(Crime reporter Carl Kolchak, speaking in voiceover)

I might not get another chance to tell this story, and most likely you’ll never read about it, so here goes. Sunday morning, Oct. 15, 4 a.m. I’m standing outside the St. Elijah, a Russian Orthodox church in the Karaköy district. The door to the church is locked, and the headlights of a taxi are flashing as the vehicle fast approaches. Your beloved reporter might be ready for his last rites.

They say Istanbul is a city where East meets West. It’s also a city where life meets death, often in the most bizarre and inexplicable ways …

###

Wednesday, Oct. 4, 10 p.m. Traffic is murder in this city, as Cemal Akdoğan was soon to find out. The 52-year-old Akdoğan worked for the Karaköy belidiye for three decades, and was looking forward to retirement. It would come a lot sooner and more permanently than he thought. As he was walking along Kemeraltı Caddesi on his way home, he was suddenly struck by a passing taxi. It only grazed the municipal worker, knocking him to the pavement. To his horror, the yellow taxi screeched to a halt, backed up and hit him again, this time finishing the job.

When Akdoğan was discovered by a passing eskici a couple of hours later, the body was so badly mangled that even the junkman would have been hard-pressed to find anything left to load onto his wagon.

Two nights later, a colleague of the late Mr. Akdoğan, 24-year-old Özlem Karaman, was walking to the metro in nearby Sisli. Özlem was a pretty young office assistant who’d studied dance at university. That night would prove to be her last waltz. As was caught by a nearby street camera, Ms. Karaman was crossing the street when out of nowhere, a yellow taxi plowed into her, killing her instantly.

Sunday, Oct. 8. Servet Büyük, a 35-year-old city attorney, was returning home from watching a Galatasaray football match. The team had come away with a win, but for Mr. Büyük, it was time to be sent off. As they crossed the flat Galata Bridge, a yellow taxi swerved and flattened the unfortunate attorney, crushing his skull against the pavement.

###

The INS office sits just off Istiklal Caddesi. Rising rent prices in recent years, as well as terror attacks, have driven many businesses away from this once-thriving heart of the city’s cultural center. My editor Tony Vincenzo is a man who generally thrives under adversity by passing said adversity on to his reporters.

“Kolchak! Where is that story on Turkish soap operas? Do I have to drag it out of you?” Vincenzo was standing over my desk, clutching a fish sandwich.

“Tony,” I said. “What do you have me doing this stuff for? Can’t you give it to Uptight? I’m mean, Updike.”

Ron Updike, a rather squirrel-faced, dapper colleague of mine, cast an offended look from his nearby desk.

“I’m the editor, Kolchak!” Vincenzo huffed, between bites of his sandwich. “I decide who covers what around here. Besides, I’ve got Updike working on the visa row between the U.S. and Turkish consulates.”

“Ah, I see,” I said. “All we need is Uptight. That oughta smooth things over.”

“I heard that,” Updike said. “I’ll have you know, Kolchak, that both the American and Turkish specifically requested I cover the story. Or rather, that you did not.”

“Well, I’ve always been a man without a country,” I said. “While you, Updike, have always been a man without a –“

“Alright, enough already,” Vincenzo interrupted. “Listen, Kolchak. I want that Turkish soap opera story on my desk by 5 o’clock.”

“If it’s drama you’re looking for, what about these taxi murders?” I asked.

“Forget it, Kolchak!” Vincenzo fixed me with his dyspeptic glare. “I’m still getting grief over that Invisible Hand story. I mean, did you have to write that the guy was killed nearly instantly, yet could still face jail time or be committed to an asylum?”

“You always say the Turkish justice system is screwed up,” I said. “I just meant that perhaps in this case the punishment could be quite severe.”

“Send the guy to jail after he’s dead? Commit his corpse to an asylum?”

“Stranger things have happened, Tony.”

“Yeah, sure, Kolchak. Anyway, the soap opera story. On my desk. 5 o’clock! Or you’ll be the one that finds there are worse things than death.”

