It all began Tuesday morning, April 3rd, when traffic on East 75th Street was held up for an hour. A stone statue of a woman had been placed in the middle of the street some time during the night. Oddly enough, it was fully clothed. Then another statue turned up, and another after that. Both also had clothes on. Suddenly, I was supposed to report it as "news." Of course, I had no idea of just how newsworthy it would be....
I should introduce myself. Name’s Carl Kolchak. I’m a reporter for the Independent News Service in New York. I had worked out of Chicago until I learned too much about a series of killings at an underground storage facility. Lieutenant Irene Lamont of the Windy City P.D. had a talk with my superiors, who transferred me to Manhattan.
I’ve been here for the past few years, reporting the news and making a general pain in the ass of myself in the eyes of both the NYPD and my bureau chief, Tony Vincenzo. Yes, Tony is here too, after becoming a victim of corporate downsizing. Rather than retire, he accepted the company’s offer to come to New York—completely forgetting that I, too, was here. I’ll never forget Tony’s words when he first saw me again: "Oh my god, no!"
When he gave me the statue assignment, I stormed into Vincenzo’s office to complain. He was in with Howard Kirschenbaum of the INS regional corporate office.
"Carl," Tony exclaimed. "I’m in a meeting."
"Your meeting can wait! This is important."
"The meeting cannot wait. It’s about the next budget. I’m trying to persuade Mr. Kirschenbaum to give us additional funding so we can report more news."
"We haven’t reported the news since the merger went through."
Kirschenbaum asked Vincenzo, "Does he always do this?"
"Carl has a few rough edges."
I smiled. "When they made me, they broke the mold."
"Not into enough pieces," said Kirschenbaum.
Vincenzo laughed. "That’s very good, sir! I’ll have to remember that. Carl, I will talk to you after my meeting. Mr. Kirschenbaum has a plane to catch in two hours."
"Where to?"
Tony exhaled loudly. "Not that it’s any of your business, but L.A."
I turned to Kirschenbaum. "You’re going to L.A. now?"
"What do you mean, now?"
"Surely you heard about the earthquake? I’m surprised LAX is allowing flights to land."
"Anthony, do you know what he’s talking about?"
"No sir, I don’t."
"Well, of course you don’t," I said. "That’s why I’m the reporter. Kirschenbaum, I’d postpone that trip."
"But I’m meeting with the company president!"
"Assuming the earth hasn’t swallowed him up. Where’s the main office located?"
Kirschenbaum told me.
I slapped my forehead. "Ooh! Right at the epicenter. You better face facts, Mr. K: the main office is now a huge pile of rubble."
"Anthony, I have to make a few calls."
"You can do that from here, sir."
"I’d rather do it from my office."
"But my budget...."
"It can wait!" Kirschenbaum ran out the door.
Vincenzo stood up, leaned across his desk, and wagged his forefinger at me. "You...!"
I grinned. "Looks like your meeting’s over. Now about this moronic assignment...."
"What’s moronic about it? This is news."
"Some sculptor with a bizarre sense of humor is not news!"
"It’s human interest. You know, light-hearted."
"The news is not supposed to be light-hearted! Besides, what do you expect me to write?"
"Think of an angle. Did the sculptor carve his initials into the statues? Why did he dress them up in real clothing? Talk to a psychologist, ask why somebody would do such a thing."
"I don’t need to talk to a psychologist. The sculptor is a lunatic with no life, end of story!"
"Look, we both know it’s a bullshit assignment. But as you yourself pointed out, INS is now conglomerate-owned. They don’t want stories that are going to make people think. If we want to keep our jobs, we have to jump through the hoops. So please...write the damned story."
So I wrote the damned story, having no idea of just how far it would take me. But it certainly took me far—much farther than I ever wanted to go.
When I called the 11th Precinct to ask about the statues, the desk sergeant put me through to the officer in charge of the case—Detective Heather Fontayne.
"Whaddaya want, Kolchak?"
"Why’d they put a detective in charge of a prank case?"
"What do you care?"
"Because I’m supposed to write a story about it. Can you tell me anything?"
"Only that some joker is making statues and placing them randomly about the city."
"Is he also dressing the statues up?"
"Yes. They were fully clothed, right down to the underwear."
