One Murder at a Time

STAR LOTUS-2

“All of them?”

“They were all Telly regulars. Panhandlers, street people. Sometimes they’d come into the store and demand money. Sometimes they’d want to use the back room. I never let them. When they pestered my customers I’d shoo them out. Call the cops if I had to. Lot of help that was, they always knew how long it would take the fuzz to arrive and split just in the nick of time.”

The fuzz, Marvia thought. Marvia Plum, Sergeant Fuzz.

“Who killed them?”

“They’re all dead, aren’t they?”

“Who killed them?”

“How the hell should I know? The Tallyman did it.”

“Who’s the Tallyman?”

Mistress Moonflower shrugged. One breast popped halfway out of her shirt. She said, “Oops,” and readjusted herself.

Marvia Plum started for the curtain that would bring her back into the storefront. She could hear customers talking with Star Lotus. It sounded as if Star Lotus was making a big sale. Marvia stopped and inquired, “I’m curious, Myrna. How’s business lately?”

Mistress Moonflower shrugged a little more carefully. “’Bout the same as ever.”

“Tallyman isn’t scaring your customers off, then?”

“’Bout the same as ever.”

Marvia crossed Telegraph and headed down the block toward People’s Park. She strolled along the sidewalk, not entering the park. She turned back toward the campus and stood in front of a sorority house. In five minutes one of her park snitches showed up.

“I saw you walk past the park. I could use a little bread.”

Lawsamarcy! Use a little bread. “What do you have for me?”

“I don’t know. Ask me a question.”

“Who’s the Tallyman?”

The snitch was wearing a ragged tube-top and sweat pants. Between them, her belly showed. It was smudged with ordinary dirt and a little of what seemed to be dried mustard. She wore a navel-ring from which a silver chain and crucifix dangled over the top of her pants. She said, “Don’t ask me that.”

“You followed me, Vangie.”

“I know. Ask me something else.”

“What do you know about Latonia Jones?”

Despite the bright sunlight, Vangie shivered. “A lot of people didn’t like her. She worked for some crack dealers. They’d show up generally around dusk, you know, when we get our campfires started, and she’d play lookout for them. In case the pigs were coming. Pardon me, Sergeant.”

“Yeah. Why didn’t they like her?”

“You know.” Vangie twisted her torso and flung her hair off her face. Marvia jerked away.

“I don’t know. That’s why I asked you.”

“You know. Uh, well, you know, there are some moms in the park. They don’t want their brats getting hooked. You know, Latonia kind of, well, recruited. Users, hookers. Sometimes guys come by the park in cars, especially at night. They like little kids, girls or boys.”

“Vangie, who killed Latonia?”

“I dunno. The Tallyman. Can I have some bread?”

“You’ll have to do better than that. You haven’t given me anything I don’t already know.” Marvia Plum turned away and started toward the UC campus.

She felt Vangie’s hand on her shoulder. She wasn’t surprised. “Somebody saw Latonia just before—before. It was just about sundown. Some big car pulled up by the park. She went over. I saw her lean in, then come out with something.”

“Come on, Vangie. Something—what?”

“I don’t know. I guess it was a needle.”

“And she shot up and died. And somebody stole the needle and used it again, probably.” Almost certainly. The needle had never been found. But there were no more strychnine deaths, so whoever took it had apparently had the brains to rinse it out, at least.

“What kind of car?”

“Big. Foreign. I don’t know.”

“What color was it?”

“White.”

“Japanese? German? American?”

“I don’t know. One of those English cars, I think.”

“A Rolls?”

“No. I think they call it a Jagger or something.”

“Who was driving?”

“I couldn’t see.”

“Try and remember something. Man or woman?”

“I don’t know.” Marvia turned away. Again, the hand. “A woman.”

“Age? Black or white?”

“No age, any age. White.”

“That’s all? What next?”

“She drove away, that’s all. I didn’t follow her, for God’s sake.”

Marvia Plum handed her a folded bill and Vangie trotted away, back toward the park.

Marvia headed for City Hall. She found Councilmember Hanson in her office.

“I came to talk about the Tallyman.”

“The who?”

“They’re calling the Telly killer the Tallyman. I heard it in one of the shops and again at People’s Park.”

“Wonderful. Police Department’s paying some attention at last, are they? I roasted the chief enough.”

“Lieutenant Yamura assigned me the case, Councilmember Hanson.”

“You can call me Sherry, sister. We’re all sisters.”

“No we aren’t.”

Councilmember Hanson looked angry. “I should have known. I checked up on your background. You were in the army. You were a cop there too. What is it you like, carrying a gun around? Wearing a uniform?”

“I’m not wearing one now.”

“What have you learned?”

“I report to Lieutenant Yamura. You can get your information from her.”

“Sergeant, you’re in the Berkeley Police Department, not the Gestapo. I want to know what you’ve learned.”

Marvia counted to ten. “All I’ve got is a list of victims and a name. The Tallyman. He could be anybody.” There was the hulking figure who walked away from Bill Szymanski and Robin Campbell’s sleeping bag. She didn’t know about the woman who entered the restroom with Imaculata Martinez, or the woman in the white Jagger—it must be a Jaguar—who gave the needle to Latonia Jones. If Hanson didn’t know all that, it was just as well.

“I want regular reports on this matter,” the councilmember was saying. “These are people of color, they’re poor people, they’re the victims of society, and now they’re being murdered.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“They’re your people, Marvia.” She smiled. “What about that little Jones girl?”

“The crack dealer’s lookout?”

