Maybe
you have to brush with death...
before you can really
reflect on life...
On the people and times that
really meant something to you.
Like childhood. Dreams of sailing
on silver seas and wooden shoes,
visions of sugarplums dancing.
Silver seas, sugarplums.
The visions, the nightmares,
of a child...
are perhaps the most
frightening and horrifying...
of any the human animal
can conjure.
Some people who were in Chicago during
the first stifling-hot weeks of July...
would say that was so...
if they were still alive.
Michele Kelly,
age , was one of those people.
A psychology graduate
student and a lab assistant,
she was hurrying at :
p.m., the night of July ,
to get off her job early in order to catch
the last plane to suburban New Jersey.
Good-bye.
Michele was
rushing because she was anxious to spend...
the long th of July
weekend with her family.
The family did gather,
not for a barbecue,
but for a funeral.
Cause of death:
chest cavity crushed.
Official police statement:
hit-and-run auto.
There's nothing under the sun that I fear
as much as I fear dentist appointments.
I was on my way to one,
envisioning the agony to come,
when the police radio delivered
me from that cruel and inhuman fate.
Roger. Ambulance
unit requested at Chez Voltaire restaurant.
Answer a . Address:
Lincoln Boulevard.
Chez Voltaire was the
Frenchiest of Chicago's French restaurants,
which meant that people paid exorbitant
funds to be abused by the waiters...
and eat minuscule portions.
The total value of Chez
Voltaire's wine cellar...
exceeded the gross
national product of Paraguay,
and their chef was put on a
level with Debussy and Gauguin.
But now he'd been m*rder*d,
and he looked just as dead...
as any short-order cook
in any greasy spoon.
What do you mean,
you don't have a night watchman?
Big restaurant like this, and you don't have
a night watchman? That's the silliest thing...
I don't understand.
I don't...
- Kolchak!
- You know you're not supposed to be here.
Johnson? Johnson? Every man
must make a living, right?
- You know the procedure, Carl.
- What?
You know. Don't touch anything,
and don't get in anybody's way.
- All right?
- Well, yes, sir, Captain Siska, sir.
Piaget was always
the last one to leave.
When I left last night, he was
preparing the venison, marinating it.
When I come in this morning,
I find him like this.
- It had to be that scum! He always hated Piaget!
- Who was that?
Carl, you'll find out
soon enough.
Now just let the boys go
and do their thing, all right?
Yes, of course, sir. But you
have a suspect. What's his name?
- I...
- I'll tell you.
The man'll be arraigned
very soon. A few hours.
Then you go down to headquarters,
and I'll give you his name.
- I mean, the man's entitled to his rights, isn't he?
- Oh, yes, of course.
You gonna give me a statement, or is it
gonna be the usual, dumb "No comment"?
Look, Carl,
Honore Piaget was m*rder*d.
So far, we feel the motive
was revenge, right?
Now as soon as we have the
suspect down to headquarters,
then we will release
important, pertinent information.
Uh-huh.
Well, that's terrific.
What was this green stuff on
him down here? Are these leaves?
Oh, it's probably salad.
This is a restaurant.
Well, yes, of course. But what are your
men doing taking specimens of salad?
Oh, don't tell me. They're gonna put it
in doggie bags, take it home and eat it.
Now, come on, Carl.
You know that's the procedure.
- Why don't you just back up a little?
- Well...
- Siska, what's happened to you?
- Hmm?
We used to
call you "Mad Dog."
- Where'd all the sweetness and light come from?
- Oh, yeah, yeah.
Well, I...
I was becoming a little too
wrapped up in my job, Carl.
I was... It was warping me.
- Getting ulcers, a possible coronary, you know.
- Yeah.
We were headed toward divorce.
And then my wife convinced me that I
should become part of group therapy.
- Group therapy? You?
- Yes. Yes.
I mean, what's the sense
of yelling, you know?
I mean,
all that hysteria, huh?
I've learned how
to control my rage.
So today, when I
tell people something,
I just say,
"I'm okay, you're okay."
- Well, great.
Congratulations, - Thank you.
- Mad...
- Take care, old boy.