“Ah, Tony, I’ve known that ever since we first met.”

“Out!”

###

I didn’t need Vincenzo’s prompting. Out on the streets, people were on their way to work. The sounds of car horns and over-worked engines filled the air. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to compare notes with Omer Uysal, a local reporter with one of the Turkish newspapers. These days, the cops here are convinced your beloved Kolchak is some kind of CIA spy or worse, so they’re not talking to me much.

“So what are the police saying about these taxi murders?” I asked. We were having coffee and simit at a cafe on the Karaköy waterfront, not far from where the killings occurred.

“Not much, as usual, Kolchak,” Omer answered. “Ever since a number of police were sacked and jailed after the coup attempt last year, they have been a little on the defensive, especially towards the press.”

“Well, a lot of journalists were sacked and jailed, too,” I said.

“You are right. And now there’s this row over the arrest of a Turkish staff member at the U.S. Consulate,” Omer went on. “These taxi murders are kind of being pushed under the rug, as you say.”

“You mean under the Turkish rug. Do they have any suspects yet?”

“Well, taxi drivers obviously. But it’s not clear if it is the same taxi driver, or different ones. They are checking the street cameras, hoping to get a license plate that can be traced. But listen, Kolchak. There is something else that the police have not released.”

“What’s that?”

“According to one of my sources, the bodies all three of the victims were said to have had an unusual scent. A kind of perfume-y scent.”

“So?”

“What was unusual is that they all had the same perfume scent. As if someone had sprayed it on them intentionally.”

“So you think the scent could be some kind of clue as to the killer’s identity?” I asked.

“It’s possible.”

The thing was to find the source of this scent. I needed to get to one of those bodies, or at least to their clothing. If I could secure a garment, or even just a snippet of it, perhaps a local fashionista could help identify it. At the coroner”s office, we were told that the personal belongings were at the police station, filed as evidence.

I had an idea. At this particular police station, they didn’t know me, so I had Omer do the introductions.

“This is Anthony Bourdain, the world-famous gourmand,” Omer said, in Turkish. “You may remember he did some TV episodes about Turkish cuisine a few years ago.”

“This is Anthony Bourdain?” the precinct clerk asked. He was a young guy who you could tell didn’t have the slightest clue who Anthony Bourdain was.

“Yes, the great Anthony Bourdain!” I said. “I’m here in Istanbul to do a follow up episode on the police. What are the preferred dishes of our brave young men and women in blue? I’m thinking of calling it, “A Taste of Justice – A La Turk!”

Turks, of course, take just pride in their cuisine. The young clerk was obviously flattered.

“Can I see your cafeteria?” I asked.

“Of course,” the clerk said. “Right this way.”

Our plan was to have me take the guided tour of the mess hall, and while everyone was distracted, Omer could slip into the evidence room and get a piece of the garment. Downstairs in the cafeteria, I was treated like a celebrity, and I was invited to taste the day’s menu: lentil soup, with the inevitable Turkish kofte and potatoes, baklava for dessert.

“How is it?” the chef asked, anxiously awaiting my reaction. Then Omer appeared in the doorway, giving a thumbs-up sign.

“Çok güzel!” I said. “Anyway, I’ll be in touch soon! Teşseküller! Çok sağol! Hadi bye-bye!”

###

Our charade may have left a bad taste in my mouth, but it worked. Omer had managed to secure a t-shirt, which we then took to a nearby department store. At the perfume counter, a woman looked at us very dubiously, and even more so at the shirt (can’t really blame her, since it had blood stains on it). She handed the t-shirt over to her manager, an older woman who had been watching us closely.

“I see you’re looking at my suit,” I said, tipping my trusty baron hat.

The manager frowned. “That suit looks like it has seen better days.”

“Haven’t we all. Anyway, can you tell us what perfume that could be?”

“It smells like White Rose,” she said. “Yes, unmistakably. It’s a very classic scent.”

“Do you know where it’s from?” Omer asked.

“It was originally produced in London, at the beginning of the last century. Nowadays it is based in Italy.”

