Kolchak The Night Strangler (12 page)

Berry produced a folder from a desk drawer and opened it, removing a yellowed sheet of paper upon which was pasted a cracked photograph in sepia tones.

“Dr. Richard Malcolm was one of the original staff members of the Westside Mercy Hospital when it opened in 1882. This is the original story copy and photograph.”

Original was right. This was not just the story as printed in the
Chronicle
. Somehow, Berry had unearthed the photograph itself along with the original
copy
in the hand of some long-forgotten reporter. The ink was faded and almost illegible in spots. The photograph had also deteriorated somewhat, but it was clearly the photograph of a bearded officer in a Union Army uniform; the face of a man, slim of build, good looking, and about 40-45 years of age.

“Civil War?”

“He was a surgeon with the Union Army.”

“Get me a magnifying glass, could you.”

Berry had one in his hand. He had anticipated everything. I could have kissed him. I went over the photo, very slowly studying the face. There was a thin white scar almost straight up from his right eye, just cutting through the eyebrow. The face was handsome, a bit aristocratic, and, to me, somewhat cold.

“Is this .. uh… Westside Mercy Hospital still in operation?”

“I don’t believe so, Mr. Kolchak.”

My spirits fell along with my shoulders. “Oh, hell!”

“It was badly gutted by the Great Fire. However, if I’m not mistaken, it was refurbished later on and there’s a clinic there now.”
“Mr. Berry, I don’t dare give voice to what I’m thinking. Are you game for a little adventure?”

His eyes brightened.

“Come on, then.”

“The game’s afoot?”

“Exactly!” I was laughing like an idiot. “Come on, Watson!”

Berry shrank back. “Uh… no, Mr. Kolchak. This,” he swept his hand around the room, “Is
my
world. As I said, the chase is not for me. But you be sure to let me know what you find.”

Chapter Thirteen

What I found was a very old four-story building in a semi-dilapidated state just off the waterfront, not five blocks from Pioneer Square. A restful place within good listening distance of the traffic rumbling down Alaskan Way.

What I found inside the main area stopped me dead in my tracks.

“My God!” I pushed a passing nurse out of my way and made for the nearest telephone booth to summon Mr. Berry.”

“John, bring all that stuff out to the Richards Free Clinic. NO! I
need
you, Mr. Berry. Right now! I need a witness. Now move! Please!”

There was an immense photograph hanging in an ornate, gilt-painted frame over a fireplace. The face belonged to Dr. Richard Malcolm, but it was clean shaven and wearing clothing from the Woodrow Wilson era. Bearded or beardless, in uniform or out, it was the same man. Right down to the scar over the right eye!

I kept pacing up and down and went through half a cigar until a nurse told me to put it out. Finally I lost my patience. I climbed up on a nearby cabinet and then onto the mantelpiece. Balancing precariously, I took a grease pencil from my pocket and began to draw a beard on the good Doctor Richard’s cold, handsome face.

A nurse raced over and began to yell. “If you don’t get down from there this instant, I’m calling the police.”

I ignored her and completed the moustache.

“Do you hear me, sir?”

She grabbed my leg as I was working up the beard, and I almost fell off. I shook my leg free and kept right on working.

“All right. All
right!!
I warned you.” She moved off. I finished the beard and, just for good measure, drew a Union Army officer’s hat over his close-cropped hair. It was perfect.

The nurse was still shouting.

“Fisher! Call the police. Tell them there’s some nut here destroying property. Get them over here, stat!”

I was just climbing down when Mr. Berry arrived and walked timidly into the commotion. We were surrounded by nurses, and orderlies were moving in on me.

“This is dreadful, Mr. Kolchak.”

“Let’s see that photo again, Mr. B.” He pulled it out of an envelope. The old tintype and the poster-sized blow-up matched very nicely.

“Mr. B., do you know what that little brass plaque under that photo up there says? It says ‘Malcolm Richards, M.D., Founder of the Richards Free Clinic. The Doctor Saint of the Waterfront.’”

“Dreadful. Dreadful.”

“What do you mean, dreadful? It’s great!
This
is what we need!”

Then I remembered my camera. I’d forgotten it back in the office. Berry had it bulging out of one pocket.

“You’re a lifesaver.”

“Well, I just thought… I mean that’s why it took me so long.”

“Never mind.” I
did
kiss him on his thinning thatch and began shooting pictures of the “Doctor Saint.”

“
There
he is, officers!”

And that’s when I got busted.

Before they got the cuffs on me, I slipped the camera to Berry and told him what to do. Then I ran around the admitting area creating as much havoc as possible so Berry could slip away unnoticed. It was probably his second greatest talent, going unnoticed. Finally, after about 30 seconds, a very large, very angry policeman cornered me up against a wall.

“You’ve got me, officer. I cannot tell a lie.
I
am the Scarlet Pimpernel!”

I was hustled over to the Municipal Building in handcuffs and brought directly to Schubert’s office. Schubert and his officers were there in shirtsleeves.

So was Vincenzo.

And so was Mr. Crossbinder.

“Listen, Tony, I’ve got…”
”Shut up, Kolchak.” It was Schubert. Another precinct heard from. Vincenzo looked at me like I was a bug, took two large-sized Maalox tablets from his suitcoat pocket and began to chew them slowly.

Crossbinder opened the festivities in a rolling voice worthy of a Shakespearean actor.

