Kolchak: The Night Stalker: A Black and Evil Truth (7 page)

“Well, we figure there’s a connection with that Parkway thing and we’ve got plainclothesmen stationed at strategic points over at County General and the Old Town Hospital down on Eighth. Also at Southern Nevada Memorial up on Charleston. North Las Vegas is watching its medical center. If that buggy sonofabitch did steal the blood and does try something like that again, we’ve got him cold.”

“If,” I said.

“Look,” he countered. “You’re the guy who came up with this vampire theory, right? Oh, yeah! I heard what went on at that little meeting in Lane’s office last night. You and the East Indian sawbones from the LAPD start it and now everybody sees a possible connection.

“Well, this bastard’s nailed four victims. If he did steal the blood, I’d say the odds are at least fifty-fifty he’ll try again. At least now we’ve got a description of sorts. It’s working up pretty good. We’ve got the Bowman woman down the hall working with the Iden-T-Kit and I hear the university’s sending over some young kid to try to work up a likeness. Never did like composites. They don’t look real, is all. They work but a good artist is a better bet.

“Oh. And we’re working on the car thing. Checking with the DMV. If we get anything from them, we can backtrack with local car lots for confirmation. Too bad Bowman couldn’t spot the plates. If it’s an out-of-towner, we’re in for trouble. More lost time. More time for him to ditch it if he’s still around.”

“I’ll bet he is,” I told him.

“And how do you figure…”

“Well, he’s killed four people in nineteen days, and stolen blood, too, I’ll bet, from just one of the three or four principal area sources.”

“Well, like I said, we’re on to that angle. Henderson PD’s got a watch on Rose Da Lina Hospital and that women’s hospital on Sahara has hired private security guards.”

“Well, anyhow, I’ll bet he’s still around. Because, I don’t think he’s scared. Again, it’s only theory and you’d be better off talking to some of the local psychologists at the university, but I bet this guy doesn’t think he’ll get caught. Less than three hours ago he stood within reaching distance of an eyewitness and didn’t touch her. Just took off. If he was really scared of being caught, he’d have nailed her on the spot. It wouldn’t have taken him more than a few seconds.”

“He didn’t really have to. She didn’t see him do anything. But then, he couldn’t know that for sure. Hey. You’ve given me an idea. If you’re wrong, both the nurse and that Bowman woman could be in danger if left unguarded. Might be a good idea to assign a man to each just in case.”

“For Miss Bowman, I’m sure you’re right. But I wouldn’t want to be the guy who draws Nurse Staley for guard duty. She’s a regular female drill sergeant from the looks and sound of her. If the ‘vampire’ ever tries to take her on, I’d give even money she gets him with a scalpel first.”

“Sure,” he said sourly. “And that Hughes girl it turns out knew karate pretty good. Worked out three days a week in some studio over on Industrial Road. Lot of good it must have done her. If she ever had a chance to use it. I’d rather trust things to trained men if you don’t mind.”

I took the hint and went on down the hall where Miss Bowman, now fairly calm, was busily describing the man’s chin to the Iden-T-Kit operator. She wasn’t having too much luck outside of his high cheekbones, but with Nurse Staley’s description on hand; the deputy operating the kit had already satisfied Miss Bowman as to the hairline.

As I started to leave I bumped into Rayeburn coming down the hall with a Strathmore pad under one arm and a box of pencils and pastel chalks in the other.

“Keeping your hand in?” I asked knowingly.

“Yeah. Got a call about forty minutes ago.”

“Well, when you’re through here, head on down to the Daily News and do one for us. We may run it in our early edition.”

“You mind telling me what I’m down here to draw?”

“Sure. The mystery killer.”

“Oh.”

“And when you get down to the paper, ask for Vincenzo. Don’t settle for less than fifteen dollars an hour. It’s all set. Here, they’ll give you ten dollars an hour.”

“You set this up?”

I nodded.

“Much grass,” he replied. “Every little bit helps.”

