Manhunt. Volume 14, Number 1, February/March, 1966

An assistant D.A. appeared when the police learned the identity of the murdered man. He had registered as Richard Carter.

The police in several states knew him as Rocco Cavoli.

Mrs. Maule was a widow. It left her with a great deal of free time and nothing to do but gossip, stroke the fur of her cat, or go to the movies. Tonight she had seen a musical and she nervously hummed the tunes from it as she hurried home along the deserted street. The night was sultry and she carried her coat over her arm.

She felt much better when she had unlocked her door and switched on the lights. She turned on the fan and went into the kitchen to make coffee. While she waited for the coffee to percolate she put away the dishes she had left on the sink to drain.

It was then that she looked out of the kitchen window and saw a blaze of light from the vacant lot adjacent to her own property.

It was a fire.

Mrs. Maule quickly laid down the saucer in her hand and ran out into the backyard. She fumbled in the dark for the pail and filled it from the water faucet. As she ran towards the vacant lot water from the pail sloshed on her dress but she was not conscious of it.

The fire came from a mound in the center of the lot and although it burned fiercely it did not spread. Hurriedly she emptied her pail. The water made an arc through the flames and suddenly Mrs. Maule jumped back.

“Oh my God!” she wailed.

Outlined in the fire was a human head the color of charcoal and as the water sizzled all the hair fell out. A blackened tongue protruded from the mouth and then the flames closed over it.

Two fire extinguishers were used up before the fire could be put out. The odor of burnt flesh and clothes was very strong.

Mrs. Maule had to be given a sedative.

It was not until a week later that the police were able to identify the thing in the vacant lot.

His name was Frank Misano.

The Black Cat was just beginning to fill up when Carl Rieger came in and sat down at the bar.

Behind the bar, Joseph smiled and laid down the glass he had been wiping. “Good evening, Mr. Rieger.”

Carl nodded. “Give me a double scotch and soda. Is Dunn around?”

“Not yet, Mr. Rieger. He should be in very soon.” Joseph only laced the scotch with carbonated water.

“You know how I like it,” said Carl.

Joseph smiled. “That’s my business.”

“I’ll be in a booth. Tell Dunn I want to see him when he comes in.”

Carl took his drink and sat in the booth so he could see anyone coming in. He wiped his damp face with a handkerchief and his hand came in contact with the gun strapped under his arm. His left eye twitched nervously.

There was a brunette sitting on the bench with the pianist. She was going over the music.

Carl finished the scotch and signaled to Joseph who served him another from a silver tray. Fifteen minutes passed before Harvey Dunn folded his large frame and slid into the seat opposite Carl.

“ ’Lo, Harv.”

Harvey Dunn did not smile. “What can I do for you, Carl?”

“Nothing. Just making my rounds. This is my last night in L.A. for awhile.”

“Oh? Where are you going?”

Carl shrugged. “Mexico. South America. My first stop is Acapulco.”

“Nice climate down there.”

“Yeah. I guess you heard about Frank and Rocco.”

“Everybody has, Carl.”

Carl licked his lips. “They were too hot I guess.”

Harvey Dunn shook his head. “You know it wasn’t the syndicate.”

Carl looked at him suspiciously. “I do?”

“Funny coincidence you three guys here the night I lose my singer, and now there’s just you.”

“You talk too much.”

“She was a nice kid, Carl.”

Carl lit a cigar and blew a smoke ring. “They’re all nice,” he said. “Well, I guess I’ll see you around.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean?”

Harvey Dunn smiled and rubbed his hawk-nose. “Just that you’re the last.”

“Go to hell,” said Carl. But he shivered as he said it.

When he left, Harvey Dunn was still sitting there with a smile on his face.

Outside, the smog and fog had mingled in a dark haze that formed a heavy layer over the street. Carl spat on the sidewalk and threw his cigar in the gutter. He walked to the parking lot and slid behind the wheel of his sedan.

Too late, he realized that someone else was in the car and there was a long moment as he froze, afraid to turn his head. He could hear who ever it was breathing. His eyes twitched nervously. There was the gun under his coat but he could not move. He heard a loud, rasping sound and finally realized that it was his own breathing. He smiled faintly. It had been his imagination. There was no one in the back seat. He turned to make sure and saw the hand with the ice pick.

Carl threw his hand up in defense and the long point of steel pierced the webbing of skin between the thumb and index finger. The shriek that tore past his lips was cut off as the ice pick descended again and plunged into his throat. He gagged and his tongue slithered out of his mouth like a huge red worm.

“Thank you, Mr. Rieger. Now I’m finished.”