Kolchak: The Night Stalker: A Black and Evil Truth (12 page)

CHAPTER 13

WEDNESDAY, MAY 20, 1970

NIGHT

Things really started happening today. I was doing double duty as a fill-in copy editor on the night shift at about 8:40 when the PD squawk box started making noises about “one helluva fight” going on at Old Town Hospital not more than five minutes away.

Police units, then more backup units were called and inside of five minutes Stefan (who was “moonlighting” in the darkroom on some fashion photos for a private client) and I were on the way in his Porsche, which is equipped with a two-way radio.

As we rolled up we got the first photos of the suspect in action as he came tearing out of the old building’s main entrance with white-clad orderlies hanging from each arm and one holding onto his throat. He was covered in blood and moving with incredible speed for a man hauling three large men all simultaneously dragging at him and slugging him. Before he reached the sidewalk he’d thrown the one on his right off balance with a shrugging gesture. When he reached the grass by Eighth Street sidewalk, he kicked the man hanging onto his left arm, twisted, then bent forward quickly and threw the man on his neck clean over him onto the grass. Then he swung a brutal right to the remaining orderly’s midsection and dropped him to the pavement.

The police closed in from both sides with their batons raised. As he reached the curb one of them struck him across the right temple and he staggered slightly, then plowed into that group of three officers and right on through them like they were tackling dummies on a playing field. A single officer detached himself from the other contingent and raced for his station wagon, loosing the police dog which reached the suspect as he hit the corner of Eighth and Ogden. The remaining officers formed a skirmish line with pistols leveled and were calling for him to halt.

By now, both Stefan and I had left the car and his motorized Nikon was whirring and clicking repeatedly, taking stop-action photos with a strobe-equipped roll of ultra-high speed film.

The suspect whirled around just as the dog leaped at him and he was knocked off his feet. The police started forward, spreading out to surround the struggling figures on the ground.

Stefan and I advanced from the opposite direction.

The man now wrapped his long arms and legs around the dog and rolled over on his side. Suddenly, the animal gave a terrified yelp and then a prolonged sort of screech, like a pig makes when frightened.

Somehow the man got back on his feet and was holding the now-limp animal as a sort of shield. The police opened fire and the man, plainly hit but to no effect, hissed like a basket full of snakes and hurled the dog at the nearest two cops, knocking them down like bowling pins. Then he was off down Eighth Street with the police in full chase. A few were kneeling, offering covering fire to the others and two were sprinting for their cars. The two cops on the ground were scrambling to their feet and one of them shouted, “The dog’s dead. That son of a bitch broke his neck!”

As the guns roared, one officer was calling for more backup units and doctors were coming out of the main entrance to tend to the injured orderlies. The suspect, now a block away and running like a decathlon sprinter, rounded the corner of Eighth and Fremont and the squad car was now less than a hundred yards behind. The other patrol car had stalled and its starter was grinding away.

I ran for Stefan’s Porsche as he stood snapping off shots of the orderlies. I made an illegal U-turn and picked him up just off the main entrance area, then we took off after the first police car with the other one on our tail. While I tried to pretend I was a road-racing professional, Stefan ducked into his cramped space and reloaded the Nikon.

We picked up the sound of the first car’s siren two blocks ahead, and screamed down an alley between Seventh and Sixth only to find our quarry and his pursuer nearly two blocks ahead of us. We were doing almost fifty when I hit the brakes. The cop car ahead of us had stopped and was backing up. We almost collided. As the patrol car headed up to Sixth and screeched around the corner I could see the alley up ahead was strewn with upended garbage cans. Our suspect had neatly led the cops into a hand-made “dead end.”

We rounded the corner on Sixth and Stefan radioed the paper and began a running commentary in his thick Hungarian accent, giving a blow-by-blow account of what had taken place and what we were up to. I hoped someone in the newsroom was taking it down because I was too busy just driving to give the facts much attention at the time.

The police car behind us was using both its sirens, the growler and their curious electronic “woop-woop” device. Its red lights were flashing angrily. We weren’t able to average more than forty on a block-to-block basis because of the dips at each corner and the cross-traffic that wouldn’t stop for the sirens ahead of us. A moving van turning down Sixth from Bonneville brought our parade to a halt and by the time it had cleared our path I could once again make out the scarecrow figure of our quarry about a block ahead. He was running, if anything, even faster than before.

The squad car behind us passed with a roar and a screech of tires. By the time we reached Gass, just behind the two patrol cars, they were again stopped, this time by a line of vehicles moving both ways, and when we got going again the frenzied figure of the suspect, let’s call him Skorzeny was far ahead and still running strong.

