“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
