by Jeff Rice
Mokurji never raised his voice a single decibel. And he’s about half Paine’s size. He merely gave the D.A. a long, hard look, as if he was regarding the remains of some Mongoloid idiot, and continued.
“Not a dog. I never said ‘dog,’ Mr. Paine. But is seems likely that the wounds were made by the incisors–or ‘dog teeth’–and there are many animals that have such physical equipment. Even, “he shot the D.A. a chilling little smile, “even men such as you, Mr. Paine. If I were to hazard an educated guess, I would say that whatever made these marks was most probably human.”
Paine couldn’t stand it. “What the hell do you mean human? Who in God’s name has teeth like a dog?”
Mokurji answered him, unruffled by Paine’s bluster. “Many men and woman have rather long and pointed incisors. Most often these ‘dog teeth’ are cured by simple orthodontal work or by minor dental surgery, by filing and capping. However, it is not just the teeth marks that lead us to the conclusion they were made by a human. You see, the saliva sample is human. The blood seems to be a new classification and very… anemic… but definitely human.”
“Would you go over that, doctor?” asked Sheriff Lane.
“Let me put it this way. You can type a person’s blood from his saliva. This saliva smear does not match the blood type of the victim. Now, by eliminating all the possible blood types and looking for what remains, I would say you should look for a very anemic fellow, possibly with some rare blood disease… something like leukemia, but definitely not your average, run-of-the-mill anemic. He is obviously energetic and strong. Oh, I might add, the same saliva traces were found on Mrs. Reynolds and Miss Hughes.”
I then raised my hand. “May I ask the doctor a question?”
They all knew what was coming but weren’t quick enough to stop me.
“Kolchak, Daily News, Dr. Mokurji… is it possible that someone killed these women by drinking their blood for the express purpose of drinking their blood–and killed these woman by biting then?”
“Physically, it is possible. At present, the evidence points that way. But I must advise you that I am a pathologist, not a psychologist even though the two lines of endeavor often cross in my particular line of work. I couldn’t and wouldn’t hazard a guess as to motivation.
“The women were killed most likely by being stabbed or bitten; I’d say bitten and held or choked into unconsciousness. A human being did the killing. The saliva traces prove that. They each died from shock induced by massive loss of blood.”
I asked one more question. “Doctor, are there such things… I mean, is it possible that someone could have attacked these women in the belief that he was a vampire and had to drink their blood to stay alive?”
“Oh, Jesus!” said the chief.
“Kolchak!” said Paine. “You’re here by mutual suffrage of us all.”
“It’s sufferance, Mr. Paine,” I told him.
“Whatever. Shut up!”
“Ah, Mr. Paine. I’ll answer that, “Mokurji broke in quietly. “There have been cases of people who, through some mental derangement, have come to believe they were vampires. Several of these committed crimes of violence. A few have even murdered some unfortunates and swallowed their blood. But in most of these admittedly exceptional cases, a knife or other sharp object was used. But… in Germany, in the 1920s there was one fellow who did use his teeth to rip out his victim’s throats. I forget his name.”
“But it is possible, Doctor, that such a deranged person, say a large and powerful man with abnormally long incisors, could, in the belief he was a genuine vampire, murder three, helpless women.”
“It is quite possible,” he answered. “Even probable if the annals of crime literature and police files are any indication.”
“And that,” I shot back, “would make our suspect, for all practical purposes, a living, breathing vampire, in the full sense of the word.”
Mokurji gave me a very long look. “It would make him, Mr. Kolchak, a man who acted very much like a vampire. However, I would hardly think that if this is the case, that it would take silver bullets or wooden stakes driven through his heart to apprehend such an individual.”
“Well, gentlemen,” injected the sheriff. “We are getting ahead of ourselves. We are just here to get a detailed report on possible causes of death. Let’s not start jumping to conclusions as to who or what killed these three women. At our request, Mr. Fain of the Federal Bureau of Investigation has been pursuing an investigation of his own… ah… inquiries into similar violent deaths around the country. Mr. Fain?”
