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