A patron saint
to the gourmet set had been k*lled.
It would be a good story,
and I'd been there first.
The object now is to be there first
when the suspect was arraigned.
Fat chance.
Captain Siska, what's his name?
- What's the story?
- Well, what-what...
His name is Roman Clementi,
formerly a pastry chef at Chez Voltaire.
- Has he confessed, Captain?
- Not as yet.
But the motive
will be sufficient.
After all, he can't remember
where he was last night.
He says he became insensate from
the consumption of too much alcohol.
Well, what was
his motive, Captain?
Well, you see, Clementi and
Piaget were bitter enemies.
And three days ago,
Piaget fired him.
So he immediately tried to
att*ck him with a meat cleaver.
- Uh-huh.
- And, of course, he was stopped.
And people overheard him say
that he would try again.
- Really?
- Mm-hmm.
Captain, what was
the cause of death?
Well, the preliminary report
said suffocation...
due to massive chest contusions.
Chest contusions? Come on,
now, Siska. I saw that cook there.
His chest looked like it had
been massaged by a bulldozer.
You mean to tell me that Roman
whatever-his-name-is did that to his chest?
Now, uh, Mr. Kolchak is
exaggerating the wounds, of course.
We don't know what kind of a w*apon
Mr. Clementi used to inflict those blows.
What wounds? What blows?
There was no blood there.
What about that salad all over him? What was
it, vinaigrette or green goddess, Captain?
What salad? Hey, what
are you talking about?
Thank you, ladies and
gentlemen. That'll be all for now.
- Captain Siska, just... - Hey, Kolchak,
what are you talking about... salad?
I don't know anything about a salad.
Some lettuce hanging around, that's all.
- I'm a meat and potatoes man myself.
- You're holding out on us.
- No, not me.
- We know you know.
No, not a thing.
- Paco?
- Forget it, Kolchak. You, I don't need.
Paco, is that any way to treat a friend
who's really trying to do you a favor?
That is your green convertible
out in the parking lot, isn't it?
- Yeah.
- Well, I was on my way home.
I saw a bunch of kids
were on your car.
So I tried to chase 'em
away, but before I could,
they'd let all the air
out of your tires.
Well, I tried!
Maybe they'll come back.
Not even a "Thank you," Paco?
Chef Honore
Piaget hadn't just been m*rder*d.
The last course
that fate had served him...
had been nothing short
of a gruesome horror.
And the green salad that Captain
Siska had seemed so touchy about?
The name they were calling
it I couldn't even pronounce,
but I had a strong feeling
that it wasn't any salad...
I or anyone else
had ever heard of.
Piaget's file referred the
reader to another, earlier, case,
that of someone named
Kelly, Michele Louise.
I was too rushed to get any
vital statistics on Miss Kelly,
but I did notice that she wasn't
a m*rder victim like Piaget.
Just a simple hit-and-run,
if such things are ever simple.
The dictionary doesn't list plants
by the Latin names. Strike one.
Strike two:
The Chicago phone book...
listed at least , Kellys,
of them named Michele.
There'd be a lot
of footwork the next day.
All I could do for the night was write
up a story on the m*rder of a chef.
But the big strikeout that night
was made by Bobby Ray Solange.
Age: . Occupation:
Would-be superstar.
But at :
the night of July ,
Solange had finished
a very hard day...
of playing street guitar to
less-than-enthusiastic audiences,
and he figured he owed it
to himself to relax...
with his version
of the evening martini.
He picked the basement of the old
Samuel de Champlain Apartments...
as the place to be alone.
I trudged through nine...
of the phone book's
Michele Kellys...
before I found the one I
wanted... the dead one.
Her landlady, who didn't
know Michele at all,
told me I should talk
with her former employer.
Whoops!
I beg your pardon.
Quiet! That soundproof glass
can do only so much.
- He's REMing.
- Really?
- What's REMing?
- REM... rapid eye movement.
The stage of sleeping
where dreaming occurs.
- Oh!
- I'm sorry, Hillary.
I just can't help it.
Mom?
Mom?
- He had a good REM, didn't he?
- What's your problem? Who are you?
My name is Carl Kolchak,
Independent News Service.