“Is there anything unusual about it, would you say?” I asked. The woman understood English fairly well.

“Unusual? Well, let’s see … Yes, it was the the preferred fragrance of Alexandra Feodorovna?”

“Who’s that, if I may ask?”

“She was the Empress of the last Russian Czar, Nicholas the Second.”

“Well, thank you very much.”

At that moment, a security guard appeared, and said something in Turkish. I gathered that he didn’t like the looks of us, or rather, me.

“You will go now,” he said, pointing toward the exit.

“Keep your shirt on,” I said. “We’re leaving.”

###

I thanked Omer for his help and went over to the INS office. Miss Emily, our elderly advice and puzzles columnist, was at her desk.

“What do make of this, Kolchak?” she asked. “A reader writes, “Dear Miss Emily, my ex-boyfriend keeps hanging around outside the office where I work harassing me. My boss says either he goes or we both go. What should I do?”

Before I could answer, Vincenzo came bursting out of his office, a napkin tucked into his shirt.

“That’s a question I’ve been thinking about,” Vincenzo said. “Kolchak, where the hell have you been? Where’s my soap opera story?”

“Smell this, Tony,” I said, shoving the t-shirt under his nose.

“What the hell is that? Your dirty laundry?”

“My, my, that’s White Rose,” Miss Emily said. “I know that scent. An old woman in my apartment building wears it. Russian lady, really sweet, a bit you know …”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “You have a Russian neighbor?”

“Yes,” Miss Emily said. “She’s one of the last of the White Russian émigrés still around. She must be nearly a hundred years old. She has a grandchild who looks after her.”

“Would it be possible to ask her a few questions, you think?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Kolchak, you’re not telling me that you’ve got time to waste talking perfume with Alzheimer-ridden widows!” Vincenzo burst in.

“Tony, listen,” I said. “This t-shirt belonged to one of the victims in those taxi murders. All of the victims had this scent, this White Rose scent. A scent that was said to be the preferred perfume of the Russian Empress Alexandra Feorodovna, the Czar’s wife!”

“You don’t mean to tell me that you’re on those taxi murders, Kolchak. I already told you, I don’t want you out there stirring up the police. We’ve got enough trouble already!”

“But there has to be a connection! Wait!” Suddenly I recalled a story that we’d carried a while back. “You remember that story about the proposed demolition of that Russian Orthodox church? What was it called? Saint Mary’s? Saint Anthony’s? No, no. It was – St. Elijah!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Vincenzo said. “The Karaköy municipal authorities announced a proposal to demolish the church and redevelop the site. So what? This city has construction fever. What else is new?”

“I’ll tell you what’s new, Tony!” I said. “All of the victims worked for the belidiye, right? So that’s it! Whoever is behind these murders is somebody who’s opposed to the church demolition. And the perfume, the White Rose, is their M.O.”

“Holy Sweet Mother of God, Kolchak!” Vincenzo cried, tearing the napkin from his shirt. “I suppose you’re going to tell me now that the ghost of some Russian czar, or some White Russian soldier, who came to Istanbul as an émigré in the 1920s and found work as a taxi driver has come back to haunt the city? We’ve got some ex-Czarist-turned-cabbie killer on the loose? Please don’t tell me you’re saying that, Kolchak! Really, ‘cuz I swear –“

“It’s true that many White Russians came here in the 1920s to escape the Bulsheviks,” Miss Emily intervened. “Most of them only stayed temporarily. But my neighbor Miss Katerina, her family stayed here. I think she said her husband worked as a concierge in the Pera Palace Hotel for a short time.”

“I don’t care if he was made a eunuch of the Sultan, Miss Emily!” Vincenzo said. “And as for you, Kolchak! I’m your editor. I assign the stories! And for the last time, I’m telling you, don’t give me ghost stories or conspiracy theories! Give me that story on Turkish soap operas!

“Baahhh, soap operas!” I shouted, turning and grabbing my hat, notebook and camera. “I’ll give you a soap opera, Tony! It’s called ‘As The Reporter Turns And Walks Out the Door!’”

