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, sex, 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-cum-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.”