Bernie just winked at me and whispered, “Told you that just once in a while the professionals are on their toes. So why not shut up and learn something?”
Taking the line of lease resistance, I smiled weakly and nodded.
“As you know this case does not properly come under our jurisdiction. However I checked with Washington and was given the OK to put out a request for pertinent information through our offices in all major cities. The results have all been negative. In the past ten years there hasn’t been a single case even remotely like this one. All the weird murders committed right on up to the Sharon Tate thing were done with the usual weapons–guns, knives, etc. The Manson people are reported to have drunk some blood at the scene of the crime, but I think you’ll find they eat the food at the LA County Jail much the same as anyone.”
“So there was nothing you found that changes the picture, right?” asked Butcher.
“Well, unless you want to go so far as to contact the authorities in England and on the Continent, I’ve gone about as far on my end as possible. Of course, if something like this happens across the state line, say in California, or Utah, or Arizona, we could move in with a little more leverage…”
“The fact is,” said Paine, “It’s happening here. So we better make up our minds that some guy is doing it and get out there are catch him before he does it again.”
“Just like that, huh, Tom?” growled Butcher. “And what do you think we’ve been doing?”
“I don’t know what you think you’ve been doing, but I’ll tell you this. Some nut is out there, and I’ll bet he’s high on port or the hard stuff, and he’ll kill again unless he’s stopped. Reese, what have your people got on that Parkway blood theft?” (He saw the connection. Everybody did.)
Lane looked up and drawled. “Well, the latest thing is there seems to have been a witness of sorts who saw something funny out there either late last night or early this morning.”
Bernie nudged me in the ribs, smiling his irritating Cheshire-cat grin.
“It seems a registered nurse named Staley saw a tall, skinny guy dressed as an orderly nosing around the refrigeration storage area where the blood and plasma is kept. Didn’t think much about it at the time but when she mentioned the guy to a floor super she was told there was no tall, skinny guy on duty there. A subsequent check revealed no orderly of that description ever hired by that hospital in at least two years. But we do have a description of sorts from this Mrs. Amanda Staley, who, by the way, is a crotchety old widow of fifty-eight who doesn’t seem given to seeing things in the dark, so my boys tell me.
“Description as follows: WMA–about six-two to six-four; thin–about 160-170 pounds; pale; dark hair receding at the temples; and, now I quote Mrs. Staley’s exact words, ‘absolutely foul breath. You could smell him halfway down the corridor.’”
“So,” said Butcher, “we start looking for a man who could be either a local resident or, worse yet, an outsider who may not even still be in the area. Check the airport, bus terminal and train station, block off the highways and hope we catch him… just in case he’s stupid enough to hang around after three killings.”
“Got any other suggestions?”
“No. Suppose you start checking your work registration cards for anyone working around the casinos that might answer that description. If you come up with anything we can check the fingerprints with…“Butcher stopped.
Lane looked
back glumly. “With what? You haven’t found any prints. And what we found on the Hanochek girl’s back door is pretty badly smudged. We’re pretty sure it doesn’t belong to her or her roommate but I’d hate to try to make a positive ID from it.”
Paine broke in. “Just get us enough to hold the sonofabitch for twenty-four hours on suspicion. I’ll find the right nails for his coffin.”
“You’d be stretching it. If we were wrong… false arrest suit… headlines and that sort of thing, “mused Lane, sensitive to possible lawsuits in an election year.
“Do it,” commanded Paine. “All right, let’s break this up. I’m due at the Elks Lodge in ten minutes. Than you Dr. Mo–Mo –ku…” He struggled with the name and finally gave up. “Thank you, Doctor, and please express our thanks to your associate.”
Mokurji was zipping his briefcase shut. He turned to Paine.
“I shouldn’t be too inclined to reject Mr. Kolchak’s theory out of hand, if I were you. It is at best highly speculative. But, in view of other, earlier cases in police files and in medical journals, not altogether unwarranted.”
Before we could leave, Paine made one further statement–a warning.
