by Jeff Rice
There was a Father Mulcahy there and I asked for confession. I’m not a Catholic but I do know the proper routine and I was covering all bets at the time. I spilled my guts to him about the whole thing and about what was going to happen. He listened in stony silence. He was an old man and no doubt had seen a lot. From his later reaction when I asked him to fill two aluminum cigar tubes with Holy Water and give me two crucifixes–not even a raised eyebrow–I gathered I’d not been the first man to discuss the problem with him. I asked him to wait a moment while I fetched a small airline bag with the stake and hammer in it. I was taking no chances and asked him to bless these, too. He hesitated but I must have looked sufficiently distraught because he mumbled some words over the wooden weapons, sprinkled Holy Water on them, and bid me a curt good-day.
Thus, armed with one made-to-order stake and hammer combination, a crucifix in my pocket and a smaller one around my neck, I stopped by the courthouse switchboard of Helen O’Brien who gave me a message relayed from the paper to the effect that Dr. Helms wanted her books back. I’d forgotten them, stacked neatly in a carton in the trunk of my car. Well, tomorrow would do.
Then I checked in with Jenks and prepared for the “death watch” to come. Lane arrived at the command post around 10:15 to let us know he was on hand. He nodded at me to acknowledge my presence but said nothing.
For the rest of the day nothing happened. There were no more bodies discovered and nothing new on the two missing girls.
At around 3:30 we did get word that inquiries about Skorzeny’s flight into Las Vegas on April 10 had revealed another interesting piece of information. He had been spotted by a night man at Western’s air-freight office. Skorzeny had been mustached, well tanned… no that’s not what the air-freight man said. “An odd-looking tan,” he’d said. Skorzeny had on dark glasses, and of course, the bad breath.
The freight checker also said Skorzeny told him he was a doctor “specializing in research,” and that he’d sent a large crate of equipment on the flight. It was there, about seven feet by four by four labeled “Fragile–Lab Instruments–Handle With Extreme Care” and weighed about 200 pounds. The crate had been loaded into a car the “doctor” had rented from American Car Rentals at McCarran Airport upon arrival. It was too big to fit properly and the freight checker had attached a red rag to it where it stuck out of the car’s trunk. That was the last he’d seen of the “doctor.”
A quick check with American revealed a Dr. Julian Benes had rented a Ford LTD on April 19, at about the same time. He had paid in cash. That was the last anyone saw of Dr. Benes.
At 4:30 Lane called me into his office and informed me that every man on patrol in both departments had been equipped with crosses, Holy Water, hammers and stakes. As many hatchets as could be bought, begged and borrowed were also distributed. Around five we sent out for some hero sandwiches and Jenks, Masterson and I ate quietly together. Nothing further happened but then I didn’t expect much action until it got dark.
It was 9:15 when there finally was a break. A real break. A call came in and Masterson took it. He waved at the deputy and said, “Get Sheriff Lane on this line.” Then he punched another button and started to record. Through the recorder and over its small speaker we crowded around and were able to hear the voice on the other end of the line.
“My name is Aline Sedgewick–Sedgewick Realty at 637 South Sixth Street. I think I may have some information on the suspect you’re looking for. I… I believe I may have sold a house to him on… ah… April 14, a Tuesday. He called my office just before closing time and told me he’d seen one of our advertised properties out on Spencer and Viking and was interested in it if it could be purchased quickly. He gave the name Dr. Paul Laszlo and asked if he could meet me at the property around nine o’clock that night.
“It seemed an odd request but he said it was important and that it was the only time he’d have free. And he offered full payment immediately in cash. That seemed even more unusual but… well, a person doesn’t turn down $20,000 without at least seeing a client. So I agreed.
“I met him a little after nine that night and after catching up on my newspapers–I’ve been out of town for the past six weeks–I saw he somewhat resembled the man you’re all looking for, this mass murderer. So I’m calling now. The man had a well-trimmed gray beard and dark glasses. I showed him the place which isn’t much, really. Cinder-block house, one bedroom, living-dining area, kitchen and one bathroom. Very Spartan, really. Built mostly as property improvement by the former owner, all situated on a half-acre lot which is nothing but scrub and caliche.