"Where are the statues now?"
"Evidence locker."
"Can I photograph them?"
"Hell, no!"
"Why not? I won’t touch them, I know they’re evidence."
"Forget it."
Pausing, I said, "Are you trying to hide something?"
"What would I be hiding? It’s a simple case of a sculptor with a weird sense of humor."
"So why is a detective in charge of the investigation?"
"Look, my other line’s ringing."
"Fontay...." But it was too late. She was gone.
By her eleventh birthday, Heather Fontayne was five feet ten inches tall. She started smoking in the hope that it would stunt her growth. It didn’t. When she emerged from adolescence, the future police detective stood at six-feet-two.
And she was quite easy on the eyes. Fontayne stuck out in all the right places and, during her beat days, had filled out her uniform in quite a pleasing manner. Now thirty-six, Heather Fontayne sported a head of long, fluffy blonde hair and had the gentlest brown eyes you’d ever see on a person whose line of work involved frequent visits to the scenes of gruesome deaths. It amazed me that not one guy in high school or college had ever asked her out. Are so many men that shallow and immature that they’d pass on a beautiful, intelligent woman simply because she was tall?
Fontayne kept in shape at the gym and steadfastly refused her fellow officers’ invitations to play basketball, a game she had long despised. She purchased her groceries at New York’s ridiculously high-priced health food stores and refused to let meat pass her lips. If she hadn’t smoked a pack-and-a-half of Benson & Hedges a day, I’d have called her a health nut. Fontayne often referred to me in a similar fashion, although she left out the "health" part.
Wednesday, April 4th, 1:42 a.m. My police scanner awakened me with news of a fourth statue turning up just a few blocks from my apartment building. When I got there, the cops had it cordoned off like a murder scene. Detective Fontayne stood inside the police line, decked out in a tan leather coat and nervously puffing on a cigarette. I called out to her. She sighed, stubbed out the cigarette with her boot, and walked over to me.
"Isn’t it past your bedtime?" she said.
"No sleep in my business."
"Mine, either. Look, you might as well go home. It’s just another statue."
"Can I get a picture of it?"
"I don’t know...."
"Come on! I won’t touch anything."
"Like you didn’t touch anything at last month’s drive-by?"
"It was an accident! How did I know there was a bullet in the chamber?"
"When you find a gun at a crime scene, you damned well leave it alone!"
"How much could that windshield have cost? All the bullet holes you get in your cruisers, you must have a special account with someone."
"That’s not the point!"
"You talked to Vincenzo about me, didn’t you? That’s why he put me on this bullshit assignment." I regarded Fontayne. "Or is it bullshit?"
She lit a fresh cigarette and lifted the "Police Line" tape. "You have exactly thirty seconds to snap your pictures."
The statue was of a middle-aged man, like someone you’d see coming out of a Yuppie nightclub after a hard day of firing people. The sculptor had dressed it up in what looked like a very expensive business suit. He had even placed a a cigar in the statue’s mouth.
But what struck me the most were the eyes. They looked so real, I half-expected them to blink. The sculptor had even given them lashes and brows. If I hadn’t known I was looking at a statue, I’d have sworn it was a real person who had somehow turned to stone.
I smelled cigarette smoke. I turned around and saw Fontayne.
"I told you, thirty seconds."
I snapped my pictures and turned on my hand-held cassette recorder. "Were the other statues all this realistic?"
"No comment."
"Where do you think a ‘starving artist’ got the money to buy such an expensive suit?"
"No comment."
I flicked off the tape deck.
Pausing, Fontayne said, "You know, it’s the eyes that really get you. I mean, does that guy look scared shitless or what?"
"‘Guy’? I thought it was just a statue."
"Well of course it is, but god almighty...."
"Look.... Off the record, why did they put a detective in charge of this thing?"
She took a deep drag from her cigarette. Exhaling, Fontayne said, "Now dammit, you’d better not put my name in your story...."
"Scout’s honor."
"The statues all had wallets on them. The driver’s licenses and Social Security cards all checked out as genuine."
"Oh?"
"Plus, we got a missing persons report this afternoon. The wallet of the individual in question had turned up on the first statue we found. And the statue resembled the photo on the driver’s license."