See, if you're Dr. Pollack, I'd
like very much to talk to you.
Oh. It's about time somebody
wrote something about my work.
I may be an M.D., but I do
know the value of P.R.
Oh, I just bet you do, and I'm
sure your work is terribly interesting.
But I'm really here
to talk about Michele Kelly.
Oh. That name
means nothing to me.
Michele is the one who
was hit by the car, Aaron.
Is he sick?
He's a test subject.
Sleep, uh, is a new frontier.
It consumes about a third of our life,
and yet we know almost nothing about it.
Is he sick?
Yes, he is suffering from
what we call narcolepsy.
For reasons we don't understand,
he may fall asleep during any activity...
During working,
playing cards, sex.
Perhaps it's his partner.
Well, that is fascinating though.
Oh, everything about
sleep research is fascinating.
We-We touch on dreams,
on insomnia,
yoga, hallucinations,
the causal roots
of schizophrenia.
It's all wrapped up in sleep.
But then, you're just interested in a
run-of-the-mill automobile accident.
Well, I'm not so sure that
it's run-of-the-mill, Doctor.
I really think Michele
Kelly's been m*rder*d.
No! No, please!
I do not think that anyone
could have k*lled Kelly.
She had no enemies, no
jealous boyfriends that I know of.
- She was a schlub.
- A schlub?
How do you spell that, Doctor,
S-C-H-L-U-B or S-H-L-U-B?
I can't be sure. Oh!
She was eager, bright,
but unbearably clumsy.
No, I don't think that anyone
k*lled her intentionally.
Why-Why would you think that?
Because if anyone could blunder out in front
of a fast-moving automobile, it was her.
Ah.
She was always pulling the knobs off of
expensive equipment, spilling bedpans.
She even bumped
into an oscilloscope...
and almost awakened
a sleeping subject.
It almost ruined
an entire study for us.
If she was such a schlub,
Doctor, why did you keep her on?
I try to be a nice guy.
How's it working out, Doc?
- I don't know.
- Mom?
Mom?
I'd
lived in the city a long time,
but I'd never been to the
Chicago Botanical Gardens.
Maybe it was my hay fever or maybe a
premonition of boredom that kept me away.
Whatever it was, the
subject of plant life...
was now beginning to take on
a strong and macabre interest.
Oh, hi, there. I'm Carl Kolchak
of the Independent News Service.
Could I have
a few minutes of your time?
You picked a bad time,
Mr. Kolchak.
The pipe ruptured last night, and
our Podocarpus went without water,
and it looks pretty sick.
That's-That's a shame. Well,
maybe I should come back later.
An hour from now, I have the entire
Ladies Garden Club of Evanston.
And they're always a big
problem, and your problem is...
you're standing in some
of our best horse manure.
Oh. Well, uh,
what I really wanted
to find out was,
what is a Tillandsia usneoi...
Usneoides. It's right
straight ahead of you,
and it'll tell you
everything you wanna know.
Uh-huh. Yeah.
Uh-huh. Tillandsia...
Mm-hmm. Spanish moss.
They say it's found in the
bayou country in Louisiana.
Is, uh... Is there any other
place in Chicago where it'd grow?
Oh, no. It'd be
much too expensive...
to create the hot, wet
growing conditions.
Your tax dollars have bought
the only Spanish moss...
within a radius of...
a thousand miles.
Yeah. Yeah.
Well, nobody would be, uh,
clipping it off on you,
would they?
No, I check it every
morning, and it's all there.
Look, Mr. Kolchak, you can
take the tour anytime you like.
- Yeah.
- But right now, I am really rather busy.
Uh, what's the matter?
Is that your sick Podocarpus?
No.
This inflation is k*lling me,
and these are my tomatoes.
Oh! Terrific.
I blew most of the
day trying to track down some connection...
between the two victims...
Kelly and Chef Piaget.
There was absolutely none that I
could discern, and that baffled me.
When I called into the office, Vincenzo
told me I'd received an important call.
There's a in it, right?
Right. I said yes last night
if the chest is caved in.
Any chest wounds or
does it have to be caved in?