Two blocks ahead lay Charleston Boulevard which the city fathers, in their wisdom, some years back, had seen fit to divide at that corner with a traffic island preventing any through traffic on Sixth Street. Skorzeny had sucked us into another dead end and the two police cars were already stopped in their tracks as Skorzeny leaped and dodged the traffic, ran across the traffic island, and disappeared down the street. One of the cars ahead made a U-turn and started back the way we had come, heading back to the hospital, I figured. As we made our turn the other one was bellowing for backup units to head in north from Sahara Avenue.

We headed east on Hoover, cut across Charleston and took Eighth to Park Paseo following the curve back up to Sixth Street on the south side of the boulevard, but by the time we got there there was no Skorzeny in sight. Several minutes of cutting back and forth across the area of Sixth, Fifth Place, and Houssels all the way to Oakey produced nothing but other patrol cars doing the same.

Vincenzo called us to say the police had lost the man and were preparing to blanket the entire area. Inside of another fifteen minutes there must have been twenty police units scouring the entire section of town from Sahara to Charleston, and from Las Vegas Boulevard to Maryland Parkway. Periodically, the police copter, finally launched from the upper parking level at the courthouse, buzzed overhead.

Another hour passed and everyone had given up the chase. We had gone back to the hospital to learn that Skorzeny had somehow sneaked in past the police guard and was caught with his black bags, raiding the hematology section of the hospital. He had dropped and spilled several containers which accounted for his bloody appearance. But his raid had failed and he’d run off empty-handed.

The bags were retrieved and taken to the lab for dusting. The only injuries were to one orderly, with a possible skull fracture and to the police dog which was dead. And to the pride of the police force which was left with egg on its collective face and empty hands.

We had the news back in the office by 10:40 and through the heroic efforts of our composing-room staff, we managed to get a replated “early” edition on the streets by 11:30, a bare hour later than usual. Better than that, we scooped the opposition by several hours and, even then, their news came second hand. We had no restrictions about printing full details on the blood theft. And we had a fantastic set of photos with a few good if grainy blow-ups of the suspect in action. And these we did not share with the paper down the street. Our front page had a beauty of the suspect’s anger-contorted features, another of him knocking down the police officers with the dog’s body and still another of the police firing after his fleeing figure.

But the killer was still on the loose… whereabouts unknown.

CHAPTER 14

THURSDAY, MAY 21, 1970

Thursday started off with a bang as our morning edition hit the streets recapping what we’d gotten earlier. The TV boys, as usual, had missed out completely on live on-the-scene coverage and the radio stations were literally reading our copy on the air. Temcek’s photos again made the front page and there were several more shots on the jump page. Carolyn Riegel, who had also become newsworthy on Wednesday, was bumped back to the main local page and Pete Pryor ranted and raved in his column about the “appalling, shocking, terrifying chain of events that threaten to turn this town into a personal hunting preserve for a homicidal maniac who should be shot in his tracks.” Pryor had blown whatever cool he’d had with the law boys by castigating the police in straightforward terms for their “stupidity” and “lethargy” (one of the bigger words he knew).

On the other hand, even with my dwindling welcome, I could still get in to see the people downtown and I intended to present my little document to them, especially now, since Skorzeny had apparently proved bulletproof as well as tireless.

Vincenzo sent me over to the Sheriff’s Office to attend an 11:00 A.M. “postmortem” on the Wednesday operation that included Butcher, Paine, Lane, Masterson, Jenks and Bernie Fain whose stepped-up inquiries had borne fruit. Along with me I’d brought several eight-by-ten photos, all head shots of Skorzeny.

Since Fain had the only really new information on Skorzeny and no one was anxious to start examining the fiasco of the day before, he was allowed to lead off. He’d done his homework and been up all night, sitting by teletype and telephone. The results were all I’d hoped for.

Skorzeny turned out to be quite a character.

“Here’s a rundown on what we managed to dig up through Scotland Yard including everything they had from Interpol: ‘Subject: Janos Skorzeny (pronounced yanosh/score-zuh-nee). Born in Craesti, Rumania, a small village of about 30,000 people near the city of Cluj, in 1900. This fact was confirmed through Photostats of local records with the signatures of a physician named Szandof Gabel and a midwife who…”

Chief Butcher cut him off. “Wait just a goddamn minute! Are you tellin’ us this son of a bitch is seventy years old?” Without waiting for Bernie’s answer he continued. “Hell! Your people have come up with the wrong man.”

“Like hell we have! This stuff has been triple checked and confirmed. I’ve been up all night and I am pretty damn tired. Do you want this stuff or not?”