I went directly from the courthouse to my office and by the time I’d got over there, the “extra” I’d been begging for was already on the stands. It was strictly a replated front page of the earlier, “home” edition, but it listed the newest victim under my by-line and the headlines were in red, two inches high. The copy was, of course, edited to root out any references to the holds in Mary Branden’s neck. Other than that, it was fairly complete.

By the time the new, early “Thursday” paper came rolling off the press at 9:30 that (Wednesday) night, with the same hysterical headline, the story ran three columns to a depth of nine inches. Right next to it, on the right, under the banner, were two two-column photos of Mary Brendan: the top one showing her sitting against the Austin-Healey and the lower one, a close-up, showing her with eyes delicately closed (and the puncture marks in her neck carefully airbrushed out). To the left of my copy was the single column that belonged to Jake headed “From the Heart,” which served as his personal pipeline to the town. He was only mildly hysterical, calling for everyone to walk in pairs; to stay in after dark with the doors securely bolted; and asking why the D.A. had nothing to say about the “incredibly vicious and senseless murders perpetrated by a genuine fiend.”

In all fairness to D.A. Paine, he was up to his ears in the investigation, while sweating out his primary campaign. But his hands were tied. He couldn’t really begin to function until he had someone in custody to prosecute. But, when he’s on the outs with Jake (as I assume he must have been, since Jake doesn’t like holding back facts from his readers) our fearless editor and publisher doesn’t miss a chance to give it to Paine right in the neck.

The main “local” page for that issue was devoted entirely to the four killings. Some of my earlier stuff, reworked, appeared under Meyer Moses’ by-line, and, in addition to portrait shots of the four victims from happier days, there were photos of Nurse Staley, a bootlegged print of Olive Bowman (when the Daily News pulls out the stops there is no such thing as privacy), the display department’s “war map” and Rayeburn’s completed impression of the killer’s face, excuse me, the suspect’s face. Oh, Libel!

The face was long and saturnine, thin, cruel looking, just as Nurse Staley had described it (even if not to graphically). By 9:00 A.M. Thursday morning, every Daily News reader would know who to watch out for.

The picture, and its “original,” which was being reprinted for use by the PD and the sheriff’s office, gave everyone who cared to look a slight vision of the hereafter walking among them. Jake, with a showman’s eye as well as a genuine interest in public service, beat the opposition’s request to the sheriff’s office for a composite by voluntarily supplying them with a reprint of our drawing, sending it down by special messenger just after their late deadline with a note stipulating the picture be credited: “Daily News Staff Artist Steve Rayeburn.” I must assume he felt it would make up for the fact that he managed to gyp Rayeburn out of five dollars on the check he signed.

By the time I’d finished scanning all this it was 11:00 P.M. Feeling disgusted and drained, my thoughts turned, naturally, to my stomach. During this day, periodic pangs reminded me I’d eaten nothing solid since the previous evening. By now my midsection was sending third-stage distress signals, so I drove up to Duffy’s Tavern.

John, the manager there, gave me a booth in the corner and Rosa brought me a monster salad with a triple serving of garbanzo beans. In due course, I worked my way through two heaping platters of spaghetti with meat sauce, two orders of garlic bread (for four people) and three bottles of Heineken as a little extravagance to celebrate the end of my day and my “scooping” the opposition press.

Duffy’s was just what I needed: a quiet place for locals; piano bar for those who wanted it; a fair amount of darkness and privacy for those who didn’t; prices even a newsman can afford; and, in this writer’s humble opinion, the best spaghetti in Las Vegas.

CHAPTER 6

THURSDAY MAY 14, 1970

MORNING AND AFTERNOON

I checked into the newsroom at 9:10 A.M and ran headlong into Janie Carlson, our labor editor-columnist. She was just checking out the Thursday labor column, and planning to take part of the day off to get her aged dog snipped, clipped and prettified, something he regarded with dread and disgust.