Let's not go into the fine
points. Just tell me what you got.
No. I'll tell you. You'll say it's
not what you want, and it really is.
- Then you won't pay off.
- I'm like Las Vegas. I always pay off.
Now tell me.
- The meat wagon over at St. Vincent's picked up a D.O.A.
- Yeah.
The chest was messed up
pretty bad.
- Where'd they find the body?
- The old Champlain Apartments on Deerborn in the cellar.
- Uh-huh. Uh-huh.
- Guy's name is Bobby Ray Solange.
Yeah. Bobby Ray Solange.
Does he, uh...
Did he have any, uh,
Spanish moss on him?
No. It was garnished
with parsley.
Sheesh!
Hey!
What's the big idea?
- The landlord wants this room closed for keeps.
- Yeah? Why?
Why? Because we got all kinds of kids
coming down here neckin', smokin' cocaine.
Last Thanksgiving, we had a
guy s*ab his girlfriend down here.
Here?
Last night, a hippie
was crushed to death.
Three locks we put on this year.
Enough is enough.
Who are you?
Kolchak, Health Department.
Are you aware that there is a law...
that requires an open basement in
every apartment building with free access?
- Why?
- What do you mean, "Why"?
What, are you getting
technical on me here?
It's a breeding place for
rodents down here. Look at this.
You close the thing off to pedestrian
traffic, gets all hot and steamy down here.
Before you can say "cheese,"
it's rat city.
And look at this.
Fire hazards down here.
People get trapped in here,
the whole place would burn up.
Listen, we've had a complaint
on this place already today.
- Let me see that I.D.
- What's your name? Just what is your name, huh?
- What happened here?
- What happened?
That's what happened. Two
hundred dollars worth of door ruined.
- Ruined?
- Yeah. That mahogany comes from Brazil.
In the 's,
this used to be somethin'.
Uh-huh.
Did you see it happen?
Nah. I'd have hollered
"Cop," wouldn't I?
Must've been
a g*ng att*cked this kid.
You should've seen
what they done to him.
The whole world's gone crazy.
And then they dragged in
some kind of vegetables...
and threw dirty water
all over the floor.
What kind of vegetables?
Green glop.
The cops took it with 'em,
and they're welcome to it.
Green glop, huh? What about the
victim? You know anything about him?
He was a hippie.
Dirty hair, filthy jeans.
- Yeah, yeah.
- Carried a rotten sandwich in his guitar sack.
That's the... That's the
kind, all... Guitar sack?
A broken-up, crummy old thing.
And all around the body on the floor,
there was nickels and dimes and quarters.
Hey, you don't suppose he was
one of them street singers, do you?
Every
large city has its street musicians.
I suppose it says something about us
urbanites that we hardly notice them.
I know I never did.
Always too busy.
But when I had to mix among them, I
began to realize how many there were.
I heard more plinking and twanging
the night of July than I ever wanted to.
Fortunately,
some of it was good.
And in one case, it put me
on the right trail.
Merci. Merci.
- What's the take, Pepe?
- Très bien. Trs bien!
Real good. Ten more bucks, and I
can get another half an hour's studio time.
Okay, here's bucks right
here, right now for anybody...
who can tell me about
Bobby Ray Solange, huh?
- I know Bobby.
- You do?
- Comes from a parish near mine.
- Parish? What do you mean? He's religious, right?
Wrong. Not that kind of parish,
man. A county in Louisiana.
A county in Louisiana? That's
Spanish moss country, isn't it?
I mean, Spanish moss grows down
there. Did you know that Bobby Ray's dead?
Listen, man, I gotta
cut a demo. Take it slow.
Yeah, but is that all...
Is that all I get for my bu...
M'sieur, I know Bobby Ray.
- You know Bobby Ray?
- Oui.
Uh-huh.
- That's all the money I got.
- Merci.
All right, now, what's your
name? Pepe? Start talkin'.
Pepe schmeppy.
My name is Morris Shapiro...
from th Street and
Jerome Avenue in the Bronx.
Morris!
When you're my size and in my line of
work, you gotta do the Pepe La Rue routine.
- Uh-huh.
- The public expects it.
