Kolchak: The Night Stalker: A Black and Evil Truth (11 page)

In the same vein was George Grossman of Berlin who was also slaughtered some of his acquaintances, specializing, like the “ripper,” in prostitutes. But unlike Denke, he kept his victim’s bodies around for decorations. He was noisy and his landlord decided one day to evict him. When the landlord forced open his door he discovered a nicely trussed-up corpse of a young girl, still warm, and a variety of fingers under Grossman’s bed which it is said he nibbled on for “midnight snacks.” He was credited with at least three murders in as many weeks and, like Denke, hanged himself in his cell before the executioner could swing his blade.

Cold-blooded killings in the present era include the tale of Perry Smith and Eugene Hickock who disposed of all four members of the Herber Clutter family in the lonely, windswept Kansas farmhouse where they resided on November 15, 1959. Their deeds were “immortalized” aptly enough in “In Cold Blood,” Truman Capote’s book.

Far worse than these two were an atypical British pair named Ian Brady and Myra Hindley, who between them were credited with molesting, mutilating and then killing Edward Evans, seventeen, Lesley Ann Downey, ten, and John Kilbride, twelve, and possibly two more. In one instance, they took pornographic pictures of their victim, forcing her to pose “indecently and in every conceivable manner.” In another, they tape-recorded their victim’s final pitiable screams of fear and agony. Since this happened after capital punishment had been abolished in Great Britain, Brady and Hindley are now behind bars for life with no chance of parole.

The latest of these ghoulish escapades is, of course, the Sharon Tate killings, which involved five victims and included stabbing, shooting and strangulation by hanging. Miss Tate, a movie star and wife of film director Roman Polanski (himself famous for bloody and frightening films), was eight months pregnant when she died and she died slowly, pleading for the baby’s life. She was strangled, hung and stabbed countless times. Her baby died, untouched by the knife, still in her womb. It has been reported by at least one “eyewitness” at the trial (in progress at this writing) that some of the group led in absentia by Charles Manson “drank Sharon Tate’s blood” and found “it was groovy!” This last remark harks all the way back to 1888 when Jack the Ripper claimed in a note that he ate a victim’s “fried” kidney and found it “very nice.”

I was sure that when I presented these facts to the local law officials they would take me seriously when I suggested that the man they were looking for would not only conform to the general modus operandi of a vampire because he actually believed he was one, but that he would have to be stopped even if it meant telling the public the true facts because he might well be capable of worse crimes.

The more I read of the legends the more I was reminded of the old adage, “an ounce of prevention….” Etc. I decided that, just to be sure, the police should approach this problem as if this man were in fact a vampire and protect and prepare themselves accordingly.

How they actually received this suggestion and its result will be found in later pages. One thing for sure. The public never heard a word about it, testifying not only to the chicanery of the police, but to the lack of courage of the local news media. The papers of London, Berlin and Paris weren’t afraid to print the truth. But then, maybe what some people have said about Vegas is true: that Las Vegas isn’t really part of the real world and that once inside its boundaries, none of the normal rules apply.

Decide for yourself.

CHAPTER 11

[Once again, in order to fill in blank spots in Kolchak’s notes, I have had to compile the facts and reach what appears to be logical conclusions based on these facts. JR]

All through the weekend, while Kolchak pored over his books trying to find a sound basis in fact and fancy for his “vampire theory,” the unexpected meeting of Henri St. Claire and the tall man (still unknown to Kolchak) kept gnawing like a hungry rat at St. Claire’s memory. It distracted him. It spoiled his appetite. It gave him two sleepless nights. And it gave the tall man an opportunity to kill Mr. Hemphill and get away without a trace. Had St. Claire read the papers upon his return from Europe, he doubtless would have called the police when he spotted him in the Dunes. As it was, he only saw some back issues of the Daily News on his desk when he entered his office on Monday and these he did not read until late afternoon.

At first he couldn’t believe his eyes. He now remembered who the man was.

Janos Skorzeny!

Slowly the memories came back to him. Bucharest and Paris just before World War II. And London during the blitz. Skorzeny, a man who had moved like a ghost and with no one knowing much about him but everyone convinced he was… odd, and for some unknown reason, strange and possibly dangerous. Why the man hardly seemed a day older than he’d been in 1939!

Finally, at four o’clock he could ignore his conscience no longer. He called the Clark County Sheriff’s Office and was soon connected the Lieutenant Jenks.

CHAPTER 12

MONDAY, MAY 18, 1970

I got to the paper on the dot of nine on Monday and spent the next two hours typing furiously in triplicate what I had compiled over the weekend. I now felt ready to approach my editors and police “friends” with what I felt sure was solid stuff that would convince them we were dealing with a very special kind of maniac, just in case they weren’t already convinced.

