadn’t moved in nearly 85 years.
The setting was right out of Dickens’ Great Expectations—Miss Havisham’s dining room. These were the mummified remains of what appeared to be two women and a man. I could only guess by their clothing, because as far as their sex was concerned, they could have been almost anything.
My mouth was dry as I circled the table, snapping pictures of everything in sight. I heard a scrabbling sound and froze in my tracks.
Rats! Christ! But what could rats want… and then I saw it.
A fourth place setting. Fresh food. Still warm. Meat of some kind. Potatoes. Peas. A glass of wine.
I began backing up and tripped over something hard. Slamming up against a sideboard I looked down. A mummified dog.
Finally it dawned on me that nothing could have remained as it was in such dampness by itself. I reached out and touched one of the… things… at the table. Hard. Cold. The skin had the feel of stiff, old leather. Tanned! Someone had preserved these people and set them up at this travesty of a family meal.
I looked up and saw a painting hanging on the wall opposite me. Upon closer inspection it was Dr. Malcolm, still in uniform as a Union major, with his wife and stepchildren, in front of the portico of some large, immaculate home of the period.
I moved back for one more picture. Got it!
Then I turned at another sound. A dry, scratching from the table. I peered closely at what I think was the wife… or the daughter… there was no telling. Out of one eye socket, a small spider came scuttling.
My stomach turned. I’d had it. I decided to take my leave of this charming gathering. One more shot… this time of the fourth place setting with the fresh food.
“Stop that!”
I dropped the camera right in t
he mashed potatoes.
“Don’t turn around. Don’t move at all.” Voice level. Quiet. Authoritative. Something pressed against my spine. And my guts dribbled down my trouser leg.
I sneaked a glance at my watch. Time was crawling. The police couldn’t get here for another 20 minutes. Fifteen at best. Stall. Stall!
“May I turn around?”
“Slowly. And take your camera out of my dinner, please.”
An epicure, no less. I did so very gingerly, wiping the lens and viewfinder with a rotted silk napkin. Then I turned.
I don’t know what I expected to find, but what it was was a conservatively dressed man just short of six feet in height; slim, erect, and a bit younger than me, with a cold, handsome face.
A weak try at humor: “D-Doctor Malcolm, I presume?”
No reaction. The pale eyes regarded me with all the intense curiosity of a scientist examining a germ under a microscope.
“I don’t understand. How can you be… I mean, you should…”
“Who are you, sir?”
“Ah… K-Kolchak. Daily Chronicle.”
“How did you get in here?”
“Through the t-trap door in the basement of your clinic.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. He’d made not threatening move. What he’d struck in my back had been nothing more than his finger. Again the absurd urge to giggle.
He seemed puzzled.
“Clinic? I… have… no… clinic. What clinic?”
“You are Dr. Richard Malcolm… also known as Dr. Malcolm Richards, aren’t you? The… Richards Free Clinic… u-upstairs?” Even to me, my words sounded like grade-C dialogue. Stall.
“I’ve… seen your face before.”
“I’m flattered. You almost killed me in an alley about a week ago.”
“Dare say. What… what are you doing here?”
Was he merely mad or was he also a bit senile as well? He seemed so vague. So preoccupied. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Stall.
Kolchak The Night Strangler Page 10