Well, that's very intriguing, Pepe, but do
you know who k*lled Bobby Ray Solange?
Did I come to Chicago in ' to dance on the street?
No. I came to get into
organized crime.
- Were you successful?
- No, I didn't make the height requirement.
But I learned
some things from those guys,
like, uh, don't give
information to somebody...
who might really have dark
blue underwear and a badge.
Well, I'm not gonna show you my
underwear, Morris, but here is my I.D.
- I.N.S. Press, see?
- Mm-hmm.
- Okay?
- Oui.
Now, Solange is a nice kid, but
his friend Langois, you can keep.
Come on. I'll show you
where him and Bobby lived.
You think that Langois
k*lled Bobby Ray Solange?
Paul Langois
has a real bad temper.
Bad and stupid.
Whew!
- And his fiddle playing...
- Yeah?
A dying pig and a kazoo
sounds better.
Come on. Let's go.
So?
Solange and Langois had a
big fight a couple of months ago...
about some broad
back in Louisiana.
- Solange creamed him.
- Yeah?
- Yeah. Langois hates me too.
- Why?
Ah, the same reason.
He feels threatened by me.
I'm always stealing chicks
away from him.
- Well, I can understand that.
- Yeah, sure.
Where is this Paul Langois now?
He disappeared about
a couple of months ago.
Probably got fired... again.
What's the matter,
he can't keep a job?
He couldn't hold
his pants up, this bum.
- They're both Louisianans, huh?
- Mm-hmm.
Yeah, a lot of these poor
Southerners migrated to Chicago.
They were always talkin' about the bayous
and the filé gumbo and the Peremalfait...
- What? The para-what?
- Yeah.
Am I a Cajun?
Some kind of meshugenahlegend.
They were always laughin' about it,
sayin',
"Watch out for Peremalfait!
Peremalfait's
gonna get you!"
That's their idea of a joke.
Hicks. Bumpkins.
Yeah. Listen, I've gotta,
uh... -
Pepe?
Come on, Morris.
Stop playing jokes.
Pepe? Morris!
Morris?
Morris?
"The Constitution of the United
States guarantees to the American people...
"a free and unfettered press.
"From colonial times,
we have enjoyed just that.
An unfettered press
is one thing. However"...
- Carl, let me ask you something.
- Whatever it is, can it wait?
I'm on my way down to
headquarters. It's very important.
Well, this is
very important too.
The Press Club wants me to deliver this
address, and I'd like to get your comments.
Oh, yeah, sure.
Go ahead, Tony. sh**t.
"An unfettered press
is one thing.
- However, there never has
been"... - Where's that cup and cap?
Shh!
Don't restrict yourself to talking. Why
don't you bang some pots and pans around?
Why don't you play
a trombone solo?
Oh, uh, no. "An unfettered
press is one thing."
Go ahead, Tony. It's
very good. I like it. I like it.
"However, there never has
been room in our society...
for yellow journalism, sensational
ballyhoo or inflammatory gimmickry."
- Here's your little beret. Where'd you get that?
- There it is!
- There's what I'm looking for.
- Come on, if it's so important.
- No, you go on ahead, Tony.
- No, no. Come on.
Tell us about that little
miniature hat you've got there.
We all wanna hear about it,
Carl. Come on. Tell us about it.
Well, uh,
this morning at : a.m.,
the police department,
very quietly,
released their prime suspect
in the Piaget m*rder.
Did you know that?
I went to Chez Voltaire last night.
Even the pâté seemed lackluster.
Do you know why...
they released the suspect
with so little fanfare?
Because the police were completely
stumped for another suspect?
Right! But not me.
Look. Look.
What is it, Salvador Dali's
bar mitzvah picture?
Well, I admit that it isn't
really very clear,
but I think it's a picture of Paul
Langois, a Cajun up from Louisiana.
See, this little man
was telling me...
Giving me the entire scam
about Langois,
when suddenly, he disappeared
right in front of my very eyes.
I think he was m*rder*d,
Tony, to silence him.
- A little man disappeared?
- Yeah, but that's not all.
I wonder if I can go on with my speech. I-I
wonder if I should go on with my speech.