“It is to be regretted, Mr. Kolchak, that the use of leg irons and mouth blocks was outlawed some years back.”

“Now hold on, Mr. Crossbinder. Let me explain.” I turned to Schubert. “Will you take these damn cuffs off me?”

“I warned you, Kolchak.”

Crossbinder crossed his pipe-steam legs, his American Flag pin twinkling as he moved.

“Con
grat
ulations, Mr. Kolchak. You have plumbed a new depth: the desecration of a saint.
What
do you do for an encore? Set fire to an orphanage?”

I turned to Vincenzo.

“Vince…”

Crossbinder also turned to Vincenzo.

“Yes, Mr. Vincenzo. Have you some illuminating comment to make?”

“I
took
him off the story, Mr. Crossbinder. What more could …?”

“For Christ’s sake, everybody shut up! You wanted
facts
Vincenzo. All right. I’ve
got
facts for you.

“I did
not
invent the resemblance between Dr. Malcolm Richards and Dr. Richard Malcolm! I did
not
invent the fact that Westside Mercy Hospital—of which Dr. Richard
Malcolm
was a staff member—is buried underneath the site of the present Malcolm
Richards
clinic. Any fool can…”

Crossbinder wasn’t through, however.

“Charming. Just charming. Why not an expose on Dr. Schweitzer, Mr. Kolchak? The
low
down on Mahatma Gandhi? The
real
scoop on the Pope?

“You and this eternal youth garbage. I can’t stand it!”

“I can see why you, you old…”
”What
did you say?”

Schubert broke up the fight. “All right, hold on. We’re not here for personal vituperation.”

I couldn’t restrain myself. “You
know
that word,
Captain
?”

“You’ve been arrested, Mr. Kolchak. You are one one-hundredth of an inch from being thrown in jail and…” He broke off and looked toward his door. So did I. Mr. Berry—good old Mr. Berry—was standing there with Sheila McCallister. He was shyly wiggling his fingers at me.

“There
he is!
That’s
the man I’m waiting for! John! Come right on in here!”

Sheila opened the door for him and marched him in like a small, reluctant truant. “I apologize for interrupting your meeting sir, but this gentleman…”

Crossbinder bellowed, “Who
is
this man?”

“He works for you.”

Crossbinder looked blank, and Berry spoke up for himself in a very timid voice. “D-down in Research, sir… for… thirty-five years.”

Crossbinder was genuinely shocked. “Good God! I must get down there more often.”

Berry was still carrying the envelope.

“Is this it?”

“Yes, Mr. Kolchak. I thought perhaps…”

“You have thought correctly, Mr. B. Bless you!”

I was having trouble with the envelope because of the handcuffs.

“Captain, will you open this for me?”

“Kolchak, you were
brought
to this meeting. It was not arranged for your convenience!”

I couldn’t stand it any longer. This was definitely my last chance. Sink or swim.

Will you please, for God’s sake, listen to me? Please! These are
facts
here. Cold, hard
facts
!
Not
suppositions!

“Item: Dr. Richard Malcolm lived in New York City and served in the Union Army throughout the Civil War. He returned to New York until 1868 and then he moved to Seattle.

“Item: Several months
before
he moved, six women were strangled over a period of eighteen days. Their larynxes were crushed and their necks broken. Two of them had small wounds at the bases of their skulls. The sources of this information are available to check out.

“1868, I might add, is twenty-one years before the first group of Seattle strangulations.”

I had their attention at last!

’Item: following the fire of 1889—in which Dr. Malcolm’s wife, stepson and step daughter died of smoke inhalation—Dr. Richard Malcolm disappeared. It might interest you to note that the bodies of his family
also
disappeared.

“1889, as we know, just happens to be the year in which the first group of six killings occurred.”

Schubert started around his desk for me. “Kolchak…”

“Schubert, give me a chance. You can slap me in your dungeon later.

“In 1910, Dr. Malcolm Richards appeared on the scene. The Westside Mercy Hospital—of which Dr. Richard Malcolm was one of the founding staff members—was an all-but-forgotten memory, buried almost up to its roof in dirt from the post-fire construction. Over this defunct hospital he built his Free Clinic.

“1910, by some strange coincidence, just happens to be the year in which the second group of six killings occurred. Again: six broken necks and six corpses with needle marks at the bases of their skulls. Six victims missing blood.”

Schubert moved in on me again. He
was
going to slug me. But Crossbinder roared out: “Wait, Captain. Let him finish.”

“Item: In 1931, following reports that he had developed some kind of—quote: ‘strange, degenerative skin disease; unquote—Dr. Malcolm Richards disappeared.

“1931, just by coincidence, mind you, just happens to be the year in which the third group of similar killings occurred.”

I fumbled with the envelope, extracted the photo of Dr. Malcolm in his army uniform and handed it to Schubert, who stood clenching and unclenching his fists.

“The 1931 killings were thoroughly covered by a
Chronicle
reporter named James L. Stackhaus, who used the pen name ‘Jimmy Stacks.’”

I handed two more photos that I had taken of my art work of Malcolm-Richards on the Clinic’s framed memorial to the reluctant Schubert.

“Item: This photograph of Dr. Malcolm Richards, slightly ’doctored’ by me, for which I have been arrested, is
identical
to the original tintype of our own Major Richard Malcolm, Union Army Medical Corps… right down to the white scar over the right eye. The face is the
same.
Only the clothes have changed and the beard removed.