Sheriff Lane asked politely that he “get on with it.”

“He was privately educated, growing up during his first sixteen years without ever leaving his father’s ancestral estate except for a few infrequent visits to Craesti. His father, by the way, deceased since 1922, was a count, and his son inherited the title upon his death, a title now considered worthless since the communist takeover years ago. The money that went with the title is something else again.

“At sixteen, apparently having exhausted the local supply of tutors, the old count, Leo Vlad Skorzeny, sent his son bag and baggage to England to continue his education. How he got the youngster through the German and Allied lines is not known.

“There was, however, a record of his attending three years at a private school called Grimpen Academy in West Riding, England. It was located near the town of Green firth, some miles from Manchester. According to the report, the school was a cross between our universities and our junior colleges, embracing some facets of all the grades of instruction in between. A student could complete six years of study and obtain the equivalent of our country’s bachelor’s degree.

“Skorzeny completed nearly five years’ courses in three years. And, interestingly enough, during his stay at Grimpen, there were frequent mentions of cattle and sheep dying under mysterious circumstances, and disappearing, throughout the moor area for a radius of some tem miles. Also…” he paused, “there were five reported cases of young village girls disappearing and their bodies were never found. They are presumed to have stumbled into the quicksands of the moors and drowned. But that was never confirmed. The West Riding Constabulary had nothing further to offer on the subject.

“In 1919, Skorzeny returned home to help his father manage the family holdings and the old man soon fell ill. Skorzeny was rarely seen in the neighboring villages during his time in Rumania but there were a number of unexplained murders during 1919-1923… most that is, were assumed to be murders as the bodies were never found. Those that were found were found dead but there is no record of how they died.”

In view of how the police had quashed all mention of Skorzeny’s activities in Las Vegas, I wasn’t too surprised.

“After his father’s death–and there is no available medical report on the cause — Skorzeny inherited a fortune in jewels and cash estimated at between 75 million and 100 million dollars. He spent nearly a year in utmost total seclusion in his medieval castle, then closed it up and began to travel.

“His roamings took him throughout most of Eastern Europe and, though reports are very spotty here, he was known to be a lover of nightlife, making frequent appearances in some of the more seedy cafes of Budapest, Bucharest, Prague and the like. He was first reported seen in Berlin sometime in 1931, and was seen infrequently in Dusseldorf, Frankfurt, Bonn, and Munich, during the early 1930s.

“It is not recorded that he went on to any university to obtain a degree, which will prove interesting in light of his later activities. Nor is there any reason to believe he had any trade or business, not that he needed one with the money he had. He was free to go where and when he pleased from city to city, country to country. His passports always seemed in order and when they turned out to be false in some cases, no one brought prosecution against him as it was an old family name well known in Central Europe and a little more feared than respected.

“During his years in Germany there were a number of slayings of various individuals, who, through various misfortunes, came to violent ends without any apparent motive like robbery or sexual assault. Many of these cases were solved and ascribed to the likes of Peter Kurten, ‘Bloody George Grossman’ and the like. But many of the murders remain unsolved, and interestingly enough, there is very little information on most of them, especially on how the victims died. Do you think the police deliberately covered up the facts?”

Bernie smiled at the discomfort that filled the room. He seemed to slowly be taking over the meeting instead of merely delivering a report.

“Mr. St. Claire of our fair town has helped establish that Skorzeny was in Paris from 1937 through 1939 and a periodic patron of some of the clubs he (St. Claire) played in when he was half of a dance act.

“During these years there were a number of unexplained disappearances of young women in the Left Bank section of Paris. But this was not altogether an unusual occurrence and never at any time was there more than loose talk to the effect that Skorzeny might be involved. He was known in the area but he was never even picked up for questioning.

“With the outbreak of World War II, Skorzeny seems to have been prepared for flight well in advance for he escaped to England by private airplane and had taken up residence in a large townhouse in the Belgravia section of London just in time for the German blitz. As you might well imagine, bodies were in fresh supply in London just then and people disappeared under the rubble of bombed out buildings never to be seen again. In a moment you will understand why I stress this. And, Mr. Kolchak will find the following facts of interest, too, I’m sure.”

Such formality from a man who usually drank beer with me once a week!

“At his residence in Shafto Court, he seems to have installed several kinds of sumps, tubs, and an extremely large commercial walk-in meat freezer. Since the place survived the blitz, we were able to get a good look (through Scotland Yard’s investigators, of course) at its interiors. But more on that in a moment.”

He was really drawing it out for all it was worth.