“This ‘vampire’ stuff is to stay right in this room. Until we have the assailant in custody we say nothing about these girls being drained of blood. No more rumors. No reports in the papers,” he added, looking directly at me and ignoring my colleague from the opposition press. ‘The official opinion at this time is that the cause of death is ‘undetermined and under investigation.’ We don’t want to start a panic. It’s bad for police operations. It’s bad for the people. And it’s bad for business.”
As we started to file out into the hall, the D.A.’s assistant, a mousy little former city attorney named Koster (whose great secret was that he had the largest collection of pornography in Las Vegas) slithered over to me and said unctuously, “Mr. Paine would like a word with you… out there by the elevators.”
I came upon our great gauleiter rocking to and fro, hands clasped behind his back. When he saw me he said nothing, but waited until the elevator had arrived and he had stepped into it, turning around with the doorway framing his bulky form.
“Kolchak, you’re becoming a real pest. I’ll have to have a word or two with Jake about you. I think maybe Pete Pryor should handle this thing from here on.” Then he smiled his sincerest campaign grimace and added a fatherly, “Keep your nose clean. Stay out of other people’s business, son. It’s healthier that way.”
The doors hissed shut and Paine descended out of reach of any epithet I might have had for him. Pete Prior! One of the most unprincipled muckrakers to ever hoist a quill. He and Jake Herman were like The Goldust Twins. If Jake gave him the word, Pryor would nail my hide to the composing room wall. In fairness, I must say that Pryor has many times exposed graft and corruption in places both high and low. He has even taken on the federal government when he felt it was encroaching on the rights of Las Vegas residents. But he has covered up far more than he ever exposed, has dabbled in character assassinations, and entertains powerful political ambitions. I suppose I just naturally resent anyone who supposedly makes the same salary I do but seems able to take off two weeks out of every six and travel to Greece and Bermuda or Hawaii at the drop of a hat. It might be interesting if I were to reveal the true source of his income. The IRS boys would very likely desire a meeting with him.
I took the next elevator to the street level and Bernie caught my eye as I headed out the Carson Street exit.
“Learn anything, friend?”
“If you mean, to let sleeping dogs lie, “I answered bravely but without conviction, “no.”
“It’s your funeral,” he retorted happily. “Go ahead. Let the local minions of law and order roll you under their steamroller. Goddamit, Carl, you want to snoop? G’head. Snoop! But stop making ‘suggestions.’ Stop interfering with the pros and implying that they don’t know their jobs. You might not like ‘em but you’ve got to admit they’re not dunces. Everything you told me they ought to do… they are doing and were doing before you got your bright ideas. You haven’t got an exclusive on vampires this year.
“And don’t kid yourself. These Vegas boys are not a small town bunch of political hacks. They are as smooth and canny a group of sharpies as ever ran Chicago or New York. And they can play rough if they get pushed too far. Especially when their reputations are at stake. Wise up to yourself, boy, or you’ll find yourself out of a job and ‘eighty-sixed’ all over the state.”
Now I started getting hot. “Does that go for you too, Fain?”
“No, it doesn’t, but… aaah, Jesus! Who can talk to you when you get like this? Look. The bureau isn’t in this officially but I’ll nose around unofficially on anything you bring me. Just between the two of us. But do me a favor. Stay away from me for a few days. Just for friendship’s sake.”
I left Bernie at Third and Bridger and ducked into the courthouse lot to my car while he headed back to Fourth Street and the Federal Building, one of the true architectural mediocrities of this age and, as I turned down Fourth Street, I gave him a loud Bronx cheer. Then I headed for the Plush Horse on Sahara just a block from my apartment.
Once there, I got slowly and pleasantly stewed, grumbling to myself about the cupidity of the D.A. and his two buddies, Lane and Butcher. I was also disgusted with my own performance and realized that within only a month I’d managed to blow whatever working relationship I’d had with the PD and the sheriff’s office, and all because I couldn’t keep my big mouth shut!
