One Murder at a Time

STAR LOTUS-1

STAR LOTUS“Why me?” Marvia Plum asked.

Dorothy Yamura gave her the kind of look that cops give other cops when they’re speaking in private. No civilians around. No media around. No politicians around. No civil rights activists around.

“You know, I’d like to be treated as a cop for once. I like to think I made sergeant because I’m a good cop, not because I’m an African-American female.”

“Don’t forget to add single mother.” Dorothy Yamura leaned back in her chair. “And I’d like to think I made lieutenant because I’m a good cop, too, Marvia. Not because the old Irishman was suffering from white guilt over the detention camps. Well, O’Hara’s retired now and I’ve got his job and you’ve got mine and we’ve got a serial killer in Berkeley. At least, I think we’ve got a serial killer.”

Marvia grinned, not happily. “How many bodies does it take to make the case? How many have there been now, five, six?”

“Five.”

“And you’re sure they’re the work of one killer?”

Dorothy Yamura shook her head. She wore civilian clothes, the dress-for-success look. With her glossy hair pulled behind her head and her thin northern Japanese features, she looked like a bank executive or the newest partner in a major California law firm. She did not look like a cop.

Neither did Marvia Plum—or she would not have, to an observer from an earlier era. But in this age, a black female in a smart, form-fitting police sergeant’s uniform did not draw the stares and comments she once would have.

“We called in our tame consultant from the University,” Yamura explained. “These murders have some of the earmarks of the classic serial killer. But others are missing. In fact, some of the signs point straight away from a serial killer. Some of them make me wonder if they’re even connected.”

She extended a slim, meticulously manicured hand and tapped a glossy fingernail on the top folder on her desk. “Look at these, Marvia. How familiar are you with this series?”

“I’ve followed them. Remember, Telegraph Avenue was my old beat. I’ve had enough cases that centered there. It’s kind of a hobby, now, following the incident reports and the stats. Everybody knows this town would be a dead duck if the Telegraph merchants had to close up and move away. But every time we try and get a handle on the crime there, you’d think we were trying to repeal the Bill of Rights.”

Now it was Dorothy Yamura’s turn to grin wryly. “That’s why I want to pull all these cases together. We’re going to work on the notion that they are connected. If they are, if we’re right and we can figure out what’s going on and catch the perp, we can get a major bad guy off the streets and stop these killings. If we’re wrong…well, we can still tackle the cases one by one and solve them that way. Like the Twelve-Step people say, One day at a time.”

Marvia Plum nodded. “One murder at a time.”

“Okay.” Yamura seemed relieved. “What’s your plan?”

Plum pulled the stack of folders toward herself. They slid smoothly on the polished glass on top of Yamura’s desk. “I have to study these, of course. And I want to talk to your pet big-dome, and to the people who are bringing the pressure.”

“Sounds good to me. Okay, jot this down. Consultant at UC is Martha Rachel Bernstein, Ph.D. Here’s her phone number. And Mistress Moonflower, she runs that shop called Woodstock West on the avenue.”

“I know it well. And I know Mistress Moonflower.” Marvia Plum made a sour face.

“Yes. Moonflower’s after us to solve these murders. Says that the publicity is killing trade. Half of her customers are fourteen-year-old kids from Walnut Creek who think it’s daring to take the train into Berkeley and buy black light posters and rolling papers and take them home with them. Now all the mommies and daddies are cracking down on their little darlings and Woodstock West is losing money.”

“Moonflower has no other ax to grind?”

Dorothy Yamura gave her little, breathy laugh. She seemed reluctant to let the laughter out except in tiny, rationed bursts. “Woodstock West got hit by a burglar or burglars. You must have read the report. Or at least seen it on the news. Channel Two loved it. I think there was even a little network pickup.”

“Oh, yes. Jimi Hendrix’s guitar. The very one he used at the Monterey Pops in the Summer of Love. I did see the footage. That was the one he poured lighter fluid all over and set fire to.”

“Yes. That was considered art in 1967. The Who smashed ’em up and Jimi set ’em on fire.” She got a faraway look. Marvia wondered where Dorothy Yamura had been in 1967 but there were some things that a sergeant did not ask a lieutenant. Even if they were friends.

Marvia Plum stood up and hefted the stack of folders in her arms. She started to leave Dorothy Yamura’s office.

“Oh, one more thing.” Plum turned back. “You know Councilmember Hanson?”

“Sherry Hanson? Sure. Never met a cop she didn’t hate.”

“Right. Well, she’s interested in this case.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“She’s been burning up the phone lines. She says this is a conspiracy between the business interests and the Fascist police to ethnic-cleanse Berkeley.”

“Ethnic cleansing? What does that have to do with it?”

“Her phrase, Marvia. You better call her up, or better yet go see her at City Hall. At least she can’t say it’s a white male conspiracy.”

“No, her favorite line is that I’ve sold out both my race and my sex.”

Yamura waved her hand. “Do your best, Marvia. Just do your best.” She ran her long graceful fingers through her long, glossy hair. “Oh, I meant to tell you. Sally O’Hara sends her love.”

Marvia grinned. Sally O’Hara was the old lieutenant’s daughter. She’d refused to join the Berkeley force. Didn’t want to ride her daddy’s coattails. So she’d joined the Chicago PD. She was a rising star in that city, and when her father retired he’d gone to live with her.

“What’s new with Sally?”

“Just made detective. I’ve been keeping her posted on these killings, just for old times’ sake.”

Marvia Plum left Yamura’s office, made her way to her own desk and started through the manila folders. So Yamura was keeping Sally O’Hara posted just for old times’ sake. Marvia believed that as much as she believed that the check was in the mail.

