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