Oh, yeah, of course you
should, Tony. Go ahead. I'm sorry.
"There has never been any room
in our society for yellow journalism,
sensational ballyhoo
or inflammatory gimmickry!"
Terrific!
"How many times have we seen
our very own colleagues...
"Our very own colleagues opt for a
whimsical, brass band approach...
"rather than lay the
groundwork for reasoned treatise,
"dealing with real,
gut-level issues of our day?
"Politics, economics,
responsible journalism...
We can never be remiss
in our duties to the people...
who count on what
we tell 'em to believe."
So, why are you laughing
at my photograph here?
So it's a little blurry, huh?
That sh*t shows a m*rder taking place.
Why don't you pick up this guy Langois?
I'd like to pick you up and drop
you right down an elevator shaft!
Oh, and that was beautiful
what you did to poor old Paco!
Some kid let the air out of his
tires, that's all. Why blame me?
- You let the air out of the tires!
- Me?
- Yes, you!
- Whatever happened to "I'm okay, you're okay"?
Well, to tell you the truth,
you're not okay!
The people in group therapy
didn't tell me...
I was ever gonna meet anybody
as un-okay as you are.
Carl, single-handedly, you
have that strange ability...
to take a year and a half of group
therapy and send it right down the drain.
As for your little man... yeah... well, he's
something for the missing persons bureau.
And Paul Langois... Well, we're
way ahead of you on that too.
We tracked him down
through Bobby Ray Solange.
Well, that's terrific. You got him.
Now, what, are you gonna question him?
Oh, well, uh, you see...
I can't wake him up to do that.
- He's asleep.
- Asleep?
Has the heat wilted your
brainpan? Wake him up!
He's got an ironclad alibi.
He's being monitored hours a day
by people and those electric gizmos.
He has been asleep
for over six weeks.
He is a volunteer subject for
a sleep study at the university.
He's asleep?
You'll never guess what Dr. Davis
did in the surgeon's lounge today.
So I went back to my bureau chief.
I told him about your place here,
and he agreed with you completely that there
really is a story in your work over here.
- So I said to him, "Tony, I'm beginning to see your point."
- Oh!
Yeah. So I went down to the
Timesand went into the file room...
to look up what they had written
about your place here.
Well, all I could find
was just...
a little, infinitesimal blurb on
your narcosynthesis program here.
So I've decided to do a whole
feature series of articles on you.
I mean, if it's okay with you.
Well, you can take your
feature series and rotate on it.
Do you take me for some sort of
woolly headed, absentminded intellectual?
I know the score. The
police were already here...
and told me all about Paul
Langois and the murders.
- And?
- I dusted them off quick,
and I'll dust you off
even quicker.
Paul Langois has been
asleep for six weeks.
- Is there any more to be said?
- Yes!
A good number of his friends have been put to
sleep for good. Now doesn't that interest you?
I have never been interested in
the crime genre, in movies or books,
and in real life,
it leaves me even colder.
The only thing that interests
me now is this experiment.
You have kept Paul Langois
asleep for six weeks...
and not allowed him to dream.
- Why?
- To find out what's happened. That is science.
Is he... Is he, uh, dreaming or
REMing or whatever you call it?
Natalie, my pet, will you
go get Danforth, please?
I told you. He's not
being allowed to dream.
That's why I hate talking to laymen.
Look at the E.E.G. Steady delta.
Well, then why are all the buzzers
going off like a racetrack tote board?
We don't really know.
It just happens occasionally.
We'll find out at the conclusion of the experiment.
Ah, Danforth.
Well, I thought Danforth
was a doctor.
About the time
I was getting bounced out on my ear,
Patrolman Warren Lunt, assigned to a
b*at in the South Side's hillbilly ghetto,
was making his nightly sweep along
Dalstrom Avenue in search of undesirables.
He found a most
undesirable way to die.
Ambulance
unit requested immediately.
Officer down on the corner
of Dalstrom and Ravannel.
Roger. Captain Siska,
Unit Bravo Niner requests Forensics
unit, corner of Dalstrom and Ravannel.