“In 1945, he obtained British citizenship and listed his name as Dr. Paul Blasco, his occupation as a research specialist in pathology with a medical degree in Heidelberg dated 1927 and, it seems, no one checked this out because, of course, he has no degree and they never heard of him in Heidelberg.

“He set up some kind of small research lab in Pedelty Square but there is practically no information on that place except that he had conducted some kind of hematology research involving the use of freshly killed accident victims who died in emergency rooms around London.

“Around 1948 he visited Canada and acquired private residences in Ottawa, first, and later in Montreal and Vancouver, British Columbia. He has been seen infrequently during the past few years in all these cities and apparently still uses the name Dr. Paul Blasco. His papers, of course, are fakes, and the Canadian authorities are now on to him.

“In each of these cities there have been several unexplained disappearances and murders, but not so many as to cause more than a ripple of passing interest.

“Here is an interesting sidelight. In London, shortly before his first trip to Canada, there was a theft of large amounts of blood from St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. And there have been records of similar thefts in Ottawa, Montreal and Vancouver.

“He is believed to have left Vancouver, B.C., on or around April 10 of this year under the name of Detective Constable Alan Hensley, and under the guise of official emergency police business. There is a record of a man named Hensley boarding a Western Airlines Flight 761 on a first-class priority ticket at Vancouver International Airport on April 10, a Friday. This plane flew directly to Las Vegas with a scheduled arrival time of 9:48. Quite naturally, at that time of night on a Friday in Las Vegas, no one knew that he was at the airport because no one was looking for him, and the traffic flow is quite heavy.

“In my opinion, he chose Las Vegas for two reasons. First, it was a long jump but a quick one from Canada. Second, for a man who seems to go out only at night–and from all reports this seems true–this is the perfect town. Everybody’s up at night. And, most people are strictly interested in having a good time. No one notices strangers because Las Vegas lives on strangers.

“Another reason comes to mind. The fact that he paid cash for that car on the 18th. He could flash a lot of cash and no one would be suspicious. It’s common practice here. Some hotel bosses have been known to carry bankrolls of up to $25,000 in bills round in their pants pockets.

“Thus far, he has no criminal record either in Great Britain or in Canada, but the police officials of both countries would like to question him on several accounts, his forged documents being just a few of these.

“In Ottawa, he identified himself as a British subject from London. In Montreal he said he was the same, but also a registered alien in the U.S. awaiting citizenship and citing file number 17-447-B3 at the U.S. Department of Justice. We haven’t heard any confirmation or denial on that from them yet but our search reveals his presence in New York, Chicago, and Detroit during the rioting there, in fact, any place in the past few years along the U.S. Canadian border where there has been violence, confusion and a number of dead bodies. The information on his movements in this country is still far from complete and we have still got to circulate his picture to those who claim to have seen him.

“We can’t actually claim that violence and murder follow in his wake, at least not until now, but we feel certain that if we have enough time to dig far enough into his past, we will come up with all sorts of skeletons in his closet… and much more.

“A wire photo of his passport picture should be coming through from Ottawa by way of Washington at around 5:00 P.M. tonight if we’re lucky. By tomorrow at the latest. Meanwhile, in view of the recent local violence and the two missing person reports I have asked for and received permission from Washington to act officially as if the two disappearances are definite kidnappings and the director says to view them as having direct bearing on your problems until further notice.

“Because of Skorzeny’s British citizenship, he is now an international fugitive from justice with a federal warrant on his head and he comes under the jurisdiction of the Justice Department, hence the FBI is now vitally interested in the final disposition of this case. It is no longer strictly a local matter. The police organization of several countries on two continents are watching and waiting for developments.”

“Fine,” said Sheriff Lane. “Now, how do you propose we catch him?”

“Before we move to that area,” Bernie cut him off, “I’d like to tell you all what was found at Skorzeny’s Shafto Court residence.”

Again he read from the thick stack of papers in his Manila folder.

“I…uh…did mention the sumps, tubs, and refrigerators, right? Ah, yes. Well, Scotland Yard’s CID found the refrigerator to contain large metal tables of the kind used in pathology work and on the floor, minute scrapings of what developed to be human blood. In this refrigerator they also found large metal hooks suspended from the ceiling, the kind butchers use to hang meat on. Minute pieces of skin removed from the points of these hooks proved to be pieces of human skin.

“The tanks were filled variously with lime and sulphuric acid. There is practically no way to determine what was in them, but in view of one other finding in the cellar furnace, that of a small lump of dentists’ gold, it is believed that Skorzeny was regularly using not only corpses obtained under legal means and otherwise, but that he may well be responsible for any number of unsolved disappearances and murders in the London area.