“That child needed help, Marvia.”

“She got a lot of that, didn’t she, Councilmember? I have an appointment.”

Marvia Plum phoned Dr. Martha Rachel Bernstein at the university, ascertained that she would be in her office for the next hour, arranged to go see her. She left her car at police headquarters and walked to the campus. There seemed to be more street vendors than ever. Business was booming. The customers didn’t even look grubby today—a combination of student types, workers on their breaks, shoppers. There were even some parents with small children in tow, apparently in from the suburbs for a day in Berkeley. Marvia Plum hadn’t seen much of that in years.

Martha Rachel Bernstein, Ph.D. was short and heavyset, more muscular than fleshy. Her office overlooked Bancroft Way and Telegraph Avenue. She peered up through thick bifocals when Marvia Plum stood in her doorway and said, “Met you before, Sergeant. Remember that case with the stolen Duesenberg phaeton?”

Marvia said, “I surely do. But I’d forgot that we worked on that one.”

“Okay. I guess white people all look the same anyhow. You want to talk about the Tallyman.”

“You know about that. I seem to be the only one who hasn’t known that name all along.”

“Lieutenant Yamura sent me the information on these killings. Five victims. I’m a sociologist, you know, not a psychologist.”

“Aren’t they pretty close?”

“Sometimes. Anyway—hey, why are you standing there like you might run away any second, come on in and close the door and sit down. Isn’t this a palace?”

Marvia complied.

“I studied the victims’ profiles. Also had an interesting talk with my friend, Dr. Chih.”

“I don’t know—”

“Chih Yuan. Good friend of mine. Looks at the relationship of sociology and economics. Effect of family constellations on crime stats and vice versa. Smart woman. Brilliant woman. Taiwanese.”

“Chinese?”

“Taiwanese. Hates Chinese. Says that Taiwan is a colony.”

Marvia shifted in her chair. “Look, Doctor—”

“Martha.”

“I’m not really interested in whether Taiwan is a colony of China or China’s a colony of Taiwan. I’ve got five murders here.”

“Don’t sneer at Dr. Chih’s work.”

“I don’t mean to sneer at her work. But I’m concerned with my own work. It looks as if we’ve got a serial killer loose, only we’re not even sure of that. Maybe I really am in the wrong department. Maybe we should get a shrink.”

“I want her to join us.” Martha Bernstein reached for the telephone. When Marvia Plum didn’t object, she punched another extension and muttered into the mouthpiece. Moments later Dr. Chih swept into Bernstein’s office. Bernstein introduced her and Marvia Plum.

Dr. Chih flung herself into a vacant chair. She sprawled with her feet in front of her. She wore her hair in a crew cut; she looked as if a giant fuzzy black caterpillar had chosen her for best friend. She wore a black tee-shirt with a larger-than-life-size portrait of Marilyn Monroe on the chest. She wore tight jeans and white, low-top sneakers.

She gave Marvia Plum a look. “Rache says you’re interested in these murders. The boys in the bag and those others.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

Marvia nearly let go a giggle. “It’s my job, Dr. Chih. I’m a cop. We catch murderers.”

“Why?”

Marvia shook her head. “Don’t ask me to philosophize. We have laws, we have cops to enforce the laws, we have more cops who try to catch people who break the laws. After that it’s up to the DA and the judge and the whole rest of the system.”

Dr. Chih had closed her eyes during Marvia Plum’s response. When Marvia finished, she opened her eyes again and said, “You don’t have any theory about morality or the social contract or repairing rents in the fabric of civilization?”

“I’m just doing my job.”

“Because the Berkeley Voice and the Oakland Trib have been carrying on about how this town is losing its collective conscience, and besides the local merchants are losing business hand over fist because people are scared to come into town.”

“I’ve heard that.”

Dr. Chih grinned. Her teeth were big and very white. “You see, I’m interested in the economic effects of social change. And a funny thing’s been happening. The papers are wrong. The local merchants are prospering. Every time one of these troubled souls is removed violently from our midst, there’s a momentary scare, and then local business goes up. Do you think that’s odd?”

“I noticed it myself. On my way over here.”

“Ah-hah.”

“But where do we go from there? Do you think it would be a good thing to let these murders continue?”

“I’m a social scientist, not a moralist. I observe and report, and I try to understand. I don’t judge.”

Marvia swung in her chair. “Dr. Bernstein, what’s your take?”

“How?”

“Any idea who’s doing the killings? Based on what you know about the victims?”

Bernstein tapped a yellow pencil on the edge of an old, smoked-glass ashtray on the corner of her desk. Marvia saw a sealed brown package in the ashtray. Philip Morris cigarettes. How long had they been there?

“It’s somebody who knows the Telegraph area well. Maybe somebody who lives here, or has lived here.”

“Motive?”

“You sure you want me and not a shrink?”

“Go for it, Doctor.”

“I think it’s political. Or moral. Maybe even religious.”

Dr. Chih asked a question. “Why do people kill people, Sergeant Plum? You deal with it every day. I only read murder mysteries, and I like the old-fashioned kind where the wicked nephew poisons the wealthy uncle so he can marry the beautiful adventuress.”

Marvia nodded. “Yes. People murder for money. There was that case in San Francisco where a couple of smart cookies were marrying rich old men with coronary problems and overdosing them with their own heart medicine. And of course those sweet brothers in LA who shotgunned Mommy and Daddy for their millions.”

“My point exactly.” Dr. Chih shifted her weight and crossed her ankles. “These people had nothing. They were down-and-outers, sleeping in the park.”