Several calls to my usual resources revealed that nothing new had happened since young Mr. (“Miss”) Hemphill had been so ingloriously deposited on her “throne.” Nor had the Katz girl turned up. The police still hadn’t any concrete reasons to suspect a connection between her disappearance and the series of killings. But, with wealthy and prominent locals as parents, there was still the possibility of kidnapping, even though no ransom note or call had been made.

While I worked we got a call from the Clark County Humane Society to apprise us that there had been an unusually large number of dogs reported missing or stolen during the last two weeks. Somehow, that rang a bell and I remembered the dead watchdog found at the Dunes’ Emerald Green Golf Course. I put in a call to the animal shelter but they told me the dog had already been destroyed so there’d be no clues from that quarter. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking for, but from what I’d read it didn’t seem impossible that there’d be a connection somewhere between our mysterious murderer and the increase in disappearing dogs.

I got in to see Cairncross around noon and he scanned my research.

“Nothing new here. Might be good background for a wrap-up piece when this thing’s over with. Why all the stuff on the legends? You don’t for one minute suggest that this guy…”

He looked at me.

“No,” I said tentatively. “But he may think so. And I think that may give us a clue to how he operates so we can predict his next move. If he is convinced he is a vampire, you’ll never see hide nor hair of him in daylight. So far, “I pointed out, “no one has.”

“I’m thrilled,” he said in a flat voice. “I suppose you’re going to present this to the boys downtown and start telling them how to run their show again.”

I didn’t answer.

“It’s your funeral,” he continued. “At any rate, we are trying to cooperate with them by…”

“By suppressing the news!” I bellowed. “By withholding information the public has a right to know how those girls died. The cops know. The D.A. knows. The coroner knows and every goddamn newsman in town knows, too. This whole thing stinks of cover-up from top to bottom. Don’t kid yourself, Lew. They’re not worried about starting a panic. They’re worried about their own skins, about looking stupid at election time. And this paper is just helping them get back into office for four more years of ineptitude.”

I was getting red in the face, and I knew it.

“Since when have we ever let something as serious as this situation go on for weeks without some kind of editorial demanding the cops get off their fat asses and do something?”

“Since now! Since Jake Herman gave us the word. The competition is cooperating. So are all the TV and radio stations. Even the girl at United Press is playing it cool.

“Remember, son. This is a tourist town. A gambling center. Gamblers, my boy, are a very suspicious breed of cat. Being proprietors of hotels and casinos makes them even worse. They don’t even like guys with thin, black moustaches. Bad for business. And, a lot of talk making this loony out to be superhuman wouldn’t help this town’s business at all. We have to remember priorities. If people don’t come here, they don’t spend money here. And we stop eating. It’s that simple.”

“So we’re going to forget all about it like we forgot all about those killings in that ex-mayor’s home in North Las Vegas?”

“Exactly.” He repeated himself. “It’s that simple.”

“Maybe for you,” I told him, and stormed out of his office.

Ella came over and informed me the front office would not OK her time spent at my place so I slipped here a ten-spot, added another two and asked her to order me a Chicken Delight and a can of Coors. I then checked out the weekend roundup of thefts, robberies, etc. Mostly it was routine, except for a massive narcotics raid by the sheriff’s office that netted $350,000 in dangerous drugs and three suspects. On Friday night, May 8, gunshot victim LeVeam Hardison, twenty-five, was buried at Sunset Memorial Gardens; Vern Gardner of Oakland had $3,244 in clothing and jewels stolen from his car in a downtown casino’s parking lot; and the Waller Lumber Company’s safe was relieved of $2,700. The Convention Center’s marquee collapsed Saturday morning. And Benito Albaro, seventy-three, of Delano, California was struck and killed by a dairy truck on US 93 south of Whitney Avenue in East Las Vegas. A routine weekend in Las Vegas.

The sheriff’s office had picked up the suspect’s car which they had found abandoned on First Street near Bridger, not four blocks from the courthouse. They had dusted it for prints and were now trying to get a match with the smudged ones found on the Hanochek girl’s kitchen door. I nibbled absent-mindedly at my chicken, reflecting sourly that the general publicity might have driven the s.o.b. into hiding.

At about 4:30 I got a call from Jenks at the sheriff’s office informing me that Henri St. Claire, one of Las Vegas’ big show producers, was on his way downtown to talk with Sheriff Lane. Apparently he felt he personally knew the suspect and had seen him on Friday night. I told him I was coming over.

Later, after St. Claire had had his say and explained why it had taken him so long to get in touch with the authorities, I got Bernie aside and asked him if he now had enough reason to check out the suspect, now under the various names of Martin Lubin, Dr. Hampden and Janos Skorzeny.