"Are you telling me our sculptor might also be a kidnapper?"
"Look, I really need you to leave now."
"Or even a murderer?"
"Kolchak, please go!"
I tried to get Fontayne to tell me more, but to no avail. So I went to the newsroom to develop my film. I paid especially close attention to the blow-ups I made of the statue’s eyes. When I showed Vincenzo my story, he actually complimented me on having found such an intriguing angle, and told me to keep it up.
Thursday, April 5th, 3:30 a.m. My police scanner awakened me again, this time with the report of a statue being found at an alley in SoHo. I grabbed my camera and tape deck.
When I got to the locus, the cops were in a shootout—with a reptile. It was about three feet tall and four feet long with the body of a lizard, the wings of a bat, and the head of what looked for all the world like a rooster. When a cop fired his gun at it, the creature looked at him, and its eyes flashed red, at which point, the opfficer turned to stone! I gasped and pulled out my camera.
As I took picture after picture of the fracas, the monster’s eyes flashed red again, and a second cop turned to stone. The cops continued to shoot at the creature, one from point-blank range, but their bullets had no effect. It flapped its wings and flew off into the night.
I ran up to Fontayne. "What just happened?"
"I don’t have time for you!"
"You did see a giant reptile?"
"Just get away from me. Please?"
I did. But before I was halfway up the alley, she called out my name. As I turned around, Fontayne jogged up to me.
"Did you take any pictures back there?"
"No. I arrived too late."
"You’re so full of shit...." She grabbed my camera and exposed the film.
"Goddammit!"
Fontayne gave me back the camera. "Don’t even dream of writing about this."
"A giant reptile?" Vincenzo crumpled up my story. "I should have known that burst of professionalism was too good to last."
"But I saw it! I even took pictures."
"So where are they?"
"Fontayne confiscated my film."
"Story of your life."
"Tell me about it. But she was there, Tony. She saw it happen, too."
"Look, even if it were true, do you think I could send your story out and get away with it? This reads like something out of bad science fiction."
"I know it sounds crazy...."
"It sounds like you forgot to take your Lithium."
"What about Fontayne? Did she forget to take her Lithium?"
"The day Fontayne tells me a chicken-headed snake with bat wings is turning people to stone, that’s the day I’ll retire!"
"Promises, promises. And it wasn’t a snake!"
"Carl...I don’t have time for this. I have to prepare for my re-scheduled budget meeting with Mr. Kirschenbaum—the meeting you sabotaged."
"I’m telling you, those statues used to be real people, but that big lizard thing turned them to stone!"
From behind me, an incredulous voice said, "Big lizard thing?"
It was Kirschenbaum.
Vincenzo said, "You’ll have to excuse us, Carl."
I left the office in disgust, but stopped long enough to walk up to Kirschenbaum and say, "Boo!" He gasped and jumped back several steps.
As I walked away, I heard Kirschenbaum ask Tony, "Why is that man so strange?"
I sat down at my desk and logged onto the Internet. A hunch told me to conduct a search for recent news items about the mysterious appearance of fully-clothed statues in other parts of the world.
My hunch paid off. Just two days before the first statue turned up in New York, six others had appeared in Atlantic City over the period of a week. Before that, a five-day spree of statue placements had occurred in Philadelphia. Preceding that was Baltimore, Washington, D.C., Newport News, and numerous other locales all the way down to the Bahamas.
I got on the phone to several of the newspapers whose archives I had searched. I had the following exchange with an editor in South Carolina:
"The cops down here got missing-persons reports on individuals whose wallets later turned up in the pants pockets of three of the statues. They even found the wallet of a missing cop. The statue they found it on just happened to bear an uncanny resemblance to the officer in question. And it just happened to be wearing her uniform."
"So, how did the matter conclude?"
"When the statues stopped turning up, the police closed the case."
"Did any of the missing persons ever turn up?"
"No."
Next, I drove to the Science Department of Columbia University. When I told the receptionist what I needed, she referred me to Dr. Gerald Corrigan, who specialized in herpetology, the study of reptiles.
In his laboratory, Dr. Gorrigan asked, "Now what in god’s name would a reporter want with me?"
"Well, sir, last night I saw what I’m positive is a reptile of some sort. But it looked like no reptile I had seen before. I was hoping you might be able to identify it."