As an amateur sleuth I was, it seemed, outclassed in even the simplest mental processes. But I didn’t have the good common sense to let it go. Sherman Reilly Duffy of the pre-World War I Chicago Daily Journal once told a cub reporter, “Socially, a journalist fits in somewhere between a whore and a bartender. But spiritually he stands beside Galileo. He knows the world is round.” Well, socially I fit in just fine between the whore and the bartender. Both are close friends. And I knew the world was round. Yet, as time went by I found myself confronted with the ugly suspicion that the world was, after all, flat and that there were things dark and terrible waiting just over the edge to reach out and snatch life from the unlucky, unwary wanderer.
The frustration continued to grow. I was a journalist. I stood, as Duffy put it, with Galileo. So I ask: what would you do if you could smell a news story like this and couldn’t go anywhere with it?
With me the answer was simple. I knew I was stuck. I knew I was (and am), at best, only a second-rate hack and that my dream of getting back on a big-league daily is just that: a dream.
So–I got drunk.
Drinking is an occupational hazard with many of us scribes. I have always kept an emergency supply of White Horse “miniatures” handy just in case the bars were closed. These little Scotch delights have laced many a cup of city-room coffee over the years. But drinking doesn’t get the job done. I had blown the first murder, that of Cheryl Ann Hughes, and even if I’d been on the ball, the story wouldn’t have rated an “extra” edition. And with the competition down the street hitting the newsstands in early afternoon on their regular schedule, the Daily News got scooped on Murders Two and Three. Now, in a normal town, we would have hit the streets with an “extra” at least by the third killing. But death, as I said earlier, excites little real interest in Las Vegas. The people for the most part are very conservative and insular. They mind their own business. They do not rise up en masse demanding investigations. The Asbill murder case excited much comment in the local bars and the Alsup killing caused a lot of working men to pause and ponder. But no hue and cry went up except for a few editorials. No public demonstrations. No phone calls or letters to the editor demanding action.
Stories peak very quickly and are good for only one or two resuscitations. Columnists fare slightly better and several local scribes have certain pet gripes they use as column fillers when topical issues on a local level are lacking. At the time of the “vampire killing
s” (the true nature of which was still not made public) the going column items were homosexual rape of first-timers at the state prison; the bungling of the convention board and of County General’s administrators, another perennial favorite; the slapping of wrists belonging to various entertainers who play Vegas regularly but neither love nor was ecstatic over the town and its residents; pot-smoking students; and, of course, that great scourge of morality (in a very moral town), the “adult” book stores which sell “filth and smut” to a great variety of people who anxiously return to buy more even though not one in 50,00 residents would ever admit to such a thing. Still, the number of these stores continues to grow and the business is mostly local trade. They now feel free to advertise openly in the hand-out papers printed for the tourists. No one objects.
Having done so badly with the last attempt at getting the truth made public, I then did what I had sworn to myself I would not do. I called the paper and talked to Vincenzo. I went so far as to suggest we do a takeout for the upcoming Sunday edition (pending, of course, further killings) and restage the murders with pictures of the investigating officers “on the scene,” getting a full share of quotes and speculations and taking an editorial stance of outrage at the cumbersome machinery of the law. The reaction, as expected, was negative. And Vincenzo had a suggestion for me which would have been physically impossible to comply with.
By the time I noticed it was dark outside, I was well removed from reality and so, I tottered out to my car, drove it the hundred feet or so to the little 7-11 Market that borders on the alley behind my apartment building, bought a load of aspirins and coffee, and headed home. There, I soaked for an hour in a very hot tub, swilled down a pot of the brew and prepared to beat my head against the brick wall of police-news media resistance one more time.
My friend Pete Harper, on vacation from the Newark Post, dropped by and fixed up a savory collection of scampi and rice, and by the time I’d finished the meal I felt almost human. Harper is tall, six-six, and looks like a stretched Peter Fonda. He’s a Hemingway bug and a true journalist: game for almost any kind of pursuit that might lead to a by-line. So, after helping stoke the “inner man,” he gladly accepted my invitation to revisit Parkway Hospital and talk to Nurse Staley.