If you ever saw Mercedes McCambridge as Luz in the movie classic “Giant,” just add another eighty pounds and you have Janie Carlson. She’s a big gal with a big temper to match. When she’s in a good mood and “with” you, she’s great. But don’t ever cross her, specially if she is in a hurry. Vincenzo did it a lot when she first came to work on the News and then, as in everything he does, he did it once too often, attempting to usurp her authority over a new assistant he was breaking in. She picked Vincenzo up by his shirtfront and carried him across the newsroom, dumping him unceremoniously into an oversized trash can. When she threatened to jam his typewriter in with him, he relented and has avoided her as much as possible ever since that time. Never a word of protest about her copy now.

Janie had some pithy comments to offer on the killings, the gist of which was, “I’m just a helpless little woman, but I’d love to get that sonofabitch alone in a small room for about five minutes.”

And I would put my money on Janie. She ain’t scared of nothin’. Threats from angry labor bosses never fazed her. When the cab wars were on and “riding shotgun” meant carrying one, she was right out there getting the daily dirt.

She wanted to cover the story from “the woman’s angle” but Cairncross overruled her.

“That darlin’ one-eyed man said he didn’t have the time or energy to replace me with another picket-chaser if I got hurt. But wait till you see my Sunday column. It ought to turn Lew’s black patch snow white!”

I could wait. I had other things on my mind.

She left and I slipped into the nearest empty desk and dialed Jenks at the sheriff’s office. “Kolchak here, Bill. What have you got for me?”

“DMV came through with sixteen white Chevys in this area that are two-door hardtops, years ’61 through ’67. We’ve had some luck. So far eliminated all but one. Guy named Martin Lubin. Gave an apartment listing over on Spring Mountain Road but we checked and it turned out to be a phony. No one with that name or description ever lived there.”

“I wouldn’t bet this guy lives in an apartment. He needs some place more private. A house, or even a place with some acreage around it.”

“We’re checking all rental listings and real-estate offices for recent sales. But that’s going to take a while. However, as I said, we’ve had some luck. Record of sale on this Lubin character is from ‘Vegas Vic Auto,’ thirteen-hundred block on East Charleston. We’re checking on that now. Call back in thirty minutes or thereabouts and maybe we’ll have something.”

I took off on a one-block hike down Main Street to a greasy spoon named Billy’s and had some warmed-over cherry pie. I nibbled at it (Helen O’Brien’s pies were much better), reading our “home” edition’s rehash of Wednesday’s killing.

When I got back to the newsroom and called Jenks he had confirmation of the sale.

“Positive ID. Took one look at the sketch and told the PD people, “There’s your man.” Said he was a real creepy type with some kind of foreign accent, English or something. Said he bought the car on Friday, April 17 at about 8:30 or 9:00 P.M. Cash. You want to come by for the report?”

I told him no. Meyer would be handling the general routine today.

“I think I’ll go talk to the manager. What’s his name?”

“Fred Hurley.”

“Ten-Four,” I said. I learned that watching Broderick Crawford on “Highway Patrol”. It’s supposed to sound very official.

On my way down to the car lot it occurred to me that perhaps the law was having good luck in that the suspect had bought from a reputable dealer instead of stealing a car or series of cars or buying from a private party.

The chamber of commerce calls Las Vegas “The City of Schools and Churches.” In a way they’re right. There are roughly one hundred and fifty churches, or one for every three hundred persons in the county, and about seventy-five schools (elementary through high school, including the four-year university). Double the number if you count “professional” schools for secretaries, beauticians and dealers.

They could also call it “The City of Used Car Lots.” There are more car dealers than schools and fifty handle only used cars. As Corbett Monica says, “A lot of guys come to Vegas in $4,000 cars and leave in $40,000 Greyhound Buses.”