"Can you describe it for me?"
I did.
Corrigan chuckled. "Well, I must give him credit. Beckwith has really outdone himself!"
"I’m sorry?"
"Come on, Mr. Kolchak, if that’s your real name. Judging from the looks of you, I’d guess you’re a homeless man who needed a few dollars, and along came Beckwith. He took you to a thrift store and bought you those ridiculous clothes. I must say, the hat was a very good touch. Beckwith then fed you this story about your having seen a creature that exists only in European mythology, and sent you over to me."
"No, I really am a reporter! Here’s my I.D."
Corrigan waved his hand. "No need to continue the charade. Beckwith and I have played jokes on each other for years. But I must say, the man truly outdid himself this time!"
He stood up, reached into his pocket, and handed me a ten-dollar bill. "Whatever Beckwith paid you, it wasn’t enough. You did a magnificent job of portraying a nut. But now you really must excuse me. I must show a classroom of self-absorbed nineteen-year-olds how to dissect a snake."
"What about the creature I saw?"
"Ask Beckwith. European mythology is, after all, his specialty."
As I left the lab, I heard Corrigan laugh and say, "Beckwith, old boy, sometimes you really exhibit touches of genius. God, that hat!"
My next stop was the History Department, where I met Dr. Neville Beckwith, a highly cultured gentleman of British ancestry. I decided only to tell him that I had heard of a mythological creature and was looking for its name. Beckwith listened thoughtfully and stroked his grey beard.
"Mr. Kolchak, you’ve described a basilisk."
"A basilisk?"
"Yes. Where on earth did you hear of this creature?"
"What would you say if I told you I saw one?"
"I’d say you were mistaken. The basilisk only exists in mythology."
"So there’s another type of reptile the size of a full-grown collie with the body of a lizard, the wings of a bat, and the head of a rooster?"
"Well, no, but...."
"Dr. Beckwith, I need to know about this basilisk."
"All right. According to legend, a basilisk is born when a serpent hatches the egg of a hen. The basilisk is said to be a creature of Satan that looks exactly like what you described. There were different varieties of it, although. Some shot fire from their eyes, while others turned human beings to stone."
I shot to my feet. "That’s it!"
"What’s it?"
I composed myself and sat back down. "I’m sorry. Please forgive me for interrupting."
Dr. Beckwith regarded me. "Are you all right, old chap?"
"Oh, yes. I’m fine. One question, though: how would a basilisk find its way to present-day New York?"
"It wouldn’t! The basilisk does not exist. Do you realize, the last official basilisk hunt was conducted in the U.K. in 1587?"
I muttered, "They obviously missed one."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Does legend say how to kill a basilisk?"
"Three things are anathema to it: the weasel, its own reflection, and the crowing of a cock. If a basilisk sees its reflection in a mirror, it will turn to stone. Poetic justice, I dare say. Also, the basilisk will immediately die if it hears the crowing of a cock. Finally, the weasel and the basilisk are mortal enemies. The mere sight of one was said to throw the weasel into a blind rage. It would attack the basilisk and not cease the pugilism until one of them had expired."
"Is there any particular place a basilisk might be found?"
"It’s attracted to fresh water."
"In New York?"
Beckwith’s eyes narrowed. "Mr. Kolchak, I take my research quite seriously. If you wish to make jokes, I suggest you try the local comedy club on open-mike night. And be sure to bring a roll of paper towels for the inevitable onslaught of tomatoes and eggs."
I laughed. "That’s very good! Well, Dr. Beckwith, I thank you very much for your help. And so does Dr. Corrigan."
"Corrigan? What does he have to do with this?"
"I’m his latest prank! My name’s not really Carl Kolchak and I’m not really a reporter. I am, in fact, a member of New York’s burgeoning homeless population. Dr. Corrigan found me asleep on a park bench. For the price of a bottle of inexpensive wine, I agreed to wear these ridiculous clothes and tell you the story Dr. Corrigan fed me."
Beckwith burst out laughing. "That blighter! And I thought you were serious. Oh, how could I have thought so? I mean, those godawful clothes....and the hat is absolutely wonderful! Corrigan has truly outdone himself. How will I ever get back at the blackguard?"