He nibbled his nails awhile and then told me, “Possibly. I think we might start with the Immigration and Justice department and see if they have a dossier on him. From there, assuming they do come up with something, we could contact Scotland Yard, Interpol and the Surete in Paris and see what they come up with. But I’d have to check with Washington first.”

“What about the Katz girl?”

“We’re keeping tabs on that… unofficially.”

I headed for the Daily News desk in the courthouse press room and Bernie followed me in.

“I think I’ll just finish out the day here and avoid going back to the office,” he said.

“Fine by me,” I answered as I dialed Vincenzo and gave him the dope on Lubin-Hampden-Skorzeny’s being spotted by St. Claire and the fact that his car had been found just to make sure he knew it all. When I finished I called the PD for one final check before quitting time and was rewarded with a bonus for the day. The desk Sergeant told me to hang on and switched me to Masterson’s special phone hookup at the courthouse.

“Thought you’d like to know we’ve got another missing person report that just came in about thirty minutes ago. We were processing it while the St. Claire gent was talking to Lane. I’ll give you the particulars.”

I told him to wait and phoned the paper to stand by for more news. Then I got Helen O’Brien to give us a three-way hookup and then told Masterson to go ahead.

“Carolyn Riegel, twenty, receptionist for Homer G. Rasmussen, a chiropractor on Maryland Parkway near Bridger. Didn’t show for work today. A call from the doctor to her mother, a widow, at 1137 E. Bracken revealed the girl hadn’t been seen since Sunday afternoon when she went, alone, to a movie.

“The girl has no steady boyfriend and the mother is understandably upset. Thought about calling the police last night but decided to wait until the wee hours of the morning, then fell asleep before she could call. When she woke up she was just about to call us when Mr. Rasmussen phoned her.

“Description follows: five-four, 120 pounds, ash blond, hazel eyes, is nearsighted.

“We checked all the local theaters and drive-ins and one, the Viking, out on Maryland Parkway near the Boulevard Mall, reports three pairs of glasses among their lost-and-found articles. One pair is a man’s type. The other two are women’s, both prescription. Her mother gave us the name of her eye doctor and we’re checking both pairs to see if one matches Carolyn’s prescription.

“The cashier at the Viking didn’t recall seeing anyone answering Carolyn’s description but that doesn’t mean very much. Most of the time they don’t really look at their customers; too busy counting change.

“That’s all we’ve got right now. Her car wasn’t found at the Viking lot, by the way, and we’re keeping an eye out for it as well.”

Masterson hung up and I told Vincenzo I could stop by the mother’s place for a photo of the girl. He said to forget it, that one of the copy boys could get it and told me my stuff would make the 10:30 paper and warned me to keep in touch by phone in case anything broke later on either of the two “disappearances” or the murders.

But that was the end of the day’s excitement.

If Monday had produced little in the way of progress, Tuesday proved more fruitful. The combined forces’ lab people were able to make an “almost positive” ID by comparison between the smudged print found on Carol Hanochek’s kitchen doorknob and one, very clear print discovered on the underlip of the Chevy’s trunk lid. These were turned over to Bernie’s people at the FBI for a crosscheck on the Bureau’s Washington files, and for investigation with the Immigration Department.

Miss Riegel’s eye doctor confirmed that one pair of glasses found at the Viking did, indeed, belong to Carolyn. From the extent of her nearsightedness, it was obvious she could not drive a car without them and it seemed unlikely she’d left them by accident. She must have been taken by force from the theater. This enabled Bernie to step into this end of the investigation in an official capacity and gave him a little more leeway in his inquiries into the murders on the basis of a later possible connection between the two.

“Jake” Herman’s editorial for the Wednesday paper, while not exactly chiding local law enforcement agencies for their apparent inability to cope with the rash of murders, did at least publicly speculate on the possibility that the killings, blood thefts and two missing girls might all be combined in some awful way. D.A. Paine was quoted as saying, “We are leaving no stone unturned in this all-out effort to rid Las Vegas of its present scourge. While there has been no evidence to the effect that the Mafia is in any way involved in these murders, we are not overlooking that possibility and the very murders themselves point up the growing lawlessness and violence both here and throughout the nation. We are not considering an official request to the FBI for assistance on the basis that the two missing young women may be, in some way, tied in with the recent murders of four innocents.” (Somehow, I guess, the D.A. either forgot all about the death of the drag queen, Hemphill, or didn’t consider him an “innocent.” But, then, he always maintained a public stance of wanting to rid Las Vegas of all “sexual perverts.”)

However, nowhere in any of these news stories was there a single mention of the fact that the police officials claimed the official cause of these deaths was “still to be medically determined.” I still couldn’t see why the Daily News would allow such blatant disregard of the public’s right to such information to go unchecked. But, when I asked Cairncross about it he told me, angrily, “That’s the way it is. Stop trying to change the whole world! Learn to live in it like everyone else.”