And out I went.

###

That evening I tried to watch one of the Turkish soap operas, “What Was Fatmagul’s Fault?,” a show said to be popular in over a dozen countries. The basic premise of the show was that this girl, Fatmagul, was raped by this guy, and now they were getting married. Perhaps it’s a matter of taste, or my bad Turkish, but I soon found myself asking, “What Was Kolchak’s Fault?” How did I deserve this assignment?

I decided to take a walk and clear my thoughts. My walk carried me over to the Karaköy district. I stopped and looked out at the vast city, the lights glowing in the Bosphorus. Just then, I heard the sound of a car approaching. It was a yellow taxi. The headlights flashed as the car bore down. Luckily, I was able to dive out of the way just in time. The car passed, and its tires screeching, it did a U-turn and once again came hurtling down the street. This time I was able to discern a curious thing: There was nobody behind the wheel! The car appeared to be driving itself!

People tease me nowadays about the fact that I still use the same Kodak camera that I’ve used since 1974. But trust me, if I’d have had to stop and use a Smart Phone, I’d have been a piece of flatbread. I snapped a couple photos, then managed to duck down a stone staircase that wound down through a narrow corridor. The taxi and its ghostly driver disappeared.

###

Fortunately, I knew the building where Miss Emily lived, a charming, well-kept tenement. It didn’t take much buzzing for someone to let me in. Checking the names near the buzzers, I found one with a Russian surname, and went up.

The door was answered by a middle-aged woman who introduced herself as Helena. Upon telling her I was a reporter, she invited me in cautiously. Her English was quite good, and she explained that she had learned it as a young girl. I said I was doing a follow-up story on the fate of the St. Elijah church.

“I was wondering if your grandmother – Ms. Katerina – was available to answer some questions,” I said. “She must have a lot of memories of that church.”

“My grandmother is sleeping. She’s not well these days, Mr. –“

“Kolchak. Carl Kolchak.”

“Mr. Kolchak, perhaps if you could tell me what you wish to know.”

“Well actually I’m curious to know if you’ve read about these recent murders. The city officials killed by a taxi driver, or drivers.”

“Yes, we’ve seen them on the television.”

“All of the victims, it seems, were found with this perfume – White Rose. It was said to be a favorite of the Czar Nicholas the Second’s wife.”

“Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Kolchak, that these murders were the work of a Russian? Someone against the demolition of the church? That seems very outlandish, Mr. Kolchak! You Americans, pardon my saying, have quite over-active imaginations.”

“How about this for outlandish, Ms. Helena. I almost got turned into pide bread by a runaway taxi that had nobody at the wheel! I’ve even got pictures!”

“I don’t understand,” Helena said. “You think there is a ghost driving a taxi and killing people? A White Russian ghost?”

“Precisely!” Kolchak said. “Now, question for your grandmother would be, if in fact this ghost is a White Russian, one of your ancestors, is there any way for it to be stopped? I mean, is there any way to make it rest?”

“If it is as you say,” Helena said, her Slavic eyes squinting in thought, “then perhaps it is some kind of curse. After the Bolsheviks came to power, they did destroy many churches – temples and mosques included. And some say that when the Communists lost power, that it was a curse of the Czar. Perhaps this ‘taxi driver,’ as you say, is some instrument of the Czar. In that case, a divine liturgy must be performed, to re-energize the spirit of the saint, which could lift this curse.”

“A divine liturgy – you’ve lost me, sister,” I said. “I never was much for attending church. Are you saying we should perform some kind of ceremony?”

“It could be anything,” Helena said. “A wedding, a blessing, even a simple prayer. As you know, there are only a few surviving White Russians in the city nowadays. So the church fell into disuse. That is why the city wants to destroy it and make way for other developments.”

“I see,” I said. “I just may have an idea.”

###

I went back over to the INS office, where fortunately, Vincenza was tied up on the phone to the New York office. Ducking past his office window, I cornered Updike.

“Listen Updike,” I said. “Remember last year I set you up with that Russian girl for dinner? What was her name – Sonya?”