“He told me he was in medical research, had overworked himself and developed a nervous condition causing him to break out in strong sunlight and that he needed peace and quiet with no neighbors to disturb his study. He said he’d come to Las Vegas because he could at leave have his choice of several places to get food and other sundries at odd hours during the night when he’d be up and working.
“I told him I’d draw up the papers in the morning and he could come down for them but he insisted in paying me right there and then. $20,000 in cash. And he asked me for --- and got, mind you–a receipt on the spot. Well, it’s not the first time I’ve made a cash sale like that, I don’t mind telling you. When he asked me for a key I was a little surprised, but after all, he’d bought the place, so I gave it to him.
“I sent him the papers by messenger the next day and they were left in his mailbox. I haven’t seen him since. The only other thing that seemed odd about him physically, except for his dark glasses–and of course I didn’t say anything because I assumed it was because he’d been sick–was his breath. Oh, my! It was simply awful. By the time I’d shown him the interior of the house, I was almost sick to my stomach. It seemed to fill the whole place. If you ask me that’s why he wants to live alone.
“Is that any help to you? I mean is he the man you’re looking for… the one who killed all those poor young girls?”
“Well, we don’t know that yet for sure, ma’am, but we are looking to question him. And thank you. Yes, you certainly have been helpful. We’re grateful for your cooperation,” Masterson answered.
“Think nothing of it. I’m glad I could help. And I hope you catch him soon, whoever he is.”
Well, progress. Now it appeared we not only had a possible location for the suspect’s hiding place but another eyewitness to identify him. I felt certain Paine would be pleased. The circumstantial evidence seemed to be mounting nicely. Several eyewitnesses to the blood thefts and assaults. Dozens of cops to testify in court to illegal flight. Olive Bowman who could place him as having physically held one victim who was already dead. And, of course, Skorzeny’s own fingerprints which matched those on the Hanochek girl’s doorknob. Yes, Paine would be thinking ahead to that spectacular trial. If there ever was a trial. If they ever took Skorzeny alive.
The next step would be to get a search warrant and check out the house. But before any action could be taken, we received a flash that the good “Dr. Laszlo” had been spotted by an alert parking attendant at the Deauville, who saw him park and go inside. The chopper was dispatched to the Deauville and everybody settled in once again.
I had other ideas. I could take men to Skorzeny’s hiding place, get a good look at it, and prepare a trap for him. Lane strolled in and OK’d it.
Lane called Judge Jack Donnelley and got him to swear out a warrant for search and/or seizure. So far, the only warrants on Skorzeny himself were for illegal entry. He hadn’t yet been charged with murder. But, if taken alive, that would be the next step.
A deputy on another phone talked to Deke Clausen at the Deauville and advised him how dangerous our friend Skorzeny was, since the papers had only revealed that he’d given the police the slip, twice, not how he’d done it. Clausen was to have his men bird-dog Skorzeny and maybe crowd him a bit if he went after any victims, but not to actually threaten him unless absolutely necessary.
Several unmarked sheriff’s cars were d
ispatched to the Deauville and positioned at every possible point of access to the street. Several more plainclothesmen were sent in various disguises–maintenance men, waiters and the like–to cover all possible exits at the Deauville.
By 10:25 the judge’s warrant was on Lane’s desk. He detailed a force of seven cars, fourteen men in all, to converge on the house at 3779 Spencer. Jenks and I rode out together and it amazed me to see it all happening at my instigation. By 10:40 the house had been quietly surrounded by the deputies armed with high-powered rifles equipped with infra-red sniper scopes loaned by Colonel Arville of the National Guard. The only neighboring house, a similar structure at the west end of Viking some 300 yards away, was occupied by a retired couple who were quickly roused and evacuated on the pretext of an area-wide gas leak. Then, under the cover of seven rifles, the remaining seven deputies, Jenks and I advanced on the house.
