Veteran crime reporter Carl Kolchak, speaking in voiceover:

Istanbul. Or Constantinople for those of you living in the past, an occupation which has on occasion interested this reporter. Anyway, time aims to figure in this story, a story of one of the greatest manhunts – or rather, hand-hunts – in history. Maybe you read about it, or rather, what they let you read about it, probably a minor item pasted down at the bottom of some obscure online news outlet. That lonely hearts club we call the social media has no doubt already shared it, and perhaps dismissed it as fake news.

However, the events that took place in this city over the course of several weeks this past summer are so incredible, so astounding, that the facts have been suppressed in a massive effort to save certain vital national interests.This will be the last time I ever discuss these events with anyone. So when you have finished this bizarre account, judge for yourself its believability, and then try to tell yourself – wherever you may be – it couldn’t happen here or anywhere.

11 p.m. July 24th. Jenny Wilburn, a 28-year-old recently divorced woman from Massachusetts, was in Istanbul, fulfilling a lifelong passion of being a travel photographer. She’d been in the city three days, snapping photos of the Bosphorus, the great mosques, and other famous sites. Little did she know, when she ventured out that evening to a remote area to photograph the ancient city walls, she herself would soon become a tragic portrait of urban violence. Her body was spotted by a passing motorist. There were signs of strangulation, and police located her camera and a bag containing her wallet and smart phone nearby. Police determined the Wilburn girl had been murdered, but were at a loss to explain motive, since there were no signs of sexual assault, and nothing had been stolen.

Friday evening, July 30th. A Japanese couple, Mitoda Kosugi, and his wife Tamara, were seen on street cameras leaving a kebab restaurant in Taksim sometime close to midnight. It would ultimately prove to be their last supper. Their strangulated bodies were found in an alley way in nearby Tarlabasa, where the couple had perhaps mistakenly wandered in search of their hotel. Police found a thousand lira, credit cards as well as several hundred euros untouched in the woman’s purse.

And then in the early morning hours of Thursday morning, August 18th. The body of a German businessman, Klaus Voorman, is found floating in the waters of the Bosphorus near the Galata Bridge. Voorman had reportedly been in town to attend a conference – it turned out to be the last session he ever booked. Again, there were signs of strangulation around the neck area, but the unfortunate German’s passport, wallet and smartphone were found in his pockets.

Someone was apparently targeting tourists, but who, and why? The answers to these questions lay somewhere in Istanbul’s byzantine network of narrow streets, but your beloved reported wasn’t supposed to be interested in finding them.

“Kolchak, in my office!” The ever-sonorous voice of Vincenzo brought me out of these thoughts.

There’s a Turkish proverb: you can’t open an umbrella that’s stuck up your ass. Well, my editor Tony Vincenzo’s rainy disposition undoubtedly stems from this congenital condition. Ever since we’d arrived in Istanbul, Vincenzo had been adamant that we avoid any stories that might risk raising the ire of the Turkish authorities. Turkey may well be justly infamous for its prisons, but even more so for the number of people in my noble profession occupying them.

That morning, Vincenzo was stuffing his face with lahmacun and again reminding me of our important new mission.

“What have I been telling you, Kolchak?” he said, with his ulcer-edged booming voice. “This town’s got enough of bad news, what with terrorism, refugees, the fall-out of the coup attempt. What they need now is some good news – positive news, for a change. How about a nice, witty survey of the city’s Turkish baths? Or a picturesque tale of a visit to a belly dance show? The New York office wants more of these stories, too.

“Or how about a countdown of the best kebab joints?” I ventured. “You could probably handle that one, Vincenzo.”

“I’m the editor, Kolchak and you remember that! My job is to assign the stories. Your job is to go out and get them. Come on! Here’s one for you. A list of the top 10 useful Turkish expressions. It could be something for the tourists.”

“I thought housewives made lists and reporters wrote stories,” I said.

“You’re behind the times, Kolchak,” Vincenzo huffed, squirting lemon juice generously on the lahmacun. “It’s all about lists these days. Readers don’t have the time or patience to read anything longer than that.”

“Well, if we’re talking lists, then what about these recent murders?” I asked. “Here’s a list for you: Four tourists murdered in the past few weeks, with no apparent motive, and nothing’s being done about it.”

“There’s nothing there, Kolchak!” Vincenzo shouted, nearly choking on his lunch. He quickly downed the bottle of ayran as if it were antiacid. “I mean, the police insist the murders are random street violence. There’s no connection between them. And I don’t want you over there with your bad Turkish and worse fashion sense out there provoking cops. You hear me? Do what I tell you to do. Turkish baths. Belly dancers. Witty and picturesque. It’s easy money, Kolchak, and easier on my ulcers.”