“Vegas Vic’s” was typical of the small, sleazy fifteen-car operation that still managed to pop up in the midst of normal shopping areas. It was situated to one side and somewhat behind a sporting goods store at the corner of Fourteenth and Charleston. Hurley turned out to be a stubby, barrel of a man about two inches shorter and twenty pounds heavier than me. A sort of midget Tony Galento.

He was all talk.

“You bet your ass I seen him. Creepy sonofabitch. Looked just like the drawin’ the cops showed me. Maybe thinner.

“Always stay open late on Friday and Saturday. Get trade from high-school kids that drag their old men out looking for transportation cars they can hop up. I’m sittin’ at my desk goin’ over the day’s sales when all of a sudden I gets a whiff of something… like a dead cow and I look up and bang! There he is inna doorway.

“He says in this real deep voice, “How much money do you require for the white automobile?’

“I look out the window at this white, ’63 Chevy. Real hard car to unload. Used hard. Got a souped-up 327 ‘vette mill in it and every time some kid’s old man gets a wink of what’s under its hood he sees traffic tickets and cancelled insurance policies and says, ‘No dice.’

“Well, this guy’s dressed up in black, see. Like coming from a funeral. Wearin’ a hat, too. One of the them homburgs like Ike wore… but black, too. I figured the guy was dumb to want some kid’s car or something’ but that was his business. I guess there’s one born every minute, if you get what I mean.

“So I sets him a price an’ he stands there and don’t say a word. Then he looks at me… scared me half to death, that look. He reaches into his coat pocket real slow and I figure he’s gonna pull out a gun and rob me.

“But, no, he just takes out this big wallet and starts peelin’ off hunnert dollar bills and now I figure I’ve got him dead to rights. He’s either a high roller who likes hot-rods or an imported gun here on a job and lookin’ for a fast set of wheels to bug out in.

“He looks at me an’ says, ‘You’re price is too high. Three hundred dollars too high. I will pay cash. You will cut your price by three hundred dollars.’

“Well, damn! He’s not only cuttin’ my profit to the bone, but he’s just about knocking me over with his breath. Jesus! I ain’t never smelled anythin’ so bad in my life. Not even the stockyards in Chicago.

“I figure, the hell with it! I can still make a $200 profit on that piece of iron so I starts writin’. I asks him his name an’ he says ‘Martin Lubin.’ He gives me an address on Spring Mountain Road. I asks him for his driver’s license, ‘cause I don’t want no trouble with the fuzz. I’m–you keep this quiet, see–I’m a registered ex-con. Haven’t had a lick of trouble in my twenty years but I gotta be careful.

“He just looks at me and makes me feel like an icicle all over. ‘My license will not be necessary,’ he says. I start to tell him it will so be necessary but somethin’ inside tells me, don’t mess wit’ this guy, he’d as soon slit yer throat as look at ya, so I tells him OK and will he sign the bill of sale. He pulls out one of those old-fashioned fountain pens, the big fat kind, and scribbles out his name so’s I can hardly read it.

“I tell him about registerin’ the car with the DMV an’ he says can I do it for him. I tell him OK and ask does he want the papers delivered out to his home? He gives me a look and sort of hisses back,’ No. Have the papers sent here. I’ll come by next Friday for them.’

“Christ! I already seen enough of this guy with his tiny red eyes and his halitosis to last me a lifetime. I tell him OK, he hands me the money an’ I give him the bill of sale an’ tell him to paste it on his windshield until he gets his registration slip. He don’ say nothing’. He just shoves it in his wallet an’ heads out the door.

“An’ let me tell you I made damn sure my assistant was on hand to take care of him when he showed up a week later for his stuff, which he did, and my assistant swears he won’t work nights anymore.

“I forgot all about him until today when the cops come by askin’ questions an’ they show me his mug in the drawin’. Then I see the mornin’ paper. Killer? Hah! Coulda told ya he was a killer alla time. But I’da figgered he was workin’ for the mob, know what I mean?”