I stood up to leave.
"Wait! How much did you say he paid you?"
"One bottle of Thunderbird."
"Corrigan is quite the miser. Here, take this." Beckwith handed me a twenty. "You earned every penny, old man."
"Why, thank you, sir! And if I can be of any assistance in your getting back at Dr. Corrigan, just look for me in Central Park. I’ll be the man with the funny hat asleep on a bench.""
It was decades since the East River could legitimately be called "fresh water." It was, however, the closest we had to it.
Right after sunset, I parked not far from the Queens Tunnel and opened the back door of my car. I pulled out a foot-high mirror, which I tied around my neck with clothesline. Then out came my two new animal friends. I picked up their cages and walked toward the riverbank. As I did so, a car horn beeped and a man’s voice called out to me.
"Hey, buddy!"
I turned around and saw a cop behind the wheel of his partol car.
"Hi there," I said.
"What’s with the get-up?"
"I’m a performance artist."
"Performance artist?"
"Yes! This is my new piece. I call it The Chicken, the Weasel and the Mirror. It symbolizes the duality of mankind’s ongoing symbiotic struggle with existential oneness."
"How come you’re doing it here, where nobody can see you?"
I sighed. "The proletariat will never understand high art."
"Well, I sure as hell don’t. All right, buddy, carry on." He drove off.
I climbed over the guardrail and slowly made my way down the steep riverbank. I lost my footing and yelped as I slid down the embankment. The weasel and the chicken screeched as I lost my grip on their cages. I stopped a few feet from the water and quickly located my animals. Their cages were still intact.
"Sorry about that, fellas."
I checked the mirror. It had not been damaged in the fall. Once the animals had calmed back down, I picked up their cages and walked along the riverbank. It didn’t take long for the smell to compel me to breathe through my mouth, which soon dried out. I put the cages down, removed my hat, wiped the perspiration from my forehead, and sat in the bone-dry dirt.
"Tell me, boys: ever imagine you’d find yourselves hunting a creature no one has believed in since the 16th century?"
They didn’t reply.
I picked the cages back up and resumed my walking. After a couple of hours, I was sweat-covered and my shoulders ached, so I gave up for the night. I drove to the INS to drop off the cages, then went home.
Friday morning, April 6th. I had barely walked into the office when Vincenzo stormed up to me. It didn’t help that the chicken was crowing rather loudly.
"Kolchak! What is this?!"
"Looks like a chicken and a weasel. Why?"
"What are they doing in my newsroom?!"
"Why do you assume I brought them here?"
"Why do I assume that water is wet?"
"I couldn’t take them home with me. My building has a no-pets policy."
"Well, their screeching scared the pants off the poor cleaning woman! She ran off the job and told the agency she’d never come back. Thanks to your antics, INS will remain filthy unless we can persuade the agency to send a replacement! Why do you even need these animals?"
"They’re for killing a basilisk."
"For what?"
"That creature I saw? It’s called a basilisk. I need the chicken and the weasel to destroy it before it turns more people to stone."
Vincenzo took a deep breath. "I’ve tried for a good, long time to understand you. But in all the years we’ve known each other, I’ve failed miserably in that goal."
I heard a familiar voice behind me. "What’s to understand? The man is a certifiable lunatic."
It was Kirschenbaum.
"Hey, Howie!" I pointed at the weasel. "Your uncle, here, was just asking about you."
Vincenzo’s face went scarlet. He was about to say something, but the rooster acted up again.
"Will you shut that thing up?"
"I don’t know how."
"Then get it out of here! And take the damned weasel with you, too. This is a newsroom, not a petting zoo!"
I gave him a strange look. "Only you would think of a weasel and a chicken as petting-zoo fare."
"Out!!!"
As I picked up the cages, I heard Kirschenbaum ask Tony, "Why in god’s name do you keep him around?"
"Extreme masochism," my boss replied.
My subsequent visit to Heather Fontayne was similarly fruitless. After much cajoling on my part, we talked in her office with the door closed and the blinds drawn.
"All right," she said, "let’s get to the point. I know why you’re here, and you might as well forget it."
"How can I forget it? For that matter, how can you? We both saw that basilisk turn two cops to stone."