Dalstrom Avenue was only
two blocks away from where Morris Shapiro,
alias "Pepe," had been snatched
from in front of my very eyes.
It was definitely clear what was happening
at the Dalstrom Avenue intersection.
The good captain was
presiding over another m*rder,
while the prime suspect slumbered
in the arms of the university.
And from what I had seen
at the sleep lab,
he was not
slumbering peacefully.
Yeah, a lot of these
poor Southerners migrated to Chicago.
They were always talkin' about the bayous
and the filé gumbo and the Peremalfait...
What? The para-what?
Am I a Cajun? Some
kind of meshugenahlegend.
They were always laughin'
about it, sayin',
"Watch out for Peremalfait!
Peremalfait's gonna get you!"
Better. But that last riff
still doesn't do it for me.
- We'll take it again.
- Uh, uh, uh, uh...
And, Gene, a guy named
Kolchak here to see you.
- You wanna rap with him?
- Kolchak.
Pedal steel player
from Mussel Shoals?
- Uh, no, I'm, uh... How
do you push... - Here.
No, I'm the reporter who gave
you bucks the other night...
for a one-liner
on Bobby Ray Solange.
I'm here to pick up the rest
of my dollars' worth.
- Not when studio time costs bucks an hour.
- That's what I told him.
Yeah, well, what is Peremalfait?
I give up.
What is Peremalfait?
Can you believe this? Here I am
bustin' my chops tryin' to cut a b*llet,
and this guy wants me
to tell him bedtime stories.
What do you mean, bed... What
do you mean, bedtime stories?
Peremalfait's the bogeyman.
That creature's lived in them swamps
since before us Cajuns got there, they say.
Uh, bogeyman... Uh, does
he have... I can't work this.
A b*llet is a tune that goes
right to the top. It's a hit.
- Does this Peremalfait have Spanish moss all over him?
- Yeah, yeah.
Look, I'm gonna b*at the drums in here all
day for you, but you're gonna talk to me.
Now, just why do you call
this Peremalfait a bogeyman?
- Peremalfait's supposed to come from the upper bayou regions.
- Yeah.
He's wet, he's covered
with rot and Spanish moss.
When I used to get out
of line when I was a kid,
my mama'd bring me back around
by telling me Peremalfait would get me.
What do you mean, get you?
She said Peremalfait would
squeeze the life right out of me.
And how do you get him?
You have to stick him
with a stick from bayou gum.
Well, thank you very much.
Why don't you and your
bogeyman just boogie on out of here?
And a one, two, three.
And I want you
to put it on the record, Captain,
that I consented to this
under duress.
- Natalie, you're my witness.
- Doc, I want you to give him a second injection.
- I want this man awake!
- Oh!
Well, a dead cop's a lot scarier than
a university's legal department, huh?
Too bad for that motorcycle cop
you didn't make up your mind earlier.
Isn't this debasing enough without
having this ass braying around here?
You know, I'd tend
to agree with you, Doctor,
if I saw my Nobel Prize
going down the shredder.
For the fact remains that your guinea
pig here dreamed five people to death.
I don't have to listen
to this poppycock.
Well, you'd better!
You sent him to a mental level that no
human being has ever been to before.
And somehow, his dreams,
his nightmares...
have created a creature, a legend
from his childhood, named Peremalfait.
I told you. He has not been
dreaming. He wasn't dreaming.
How do you know
he wasn't dreaming?
You yourself told me in there you
didn't understand what was happening.
He was in steady delta.
Get the E.E.G.
No, no, I'll get it.
Steady delta.
No REM, no dream.
Terrific.
Listen, what time did
that motorcycle cop die, huh?
:. I suppose that's got something
to do with this little fantasy of yours.
Yeah, as a matter of fact,
it has. Yeah.
I happened to be right here in this joint at
: tonight when his vital signs went crazy.
Let's see.
June... June...
June . June .
: a.m. Aha! Yeah.
And July ... July ...
at : p.m.
Right here.
What about yesterday?
Yesterday.
There we go, at : p.m.
It was on those times that Honore
Piaget, Bobby Ray Solange...
and a little guy named Morris
Shapiro were probably k*lled.
- Are you gonna bring that little man of yours in here again?
