One Murder at a Time: A Casebook. Richard A. Lupoff

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      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.”

      “Well, we have turf wars. The crack dealers have brought back the old Al Capone style drive-by’s. And there’s the hold-up artist who panics and shoots the convenience store clerk. Sometimes a handful of customers for good measure. And the disgruntled worker who takes a Tek-9 back to the office and blows away half the staff.” Marvia Plum shook her head. “It’s a sorry business.”

      Dr. Bernstein tapped her ashtray for attention. Marvia guessed it was her habit. “Don’t forget domestic violence.”

      Marvia said, “I don’t.” After a moment of silence she added, “But none of these account for Otto Timmins and Imaculata Martinez and the rest of my folks.” Her file cards and photos were still spread on Dr. Bernstein’s desk. She pressed them down with her fingertips, slid them around like a slick dealer.

      Dr. Bernstein said, “What if you have more than one killer?”

      “Why would you think that?”

      “Dr. Chih’s notion of a religious vendetta.”

      “That info I don’t have. And that’s something we’ve avoided, at least. We don’t have Catholics and Protestants killing each other, or Muslims and Jews.”

      Dr. Chih pushed herself upright in her seat. “That is not what I meant by religious. I meant, someone who resents the lifestyle of these people.”

      Marvia was surprised by that suggestion. “Who would envy these lost souls? An alcoholic ex-sailor, an eleven-year-old crack lookout, a 66-year-old bag lady, and a pair of gay lovers reduced to sharing a sleeping bag in People’s Park. Who could envy them?”

      “No, I did not say envy.” Dr. Chih sat straighter still. Marvia Plum realized that she was quite tall, with square shoulders and a slim body. “I said, resent. Resentment and envy are similar but they are not identical. I agree with you, it would be hard to find anyone who envied these homeless souls. But think of someone whose whole lifestyle and livelihood is tied to more conventional values. Someone who feels constricted by a job with regular hours, oppressed by taxes and rent bills and license fees and all the other impedimenta of modern urban life.”

      “Okay,” Marvia nodded. “And that person is maybe on her way home from a hard day’s work—”

      “Or maybe she’s running an errand on her lunch break,” Dr. Bernstein put in.

      “Or maybe.…” Dr. Chih stood and crossed to Martha Rachel Bernstein’s single, small window. “…she just looks out the window and she sees the contrast between the hardworking little worker bees like herself, and the lazy, sybaritic drones lounging in the park or panhandling on the avenue—”

      “And suppose a group of such like-minded, hardworking, law-abiding, productive, decent citizens banded together and decided that some of these people weren’t really the victims of society that good progressive Berkeley likes to think they are. Suppose these good people decided that they were dealing with parasites, with individuals who would rather lay about all day, soak themselves in liquor or drugs, disrupt commerce, frighten mothers and children out of town, ruin the business of hardworking shopkeepers.…” Dr. Bernstein looked at her watch. “I’m so sorry, Sergeant Plum, I have a class in ten minutes. I’ll have to chase you out of my office now.”

      Dr. Bernstein rested her hands on her desk and hoisted herself to her full height.

      Marvia stood up. “Wait a minute. Don’t run off so quick.”

      Bernstein shook her head. “My students are waiting. You can walk with me if you wish.”

      Dr. Bernstein, Dr. Chih and Marvia Plum started down the hallway. Bulletin boards were covered with want ads, course offerings, cut-rate travel offers.

      Marvia raised her hands in front of her shoulders. “Are you saying that a kind of—religious, quasi-religious cult is killing these people?”

      “I don’t know. But the different ways they died, the different suspicious figures who were reported afterwards—what does your police training tell you?”

      “Huh! The patterns are different. Serials generally adopt a pet method and stick with it. Even professional hitters are usually self-consistent. We’ve had four incidents, five deaths, a different method each time.”

      “Here’s my session. Feel free at any time.” Dr. Bernstein shook Marvia’s hand and disappeared into a crowded classroom. Dr. Chih shook Marvia’s hand and headed off on a mission of her own.

      Marvia walked south on Telegraph for a few blocks before heading west to police headquarters. The sun was sinking low and traffic was heavy. As Marvia neared People’s Park she thought, This is the time of day when they come out to play. The campfires will be burning, the crazies will be raving and the drug dealers will be making a fortune.

      It was also the time of day that squatters would be marking their territory in doorways and storefronts, setting up their little encampments and harassing shoppers foolish enough to stay on the avenue after dark.

      But the avenue seemed more peaceful than usual for this hour. More shoppers remained on the streets, the cafés were brightly lit and crowded with students drinking coffee or beer, stores were staying open after dark again and they bustled with customers. Marvia wondered, Where have all the loonies gone?

      She checked her watch as she started up the steps at headquarters. She hadn’t been authorized any overtime for this job, and Lieutenant Yamura was a stickler for staying within budget.

      There was a note on Marvia’s desk. Phone me at home, DY. She punched Dorothy Yamura’s СКАЧАТЬ