I left Hurley with his dreams of Chicago’s “good old days” and went back to the office. I’d barely got back to my desk when I heard the squawk box report a missing person. That in itself was nothing too unusual. People–mostly students out too late–get reported missing in Las Vegas quite often. Sometimes, though, it can become a tragedy. In my years on the News at least seven youngsters from four to seventeen had disappeared without a trace. It seemed some teen-aged girl named Shelley Katz, a student at UNLV, had gone to some university function on Wednesday night and had still not reported home. What with the murders, I could well imagine her parents were frantic.

I was just about to head for the PD because the girl lived in the city when Meyer rushed out of Cairncross’ office (He’s got receivers in there) and yelled at Vincenzo, “I’ve got it!” grabbed the slip of paper I’d been noting down particulars on right out of my hand, and scampered out the door.

That was fine by me. I’ve said it before and I’ll repeat it. I’d rather sit than walk. If he wanted to run down the routine stuff, OK. It was a good thing that I did let him get away with it. It saved me much needless exercise.

When I had arrived at the Daily News back in ’63, Meyer and I had not hit it off too well. He was suspicious as hell of anybody who looked like a threat to his personal bailiwick. As far as he was concerned, he was the police reporter on the Daily News and that was that. For a couple of years, before I became chiefly a crime reporter, I only covered a few of the more interesting cases. Meyer got the big ones. Then he quit the paper to take a job as a flack at one of the big hotels so he could make more money and move with a “higher class” of women. After a year of this, he disappeared back east, and when he returned to Vegas and applied for his old job he found me sitting at his desk. For a year after that he “stole” stories from me and I let him, saving the really big ones for myself. Finally, one night, over several bottles of wine at the Tower of Pizza on the Strip, we managed to have at an armed truce based on the old adage, “You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.”

Meyer and I never became friends but luck was usually with us and we were never drunk at the same time. So I ended up covering for him on his binges and he covered for me when I got polluted.

Thinking these pointless thoughts with one part of mind, I occupied another part with condensing Hurley’s ramblings into something resembling a decent sidebar and around noon dropped it on Vincenzo’s desk.

He regarded it in silence. “OK. So the guy’s a creep. He won’t be loose for long now and the whole town knows that he looks like. Ten to one that when they catch him, he’ll get off with life and be paroled in seven years flat.”

“Or,” I countered, “he’ll get a smart attorney like Hobart Creighton and plead insanity. That way he’ll only spend five years up at Sparks.”

Vincenzo marked the copy for page one, indicating it as a two-column story with a three-deck headline in forty-two-point Futura Bold Condensed.

I asked if he wanted a picture of Hurley and he said he’d think about it.

“Enjoy it while you can, Kolchak. This guy’ll be in the can before the Sunday edition goes to press, and Monday you’ll be covering federal court again.”

Federal Court is Vincenzo’s idea of Siberia. I find it a good place to catch some sleep.

It was just about noon, and things looked quiet. Another phone check with the PD and sheriff’s office brought me nothing new, so I took a hike down the street to the SPD Office Equipment Co. on Charleston and bought some map pins. On the way back to the office I stopped at a gas station and picked up a map of Las Vegas. On the way back into the newsroom I dropped them in my car.

Meyer was back and typing in his fast, awkward two-finger style. I peeked over his shoulder and couldn’t resist taking shorthand notes on what he had. After all, he’d swiped the assignment from me. Now that he’d done the leg work, at least to the extent of picking up a printed police report, I was willing to give it my somewhat divided attention.

He wrote: “Shelley Katz, nineteen, a part-time student at the University of Nevada at Las Vegas was reported missing from her home at 1597 South Chapman shortly before 11:00 A.M. Thursday.

“She was last seen wearing bell-bottomed Levis, a fringed leather shirt and moccasins on Wednesday night when she left her home to attend a play at the university.
“Her parents, Dr. and Mrs. Sidney J. Katz, assumed she would be staying out late to attend one of the cast and crew pizza parties that are part of the normal activities of the Student Creative Theatre group at the university.