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 ofJuly...
would say that was so...
if they were still alive.
Michele Kelly, age 25, was one of those people.
Apsychology graduate student and a lab assistant,
she was hurrying at 10:45 p. m., the night ofJuly 3,
to get offherjob early in order to catch the last plane to suburban NewJersey.
Good-bye.
Michele was rushing because she was anxious to spend...
the long 4th ofJuly 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 1040. Address:99717 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 murdered, and he lookedjust 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 - 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?
L- 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 murdered.
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.
Apatron saint to the gourmet set had been killed.
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 attack 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 weapon Mr. Clementi used to inflict those blows.
What wounds? What blows? There was no blood there.
And 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, and 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'tjust been murdered.
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 murder 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 2,000 Kellys, 18 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 murder of a chef.
But the big strikeout that night was made by Bobby Ray Solange.
Age:22. Occupation: Would-be superstar.
But at 11:00 the night ofJuly 6,
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 18 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?
Oh, 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 murdered.
No! No, please!
I do not think that anyone could have killed 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 killed 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?
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 ofboredom 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 killing 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 20 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 stab 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 '30s, 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 gang attacked 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 ofJuly 9 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? Tres bien. Tres bien!
Real good. Ten more bucks, and I can get another half an hour's studio time.
Okay, here's 10 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 10 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 160th 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 killed Bobby Ray Solange?
Did I come to Chicago in '38 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 killed 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.
So 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 file gumbo and the Peremalfait-
What? The para-what? Yeah.
Am I a Cajun?
Some kind of meshugenah legend. 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?
"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"-
Oh, Carl, let me ask you something. Tony, 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. Shoot.
"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 yellowjournalism, sensational ballyhoo or inflammatory gimmickry. '"
- Oh, here's your little beret. Where'd you get that? - There it is!
There's what I'm looking for. Well, 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 6:00 a. m., the police department,
very quietly,
released their prime suspect in the Piaget murder.
Did you know that?
I went to Chez Voltaire last night. Even the pate 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 murdered, Tony, to silence him.
A little man disappeared? Yeah, but that's not all.
I wonder if I can go on with my speech. L- 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, responsiblejournalism-
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 shot shows a murder 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.
And, 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 24 hours a day by people in 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 Times and 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, infinite, dismal 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 beat 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 murder,
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 file gumbo and the Peremalfait-
What? The para-what?
Am I a Cajun? Some kind of meshugenah legend.
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 10 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 60 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 bullet,
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 bullet 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 beat 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 ofhere?
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?
8:30. 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 8:30 tonight when his vital signs went crazy.
Let's see. June-June-
June 5.June 5.
2:00 a. m. Aha! Yeah.
And July 6- July 6...
at 11:00 p. m.
Right here. What about yesterday?
Yesterday. There we go, at 10:00 p. m.
It was on those times that Honore Piaget, Bobby Ray Solange...
and a little guy named Morris Shapiro were probably killed.
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?
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 kill 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 11:00 on July 3?
11:00. Uh-huh. That's right.
Well, it killed her because she was clumsy, and she almost woke him up.
And that's your 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.
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 killed? Are you out of your mind?
Listen, he killed 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.