“She turned out to be a gold-digger,” was Uptight’s curt reply.

“So? At least you knew where you stood! Anyway, remember you said you owed me a favor?”

“Was I drunk when I said that?”

“Well, we’d had quite a few vodka shots, yes.”

“In that case, I can’t have owed you a favor, because I wouldn’t have remembered it.”

“Come on, Updike! This is a life-and-death situation. You said you’d marry Sonya in a heartbeat, those beautiful blue eyes, those long legs. Remember?”

“So are you asking me – as a favor – to propose to Sonya?”

“Why not? I know just the place where we could have the ceremony! St. Elijah – old Russian Orthodox church right down the hill in Karaköy.”

“Forget it, Kolchak. I haven’t seen Sonya for months besides. She probably married some rich Turk anyway.”

It was worth a shot. In the office, Vincenzo was wrapping up his phone call, and I didn’t want him chasing me about that soap opera story, so I slipped out.

###

We’re back where we started. Sunday morning, 4 a.m., Oct. 15. Outside the St. Elijah church, it’s quiet. The church is on the fifth floor and an iron gate at the top of the steps is locked. Perhaps there is some form of karma therein, repaying me for my backsliding ways.

I was safe on the fifth floor but trapped. Down on the street, the taxi waited, its motor revving.

There was one a thin possibility, a way to finally put the Czar’s curse to rest.

What if I were to confess? Kolchak’s confession, as it were. Even if it was to the empty pews, to the faded glory of the old cross that looked down from the domes, to the locked gate, to a god that perhaps no longer resided in this particular facility, to a world that perhaps no longer cared.

Crossing myself, I knelt down outside the locked gate. I begged the Lord to forgive me, Kolchak, for all the charades I’d performed over the years, the lies I’d told, the cops I’d jousted with, the politicians whose avarice and self-centered agenda’s I’d thwarted, all the trouble my reporting had caused. I even repented for the way I treated Vincenzo and Uptight (I mean, Updike), and for my bad taste in fashion.

Outside, there was a sudden gust of wind that rattled the foundations of the old church, a burst of bright light, and then – silence. I went out and peered cautiously into the street. The taxi , and its ghostly driver, had disappeared. I sniffed, just catching rapidly fading scent of White Rose in the morning air.

A door opened just down the steps.

“What are you doing here?” a burly, unshaven fellow asked. Seeing I was a yabancı, he looked over his shoulder into the apartment. A sleepy, disheveled woman appeared.

“The church is closed!” she said. “Kilise kapalı!”

“Pardon,” I said. “Iyi geceler. Good night.”

###

Of course, this story won’t appear anywhere, unless maybe on some obscure online outlet. Vincenzo, after reading my story, said he detected a certain scent in the air alright, and it definitely wasn’t rosy.

The political/religious overtones no doubt would prove worrisome to those in officialdom who protect vital Russian-Turkish interests. The Russian tourists have only just now begun returning, after several years of staying away following a mutual embargo that centered around the downing of a Russian jet on the Turkish-Syrian border.

These officials, having been appraised of the situation, dismissed my account as “fake news.” At any rate, plans to demolish St. Elijah appear to be on hold – for now. Since there have been no new murders, it’s perhaps best to let sleeping dogs lie, a policy that extends also to their masters too, in whatever time and place they happen to reside.

As for me, Kolchak, it’s back to work on that Turkish soap opera story. And there’s this too:

“Kolchak!” Vincenzo barked, as I sat at my desk typing away. “You gave me an idea from that whack o Russian business. You see the city is starting to experiment with its first electric, self-driving taxis? The city plans to conduct a test next week. I want you on it! And no funny stuff. Just the FACTS!”

I stopped typing for a second, and thought about that wild episode at St. Elijah. Oh Lord, I thought. Forgive Tony. Forgive all editors. They know not what they do.

###

James Tressler, a former Lost Coast resident, is a writer and teacher living in Istanbul. His latest book of short stories, “Inside Voices,” is available at Lulu.com.