Kolchak The Night Strangler by Richard Matheson, Jeff Rice

beginning to form before my eyes. Goddamn hills!
    Way up ahead the figure of a man in a dark overcoat and hat leaped down into what appeared to be a pit. We got there only a few steps behind and discovered a flight of stone steps off to the side of the street. I scrambled down the steps between several oversized minions of the law and tripped, sending the two behind me sprawling. One of them kicked me as he got up. Trouser leg number two: finished.
    By the time I caught up, motorcycles had entered the fracas. I was following the action now and I didn’t know where I was or what direction I was running in. All I knew was that my camera was still unbroken and I was sure as hell going to get some photos of whoever we were chasing to shove down Vincenzo’s gullet.
    In an alleyway—I’m not sure where—we had him surrounded and up against a fence. The first cop swung his riot stick at the man’s head, but the man blocked it nicely and drove him into the ground with one well-placed punch. Two more cops moved in, grabbed his arms, and lifting him off the ground, slammed him high into a nearby wall, scattering garbage and curses which echoed up and down the alley. Four more officers moved in from behind me and I noticed one had a pump-action shotgun. But no shots were fired because they already had their man.
    I moved in and began to shoot my pictures. One of the officers tried to push me back but I brushed him aside. They were blocking my view, but I moved in anyhow. They had his arms pinioned but he was in the shadows and I couldn’t see much at all. Unfortunately, his legs were free. He caught me with a kick in the stomach and I went sprawling, still trying to hang onto my camera and my dinner, hastily gobbled at the library. I could taste the egg salad sandwich all over again. And blood. I must have landed on my face. Par for the course.
    By the time I’d gotten to my feet the fight had somehow turned. One officer came flying my way and I shot a photo of him landing on one shoulder between two garbage cans. Shotgun moved in but hesitated because one of his partners was blocking his firing line. Not for long. Our suspect finished him off with a one-two combination that dropped him in his tracks and then he leaped over the cop’s prone body and grabbed shotgun’s weapon, smashing it across his head.
    All of a sudden I was standing there alone, with a lot of sirens and lights behind me and a lot of cops unconscious or dead in front of me. And here came old Mr. Death for this poor old reporter. I was about ready to pass out, but I brought up the camera once more and got off one shot just as he lunged.
    The strobe must have startled him, because I had just enough time to sidestep him as two more cops charged into the mouth of the alley firing their pistols. They weren’t waiting for me to get out of the way, so I hit the ground, still cradling my camera.
    Our quarry picked up a garbage can in each hand and hurled them at the cops, then turned and raced for the fence, vaulting over it in seconds. He didn’t appear to have been hit but I couldn’t be sure. I had been lying face down in a puddle of muck in the center of the alley.
    I got to my feet and discovered I was the only one moving in the alley. Those cops who remained were just lying about. They weren’t moving but several were bleeding profusely. I took several shots in rapid succession and then moved off toward the mouth of the alley. When I found my way to the street there was a group of policemen standing around three motorcycle patrolmen, scratching their heads. The squawk boxes on the cycles kept up a scratchy racket.
    “Where’d he go?”
    “ I didn’t see anyone! I thought you had him. Get some meat wagons up here. We’ve got a lot of injured lying around.
    “I never saw anything like this,” said one baffled sergeant.
    I asked him, “Where could the guy go? You had this place sealed, didn’t you?”
    “Who the hell are you? What’re you doing