###

Friday evening, August 25th. The Galata Tower, with its expansive (and expensive) view of the beginning of the Muslim world. They say Istanbul is a city best seen from above. That night it would also be witness to murder.

I was paying the equivalent of several hundred dollars for dinner and an evening of Turkish delight – translation: belly dancers. This is the stuff that the tourists are so willing to part with their cash for: an Orientalist fantasy that would have had Edward Said turning over in his scholarly grave.

If it was fantasy that reader s wanted (or my editor Vincenzo wanted), then I would serve it up: a big, steaming pile of expletive deleted.

“Excuse me? Can I sit here?” A London girl in her early thirties who introduced herself as Teresa Flynn. She’d studied at one of the universities here, and now was back for a few days, having a bit of baklava, rakı and reliving college days, but with the benefits of a London salary. Teresa was attractive, in a kind of blooming, vital way, and when I offered her a glass of rakı she thanked me by clinking glasses and tossing off an effusive, “Serefe!”

“And are you here on holiday then?” she asked.

“You could say that. I’m in the news business. We’re always passing through.”

“So you’re a journalist? How interesting! You certainly have a lot to write about these days.”

“Say, would you mind helping me out?” I asked, topping off her rakı glass. “I’m doing a kind of color piece on the belly dance show. Would you mind if I quoted you as to the appeal of these shows? As a tourist, I mean.”

Teresa seemed thrilled at this, and over the next half hour or so just about wore out my knowledge of superlatives in describing how she felt. “Amazeballs!” is the general impression I registered.

We relaxed during the show, as the dancers whirled and shimmied about, the arabesque music flirting with the shadows and murmurs of the evening, and the audience clapped in time as the music and dancing reached a satisfying crescendo.

By the end of the evening, my new acquaintance and I had consumed enough rakı to have begun belly dancing ourselves, if not for a sudden commotion outside. I paid the bill (note: Vincenzo would have one of his fits when I presented it for reimbursement tomorrow). Hurriedly, distractedly, we followed some of the staff and other guests out to the winding steps of the tower. There, lying on one of the steps, was a woman whose body was no doubt as cold as the stone beneath her.

“What are they saying?” I asked Teresa.

“Oh God,” she exclaimed. “My Turkish is absolutely horrid! But if I’m not mistaken, they’re saying that the woman is a foreigner. Yes, that’s it! You see? They’re checking her passport now. She’s Italian from the looks of her.”

I was able to push my way past some rubberneckers and get a closer look. There were bruises about her neck. She’d been strangled . Poor girl. Her overpriced evening of Orientalist fantasy had ended up as a non-refundable trip to the morgue, courtesy of cheap, ordinary, run-of-the-mill street-level reality.

###

“Listen,” I told Teresa. “I’ve gotta go and try to get some answers from these people. It’s been – Amazeballs!”

“Well, let me know what happens. My God! How ghastly! Are you on Facebook?”

I was not. Can you imagine me, Kolchak, using Facebook, or Twitter, blowing any of these tech whistles? Hell, I haven’t even changed my suit and hat since 1972. I do, however, possess a mobile, and so persuaded Teresa to just give me her phone number, which she did.

I then went over to some policemen, who had condoned off the area in front of the tower. One of them, a kid who probably had just finished his military service, spoke English. The young policeman asked to see my press credentials.

“This girl –“ I broke into theatrical tears. “My daughter! I can’t believe – oh! All she ever wanted was to see a real-life belly dance!” I collapsed into a paroxysm of fake grief.

“This girl is your daughter?” the cop asked, showing sympathy. “Can I see your passport?”

“I left it at the hotel!” I lied. “Tonight, we were just here because she absolutely loves the belly dancers, and couldn’t wait to brag about it on Facebook and –“

Seeing my distress, the cop instructed me to wait, and he went and retrieved the dead girl’s purse, and after clearing it with someone, handed it to me.

“Nothing was taken,” the cop said. “It was found lying untouched beside the body. You can see, her passport and wallet, everything is still there.”

I checked the passport. Roberta Barbarulo, aged 21, of Florence. The bag also contained her purse, a smart phone, cosmetics, etc.

“Were you alone with her?” a second policeman asked. “Did you come with others?”

Before I had a chance to think of an answer, some Italian girls came up. “Who are you?” they demanded. “Why are you carrying Roberta’s purse?”

Of course, the game was up. The police turned on me, and I held up my hands. “I’m a reporter,” I said. “I’m just trying to –“

“You will have to come with us,” they said, handcuffing me.

I began shouting about the First Amendment, the Fourth Estate, and Public’s Right to Know and all that, but my escorts kindly reminded me that after all their English “wasn’t so good.” They didn’t have a clue what I was talking about.