It was as ordinary a place as a house could be, squarish, painted a dull yellow with a grayish trim at the roofline. It had one large picture window facing east toward Spencer, another facing the back yard and one facing directly north, toward which we approached. There was a back door that opened to a yard of blow sand. The front door was situated between the picture window and smaller bedroom windows. All the drapes were drawn and there were no lights showing from inside. And, there was no car on the premises. Against the house’s west wall was a lean-to. Around back by the rear steps was a crude, cinder-block barbecue. Around the half-acre lot was a crude fence of wooden posts and chicken wire.
Using hand signals, Jenks and another deputy started the action. He and the deputy broke in the front door and I was hard on their heels. At the same time, a sergeant and another deputy kicked in the back door. Once inside, the stench was incredible. Jenks gagged and I nearly threw up. It was so awful we all retreated outside and groped for handkerchiefs to hold over our noses. Then we re-entered the house. The handkerchiefs hardly helped and it seemed to those present, none of whom had ever met Skorzeny (the two contacts being with the city police), that the smell was like what his breath had been described to be… but tem times worse.
We soon discovered that the house was divided into two interlocking L shapes, half of which comprised the living-dining area and kitchen, the other being the bedroom and bath. The furniture was Spartan: a green leather armchair shoved into one corner near a pole lamp, another chair of debatable color alongside it. There was a gray, formica-topped kitchen table and two more chairs. And a crude, cheap L-shaped couch in the corner. Everything had a dusty, ill-cared-for appearance and the place might well have appeared deserted had it not been for one arresting item.
In the center of the room was the large crate with the lid stacked neatly against its side. The smell seemed worse near the crate.
Inside the crate, the deputies got a little surprise, but it didn’t surprise me at all. It was what I half-expected to find… a coffin. Plain, white pine, lined in cheap rayon acetate and filled along the bottom with dried earth about a half-inch deep.
Jenks kicked in the door of the bedroom and the smell in there was almost as bad. He fumbled for but couldn’t find the light switch and had to use his flashlight. What he saw made him literally gasp and stiffen at the door until I pushed him forward into the room. Then I saw the figures on the bed. They were both there and it was so grotesque it was like a combination of all the “mad doctor” pictures and something out of Marquis de Sade.
On the rumpled bed, naked and emaciated and apparently comatose, lay Shelley Katz and Carolyn Riegel. They were chained to the cinder-block walls by their hands and their feet were bound securely together at the foot of the bed. But the most hideous thing of all was that taped to Shelley’s right arm (and Carolyn’s left) were rubber tubes extending to large bottles of glucose water solution slung from the overhead beams by ropes and hooks.
We moved closer and could barely detect the shallow, ragged breathing of the two girls. They were just barely alive. Jenks moved forward and checked their necks for bite marks, checked their wrists against his watch for pulses and prodded their eyelids, shining his flashlight against the pupils. Then he called four deputies by name to bring a hacksaw and some blankets. They came running in and set to work freeing the girls. Jenks ordered that they be loaded into one of the patrol cars and dispatched with just one deputy to rush them to Parkway Hospital. He wasn’t waiting for any ambulances. After that he ordered all the men back to their posts outside.
He looked in the bathroom. The mirror on the medicine cabinet had been shattered and removed with bits of the glass still lying on the floor. Inside the cabinet was a collection of every well-known mouthwash and breath spray on the market. Not that it seemed to have done much good.
On the floor behind the door was a large metal box which, when pried open, revealed a complete set of theatrical greasepaints, pancake makeup, pan-sticks, adhesives, hairsprays of various colors, several bottles of spirit gum and various small moustaches and beards of the kind sold now in barber supply houses. There were also two men’s stretch wigs and a collection of eyeglasses, clear and dark, all nonprescription. Jenks also found the two medical bags behind the door, one inside the other, while I was looking again at the now-empty bed.
The thought was sickening. Shelley Katz and Carolyn Riegel had been used as living hosts… blood factories for Skorzeny. He’d been feeding off their bodies slowly, keeping them just barely alive with the stolen glucose water solution. Why he had bothered and what other purposes he had kept them for, naked, I didn’t even want to consider.