Fontayne opened a window and placed her fan backward in front of it. She lit a cigarette and exhaled into the fan blade so the smoke was sucked outside. "As far as the department is concerned, the events of two nights ago never occurred."
"Never occurred?! Dammit, Fontayne, that thing has turned people to stone all the way up the Eastern Seaboard! If we don’t stop it now, it’ll make its way into New England and probably up to Canada."
She took another drag and exhaled into the fan blade. "I just told you our official position. If you have a problem with it, take it up with the chief. Actually, take it up with the mayor’s office. Giuliani himself issued the gag order."
I sighed. "You know something? If you people ran the State Department, we’d be at war with Iowa."
10:00 p.m. I returned to the river. As I neared the bottom of the embankment, I heard a female voice calling from the street.
"Kolchak! Are you down there?"
"Fontayne?"
"Yeah!"
"What are you doing here?"
"Let me come down so we can stop shouting."
Moments later, she stood in front of me. Fontayne was ruggedly dressed in hiking boots, bluejeans, and a loose-fitting sweater. She also had her gun in its holster and a mirror in her left hand.
I was incredulous. "You’re joining me?"
"If I hadn’t seen that.... What’d you call it again?"
"Basilisk."
"If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, you’d be in Bellevue now." She held up her mirror. "You did say I’d need this?"
I nodded. "These cages are damned heavy. Long as you’re here, why don’t you take one?"
We walked for what seemed like miles. Suddenly, the weasel stirred in its cage. It screeched wildly and threw itself against the wire-mesh walls.
Fontayne set the cage down and stepped away from it. "What the hell’s going on?"
"Let him out! The basilisk is here!"
She unlocked the cage door. The weasel scrambled out and jumped into the river. It went below the surface and did not come back up.
Fontayne grinned. "I think our friend just committed suicide."
But he hadn’t, at least not yet. The surface broke and the basilisk emerged! The weasel hung from the monster’s neck by its razor-sharp teeth. I turned my head away and looked in Fontayne’s direction. She stared, mesmerized, at the spectacle.
"Don’t look," I shouted.
Fontayne turned to face me instead. I positioned my mirror so that I could watch the fight. The weasel still biting into it, the basilisk flapped its wings and flew to shore not ten feet from me and Fontayne. Now that the weasel was on solid ground, it really tore into its foe.
I turned to the rooster. "Crow, dammit!"
But the bird remained silent, oblivious to the evil just a few yards to its right.
The fight continued for what seemed an eternity. Then all was silent. I looked into the mirror and saw the weasel hanging limply from the basilisk’s beak. The monster jerked its head to the right and flung the weasel away. The dead beast landed in the river and quickly floated downstream. Fontayne and I held up our mirrors.
I shouted at the rooster, "Why the hell don’t you crow?!"
It still made no sound.
The basilisk flapped its wings and flew toward me. I dropped to the ground, shattering my mirror against a rock. As I sat back up, I heard Fontayne scream. The basilisk was on top of her. Fontayne drew her gun and fired several shots into it. The monster didn’t even flinch.
I jumped onto the basilisk and tried to wrench it off of Fontayne. But the creature was strong. It threw me off its back and into the river. I emerged seconds later, relieved that Fontayne was not yet a statue. As I sloshed up the bank, I spotted Fontayne’s mirror several feet from the struggle. I scooped it up in my left hand and grabbed the baslilsk’s head with my right. When it saw itself in the mirror, the creature turned to stone.
I pushed it off of Fontayne and helped her to her feet. We both stared at what had just a moment before been one of Satan’s minions, and instinctively fell into each other’s arms.
Then, and only then, did the rooster crow. I glared at the bird and repressed an urge to throw it in the river, cage and all.
I wrote the story, knowing full well that Vincenzo would never print it. I was right. As far as the INS and the NYPD were concerned, the events of that week were simply the work of a sculptor with a morbid sense of humor. But Heather Fontayne and I both knew better.
From time to time, she visits the evidence locker, where the statues remain. She looks at them and cries in desperation, longing to tell her story but knowing she never can.
I know exactly how she feels. The basilisk is a secret Fontayne and I will share for as long as we remain in the Big Apple. And its memory will haunt us both much longer than that.