###

I was taken to a local precinct and left sitting in a cell for a couple hours. Nobody seemed especially concerned with me. My passport was taken (I’d had it of course), along with my phone.

It must have been about three a.m. when suddenly Vincenzo, my editor was there. How they’d managed to inform him is another one of those byzantine affairs. However, Vincenzo was in no mood for such intrigues.

“Damn it, Kolchak!” he said. He looked as though he’d just woken up. “Wha’ did I say about provoking the Turkish police? You’re gonna end up gettin’ us both deported, for Christ’s sake! I oughta just say I don’t know you and let you rot in here!”

“Ah, but your ever-vigilant journalistic conscience would never permit such a thing,” I said. “You are too much a – an Angel of Justice!”

“I’ll show you the angels, Kolchak! What in the world were you doing posing as that dead girl’s father? What were you doing near the body to begin with?

“You know what a ‘meme’ is, Tony?”

“A what?”

“A meme. An idea, you could say. Word that gets ‘round. Well, here’s a meme for you, Tony: Five dead tourists now! Five!” I said. “This girl, this Roberta, she was just like all the other ones. Strangled, no apparent motive. You’re not going to tell me there’s not some kind of connection here?”

“That is not your business.” This new voice came from over Vincenzo’s shoulder. A detective, early thirties, had been standing there listening.

“You speak English!” I said, relieved. “Good. Look, I’m sorry for the charade back there, but I was just trying to do my job and get some answers. The public has a right to know!”

“You are not in America, Mr. Koljerk –“

“Kolchak!”

“Sorry, Mr. Kolchak. We are taking this woman’s death very seriously, and will investigate thoroughly. Just as we are doing in the other murders. But we do not need foreign journalists with their agendas interfering in our investigations. We will release you if you promise to go back to your office and don’t cause any more problems.”

“He won’t, I promise!” Vincenzo said. “Because otherwise, I’m going to personally put him on a plane back to New York.”

The detective looked at me, awaiting my response.

I shrugged. “He and I go way back,” I said.

###

Back at the office, I spent the next few days pretending to do some research on the history of Turkish cuisine. My charade led me to Murat, a guy who works in the archives department. Murat shared my interest in the recent events.

“I thought these might be of interest to you,” Murat said. He handed me a few articles that had appeared in the Turkish press. Murat had found translated versions online and printed them out.

“What’s this about an Invisible Hand?” I asked, after giving the articles a quick scan.

“It’s really just a conspiracy theory,” Murat said. “For example, you’ll note in this article about the 1980 military coup, there was evidence that your CIA was involved. And in this story about the Arab Spring, claims that the West had instigated it … “

I gave these articles, and a few other ones, a closer read. Yes, there was definitely a pattern there, a pattern that went back decades, maybe even further. A theory, as Murat said, that some kind of Invisible Hand was reaching into Turkish affairs – economic, social, political, military – and manipulating the country.

“That’s not all,” Murat said. “My wife teaches history at the university. She did some more checking, and you’ll never believe this! Look!”

He produced some more articles, things his wife had dug up. During the First World War, during the famous battle of Gallipoli, there were unverified reports of soldiers seeing what looked to be “some kind of hand” pushing back the waves of invading ships in the Dardenelles. And before that, in the mid-15th Century, during the Ottoman conquest of Constantinople, there were similar accounts. How had the Turks managed to get their ships across the land to avoid blockades? Again, it seemed some kind of Invisible Hand had aided them. And even further back than that, when the ancient Greeks first landed at Chalcedon, the “Land of the Blind” of lore … how had the Greeks been blinded? According to lore, an Invisible Hand, believe it or not, had covered their very eyes!

“This is incredible!” I said. “So this Invisible Hand has been active in Turkey for thousands of years! But I don’t get it. Unless you mean to say that –“

Suddenly it hit me. You might even say that an invisible hand slapped me right across the face. With the articles in hand, I raced over to Vincenzo’s office. He was having lunch, a beef dürüm döner from one of the shops from downstairs.

When I told him of the articles, and their possible relation to the recent murders, Vincenzo nearly had a seizure.

“Let me get this straight, Kolchak. First of all, you are still working on these murders, despite my direct order for you to cease and desist. And second of all, you come and tell me that these murders may in fact be the work of what you call an Invisible Hand?”

“Tony! Listen to me! All of the victims, all five, they all had clear marks of strangulation! And no apparent motive! They were all killed around or near historic sites. Whoever is behind these murders is getting some kind of revenge! Revenge against foreigners for interfering in Turkish affairs! Can’t you see it?”