She would visit both Mistress Moonflower and Councilmember Hanson, and it might be a good idea to have a chat with Professor Bernstein, too. But first, she needed to review the case—or cases—to date.

There had been five fatalities. Marvia looked for a pattern; she knew that, if you could find something in common among a series of crime victims, you had taken your first step toward finding the criminal. She made a set of file cards, one for each subject, filling in the victim’s name, race, s*x, age, and other details. There was a mug-shot of each victim in the folder, some from older files, some clearly made in the county morgue; she carried the pictures to the photocopier and made copies of them, attaching one to each file card.

OTTO TIMMINS, 45, wm, USN Vietnam vet, chronic alcoholic, multiple arrests for harassing patrons of local cafés & restaurants. Body found in dumpster, shot in back of neck w/.22 cal. pistol.

LATONIA JONES, 11, bf, homeless, elementary school dropout, professional lookout and runner for known crack dealers. Collapsed on sidewalk in front of Gene’s Jeans, taken to County Hospital, died of combination drug overdose and poisoning (heroin contaminated with strychnine).

BILL SZYMANSKI, 26, wm, and ROBIN “MAINMAN” CAMPBELL, 31, bm. Both killed by single shotgun blast while naked together in sleeping bag in People’s Park. Witnesses describe “big, bearded guy who roared like an animal” leaving scene with shotgun. No other details due to darkness.

IMACULATA MARTINEZ, 66, lf, found in restroom of What’s Flat and Round with a Hole in the Middle, multiple stab wounds. Was seen entering restroom with another woman, both dressed in multiple layers of rags. (What’s Flat and Round with a Hole in the Middle is leading Telegraph Avenue record store.)

Marvia laid out the cards like a poker hand and studied them. Three males, two females. Two of the males were gay. One of the females was a drug abuser. Ages ranged from 11 to 66. Two white males, one black male, one black female, one Latina female. Two shotgunned, one poisoned, one stabbed, one shot with a pistol.

All were homeless, all hung out in People’s Park and/or the Telegraph Avenue area.

What in the world did that add up to?

Marvia went to the locker room and changed from her sergeant’s blues into a set of neat but casual civvies—jeans, a plaid button-up shirt, a light cloth jacket. The jacket concealed both her badge and her service revolver. She wasn’t exactly going undercover—in fact, she wasn’t going undercover at all—but she didn’t want to flaunt her presence by poking around in uniform.

Her first stop was Woodstock West.

She stepped from the bright sunlight and midday bustle of Telegraph Avenue into a very different, very special zone. The interior of the shop was dimly lighted, with Indian-print drapes filtering out most of the sunlight. The air was almost tangible in its thickness. She could almost feel the slowly rising incense on her tongue, it was so thick.

Black light posters covered the walls. There were astronomical scenes, nudes, drawings of cannabis plants, mind-twisting M.C. Escher prints, reproductions of Fillmore Ballroom posters. An oil portrait of Jimi Hendrix dominated one wall.

Mistress Moonflower was behind the glass counter, selling rolling papers to a couple of UC freshwomen who had their arms against each other. The shorter of the two customers snuggled her head into the shoulder of the taller. The taller customer looked over her shoulder and smiled down at Marvia. Sure, sweetie-pie, Marvia thought. Black or white, straight or gay, sisterhood is strong. You bet.

Mistress Moonflower recognized Marvia and nodded.

Marvia said, “I need to talk to you, Myrna.”

Mistress Moonflower frowned and turned toward the back of the store. “Star Lotus, front.”

A younger, beefier version of Mistress Moonflower emerged through a wall of hanging prints. Mistress Moonflower led Marvia into a cramped office-c*m-stock room. Moonflower wore a kerchief woven through her curly black hair, a filmy blouse and billowing skirt. The blouse was open to her sternum. An eye-of-god was visible, tattooed between her breasts. She was barefoot and wore an anklet with a tinkling bell.

She said, “My name is Moonflower.”

Marvia bit her lower lip. “Your business permit says Myrna Gersh.”

Mistress Moonflower shook her head. “I left Myrna Gersh behind years ago. Threw her off a mountain in Nepal.”

“Yeah, right. They ever find the body?”

“We shared this body. That day Myrna Gersh left the plane and I was born, Mistress Moonflower.”

“Okay. What do you know about the series of murders in the Telegraph area?”

“The Tallyman.”

“What?”

“The Tallyman. He appears, he takes his tally and he disappears. That’s what we call him now. The Tallyman.”

“Lieutenant Yamura says that you represent the local merchants.”

“Unofficially.”

“Are you concerned?”

“We’re frightened.”

“The Tallyman going after storekeepers? Shoppers? Students?”

“You never know who’s next.”

Marvia reached into a jacket pocket and laid out her victim cards. “What do you make of these?”

The curtains parted and Star Lotus stuck her head into the back room. Mistress Moonflower hissed, “Stay out there. Wait on customers. Make yourself useful.”

Star Lotus withdrew.

“Look, we were hit, Officer. I mean, Woodstock West was hit. I don’t know if the Tallyman did it, or somebody else, but we need protection from the police, not harassment.”

“I know, Jimi Hendrix’s guitar. Totally burned, beyond repair.”

“It was a holy relic. If we could only recover it.…”

“Right. It’s practically the Shroud of Turin. Look, I want you to look at these cards and photos and tell me if you knew any of these people.”

Mistress Moonflower looked at the cards and the photos. She looked up at Marvia and shrugged. “Sure, I knew them.”