- Yeah!
Isn't it enough to have you come in
through that door, frothing at the mouth...
and screaming about swamp
monsters and dreaming people to death?
I gotta tell you something. Ever
since you've been on this thing with me,
you've been bugging me,
bugging me good!
I want you to know, you're
gratin' on my nerves, Kolchak!
Captain, must we have
this emotional outburst?
- Relax.
- There is something decidedly odd here.
He should be awake.
Paul?
Paul?
Something is very wrong.
I gave him twice the usual
dosage of methamphetamine.
He should be out of it.
Well, if you don't
wake him up, Doc,
then somebody better start whittling
a spear out of bayou gumwood,
because according to legend,
that's the only thing...
that's going to k*ll Peremalfait.
- Will you shut up about that? Now! Right now!
- Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.
Do you hear that?
He heard me. No.
No, not he... it.
It heard me.
It doesn't wanna die. Listen, is this the
subject that Michele Kelly almost woke up?
- Yes, it is.
- What time did she die?
Come on, Siska. What time did
she die? About : on July ?
- :.
- Uh-huh. That's right.
Well, it k*lled her because she was
clumsy, and she almost woke him up.
And that'syour answer!
He isn't dying, is he, Doc?
That assumption's
a bit premature,
but I'll tell you one thing.
I can't wake him up.
Well...
all of his dreams...
and his nightmares are over.
I hope.
- Evening, Bruno.
- How you doing, Carl?
- Gettin' any?
- Gettin' any.
- What happened?
- Leakin' from the roof.
- Uh-huh.
- Plumber will be out tomorrow.
Yeah?
Wanna bet it's next week?
Oh, boy.
Oh, boy.
Carl. Fellas, why don't you
step into my office?
You'll find some drinks
on the tray in there.
Carl, I'm more than a little hurt not
seeing you at the Press Club banquet...
when you knew I was
the featured speaker.
Tony, I'm sorry.
I'm really very, very sorry.
But I was working on a story that's really...
Oh, boy. Listen, how did your speech go?
Oh! Like calamine lotion
in a poison ivy ward.
I got a standing ovation.
- You cut it short, right?
- Right. I was a little relieved to get it over with.
- Oh, then we closed down the Press Club bar.
- No.
- And we closed down Little Dublin.
- Oh, don't...
I'm still celebratin'.
Come on. Why don't you come in?
- No, no, no. Later, later. Let me finish this.
- Okay.
Ron? Good night.
Well,
let's get to work here.
God! Yuck!
What do they got up there
anyway, Bruno?
What's the matter, Carl?
What is it?
That ceiling isn't leaking.
He's been here looking for me.
Peremalfait's been looking for me.
Peremal-what? What are you talkin'
about? What-What is that slop there?
Listen, he's not dead.
He's existing independently
of Paul Langois. He's still alive!
He heard me talk about
that swamp gum tree spear,
and he's come looking for me!
Well, Carl, look. Stay
here. Have a drink. Relax.
What, are you crazy? Stay here and
get k*lled? Are you out of your mind?
Listen, he k*lled Paul Langois
because we were waking him up.
Listen, where in Chicago would you look
for a swamp creature? Where would he live?
He's been workin' too hard.
Ahh!
Hey!
The supportive
evidence for my theory was washed away...
through the Chicago
sanitary canal.
But why call it a theory?
It was really a fact.
How could it possibly happen?
Well, they say that the mystics
of India, while in a trance,
can grow back severed fingers and move
boulders with the power of their minds.
It's documented.
Somehow, Paul Langois,
in his special dream state,
did even more than that.
He created a palpable horror.
When I contacted the sleep lab,
they told me Dr. Pollack had
lost his taste for pure research.
He'd shaved off his beard
and gone back to Long Island...
to work in the family
shoe business.
And what about Paul Langois,
the innocent test subject
of that pure research?
Well, he's just plain dead.
01x09 - The Spanish Moss Murders
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Carl Kolchak is an investigative reporter who would often investigate any activities that are bizarre or supernatural.
Carl Kolchak is an investigative reporter who would often investigate any activities that are bizarre or supernatural.