“No,” Vincenzo said flatly. “I don’t see it. I’ll tell you what I do see. I see a reporter who’s supposed to be working on a charming, picturesque story about belly dancers, or else an intriguing, delectable history of kebab dishes. And I’ll tell you what else I see: I see a reporter who came this close to spending the rest of his sorry life in a Turkish prison, who would be there now if not for my coming in and saving his ass! And this too: I see this same reporter standing in my office, spouting off a bunch of half-assed conspiracy theories that belong on some Turkish leftist blog and not in this newspaper. Now, get the hell out of here, Kolchak! Get out there and get me stories on Turkish cuisine! Get me belly dancers. Above all, GET ME FACTS! Not crazy, overblown conspiracy tales! You hear me? FACTS!”

This was me: “BWAHHHHH! FACTS! I’ll tell what’s FACT. Five people have been murdered. FACT. The killings were all connected. FACT. An Invisible Hand is behind them. FACT. And the Invisible Hand will strike again! That’s not just facts, Tony. You know what that is? That’s NEWS! News the public deserves to hear about! The Invisible Hand will strike again unless we can find it and stop him first!”

And then I stormed out of the office.

###

Friday, Sept. 8. There was only one way: The Invisible Hand had to be lured somehow. I called up that English girl, Teresa. She was staying at a fancy hotel over in Sultanahmet, near the mosques. Bribing her with a dinner of fish and plenty ofrakı, I convinced her to go along with the plan.

“So what do you want me to do?” she asked. “This is like super intriguing! Chills!” The girl seemed to literally have hash tags next to everything she said, a condition which made her nonetheless charming. After all, I’ve had worse things attached to things I’ve said.

All of the attacks had occurred late in the evening, near historic places. Our plan was to have Teresa walk alone (with me trailing out of sight) near Topkapi Palace. I had a gut feeling that the palace would be the next place on the killer’s list, just an instinct from years of reporting.

Teresa walked along, a bright, windy evening. I stayed close by. The traffic was light for a change, and the moonlight left a trail of shadows sufficient to house our killer.

Near midnight, we arrived outside the walls of Topkapı Palace. The palace was silent, the ghosts of the sultans and their harem slept soundly.

A patrol car passed. I didn’t want to be spotted, not after the other night, so I stayed close to the walls.

Suddenly, Teresa let out a scream. Camera in hand, I raced towards her, figuring I could save her and snap a photo to boot (I’ve done it before). Just as I got there, I froze, aghast. Some unseen force had seized Teresa, was reaching for her throat. But as I got closer, I saw that it was a hand clutching at her – no body, no arms or legs, just a hand.

Reaching Teresa, I managed to somehow extricate her, but then the Hand got ahold of me. The iron-like fingers dug into me, and the Hand and I wrestled together in the shadows for a moment, and then it reached for my throat. Then there was a gun shot from out of nowhere, and there was a cry and a thud. The Hand let go of me and slipped to the pavement, limp.

In the confusion, I suddenly noticed that the hand was in fact attached to a thin, nearly transparent wire. I followed the wire, which was now lit up with flashlights. Police officers were there, and were picking me up. Teresa was evidently OK, and the officers were checking her. It was then we saw the body of a man lying on the pavement. He’d apparently been hiding in a tree near the wall, operating the hand like one operates a marionette. One of the police officers had shot him, and he’d fallen and died nearly instantly.

###

The police later determined that the killer was Turgay B. (they don’t release surnames generally), and that he worked as a laborer in one of the poor districts of the city. This Turgay B. had a history of mental illness, and those who knew him said he had on many occasions voiced his anger against foreign tourists, who “come over and eat all of our good dishes and steal all our culture.” As of this writing it remains to be seen whether he will do time or be remitted to treatment.

Of course, you’re probably wondering why you haven’t read about it. That’s because the story never came out. Officials here worried that if word of such hostile attitudes became known to the public, it could put a further damper on the tourism sector, which has already been hit hard in recent years by greater events.

As for me, it was back to work on those Good News stories, the ones Vincenzo has been hounding me to finish up.

“I want that kebab story by five o’clock today – no excuses, Kolchak,” he said, munching on a Turkish hot dog. “Otherwise, I’m going to have you served on a stick!”

I was reminded, for some reason, of an old Turkish saying, something you say to the cook when he has given you a good dish.

“Elinize sağlık, Tony!” I said.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“I said, ‘Health to your hands!’”

Vincenzo just shook his head.

“I swear to God, Kolchak. After all we’ve been through – from Chicago to Vegas, from Seattle to Istanbul … one of these days one or both of us is going to wind up in a Swiss asylum.”

“Where doubtless, Tony, you’ll have me list the top 10 health benefits of electroshock treatment.”

###

James Tressler, a former Lost Coast resident, is a writer and teacher. His books include the recently published “Inside Voices,” a collection of short stories. He lives with his wife and cat in Istanbul.