Across from the bed was a crude six-drawer dresser with the mirror turned on its ancient swivel-hinges toward the wall. While Jenkins pulled out drawers one by one, I wrestled the dresser away from the wall and found that this mirror was also shattered. Inside the drawers were all sorts of documents (probably forged), several medical degrees, purportedly from Heidelberg and London, a police-constable’s ID papers from Vancouver, British Columbia, and the Western Airline envelope from his Vancouver-Las Vegas flight on April 10.
We moved back out to the living room and into the kitchen. There wasn’t one scrap of food to be found anywhere. But the refrigerator was filled from bottom to top with containers of blood. There were no more glucose water bottles on the premises and it would seem that when this blood supply was gone, Skorzeny would have to rob and kill again. Jenks was already closing up the back door and trying to hide any obvious traces of our uninvited entrance. He motioned for me to leave and I told him to hold it.
“The coffin,” I said. “His native soil. We’ve got to empty it.”
He regarded me for a moment and then opened the back door. Together we wrestled the crate to the doorway and ragged it down the stairs. We upended the crate and he grabbed at the coffin, tipping it out so that the dried dirt spilled onto the dusty ground. I stepped around and mixed it in with the native soil of Clark County. Then we put the coffin back into the crate and dragged it back inside, setting it up as we’d found it. I asked him for his Holy Water and poured both his tubes over the bottom of the coffin. Jenks just looked at me and said, “You really believe all this bull, don’t you?” I didn’t answer.
In a later investigation of the premises, deputies, digging in the backyard, discovered the bodies of some thirty-five dogs of various sizes, from a Doberman listed missing from McWilliams Street at the other side of town, to an ugly white Bull Terrier reported stolen from nearby Ottawa Street. They also found remnants of Skorzeny’s burned, blood-spattered shirts in the barbecue as well as some unburned buttons.
After we had set everything up as we’d found it, stuffing several blankets in the bed and covering them, hooking the tubes into their sides, we resumed our positions outside, across Viking Road. It was now about 12:45 A.M. We sat listening to scattered reports on Skorzeny as they came in. He had prowled around Deauville and then left on foot and entered the Aladdin, circled the casino twice and returned to the Deauville’s lot to retrieve his (stolen) Buick. Then he drove
along the Strip heading toward downtown. He must have spotted the unmarked cars tailing him because he never stopped. He just drove to Casino Center and prowled up and down Fremont Street for about an hour before returning to the Strip and stopping at the gas station next to the Desert Inn to refuel.
Then he moved on to Caesars Palace and was followed in by two detectives, one of whom alerted the blue-uniformed security guards as to what was going on. Somewhere along the line, however, he gave them the slip. He was spotted fifteen minutes later by an alert security guard at the Dunes who had been briefed by Masterson when the detectives reported they’d lost their quarry.
He now knew for sure he was being watched and took an elevator to the fourteenth floor of the Dunes Tower with the guards in hot pursuit. It was later discovered (from the testimony of a maid) that he’d abandoned the elevator and taken one of the inside stairwells down to another floor. From there he took the service elevator to the basement, walked along the hallway to yet another stairwell, regained the ground level, and forced his way out a pair of doors at the Tower’s freight and receiving area at the front of the building, adjacent to the shopping mall.
All this did him little good because he was spotted by a guard as he departed the Dunes. The guard, following instructions, hung back and reported by phone that Skorzeny was headed back to Caesar’s Palace by way of the adjoining parking lot.
It was now 4:30 and Skorzeny was in obvious distress. Radio reports had him roaring up and down the Strip but officers were cautioned not to stop him. Finally, he turned down Sahara and drove to Maryland Parkway, then south to Flamingo Road. We assumed he was heading home. We were wrong. He just drove around the homes lining the Stardust Golf Course. Masterson ordered unmarked cars to cover as much of the area as possible from parked positions. This time, it seems Skorzeny didn’t spot them. It was obvious he was not exercising any caution. Finally, toward dawn, he approached the house, barreling down Viking at almost fifty miles an hour. His car came sliding to rest at the south end of the house and he leaped out, pausing to gaze toward Sunrise Mountain, directly to the east. A thin streak of light could just be seen lining the mountain ridges. In another few minutes the sun would be starting over the horizon.