The Radio Red Killer. Richard A. Lupoff
character, Marvia Plum, who one day may become featured on the Internet Drama Hour or whatever the medium is then. Once again, Dick Lupoff will be ahead of the pack.
LEAD-IN: SCRIPT BREAK I
BOB LOWERY:
WELL, HERE’S THAT LITTLE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS AND THE NEATLY TRIMMED LAWN. LET’S SEE IF MOLLY AND MIKE ARE UP YET.
SFX: FOOTSTEPS ON DRIVEWAY, DOORBELL RINGS, DOOR OPENS.
MOLLY MARTIN:
WHY, HELLO THERE, BOB. LOOK, MIKE, IT’S BOB LOWERY! BOB, YOU’RE JUST IN TIME TO JOIN US FOR BREAKFAST.
MIKE MARTIN:
SAY, BOB, WHY DON’T YOU SEE IF THE NEWSPAPER’S HERE YET. WE CAN START OUR DAY TOGETHER.
BOB:
RIGHT YOU ARE. (GRUNTS) SAY, THERE’S A PHOTO ON THE FRONT PAGE OF THAT BIG PREMIERE LAST NIGHT, RIGHT HERE IN THE QUEEN CITY OF THE OHIO
VALLEY. AND—WHY, MOLLY, ISN’T THAT YOUR HUBBY BUSSING A BLONDE
STARLET RIGHT THERE?
MOLLY:
(LAUGHS) THAT’S OUR LITTLE NIECE, BOB. HER NAME IS CATHY TAYLOR AND SHE MAKES HER SCREEN DEBUT IN THAT WONDERFUL NEW MGM MUSICAL, TOP HITS OF 1941.
BOB:
PHEW! THAT’S A RELIEF.
SFX: POURING COFFEE, CLICK OF CREAM PITCHER ON CUP, CHINA CLINKING, SPOON ON CHINA.
BOB:
THANKS, MOLLY. MY, THAT SMELLS TEMPTING!
MIKE:
YEP, WE’RE MIGHTY PROUD OF YOUNG CATHY, BOB. I KNOW THE
SHUTTER-BUGS WERE THERE TO SNAP THE BIG STARS, BUT YOU MARK MY WORD, CATHY TAYLOR IS GOING PLACES IN HOLLYWOOD! AND SHE’S A CINCINNATI GIRL, YOU KNOW, BORN AND BRED.
SFX: SIZZLING, HISS.
MOLLY:
OH, MY GOODNESS, I GOT SO
INTERESTED IN THE NEWSPAPER, I
FORGOT ALL ABOUT THE BACON AND EGGS.
SFX: METAL SPATULA ON IRON FRYING PAN.
MOLLY:
MM, JUST IN THE NICK OF TIME. JUST HOLD YOUR PLATES UP, BOB AND MIKE, AND WE’LL HAVE SOME BREAKFAST FOR YOU TWO BEFORE YOU KNOW IT.
BOB:
MY, THAT LOOKS DEE-LICIOUS. I’LL BET YOU FRIED THOSE EGGS IN PURE,
NUTRITIOUS ZAM! SHORTENING, THE HIGH-QUALITY, LOW-PRICE
HOUSEWIFE’S BEST FRIEND.
MIKE:
YOU BET SHE DID, BOB. WE WOULDN’T HAVE ANY OTHER BRAND HERE IN THE LITTLE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN
SHUTTERS. AND THAT BEAUTIFUL BACON, OF COURSE, IS FINEST STARS ’N’ STRIPES PREMIUM BRAND BACON.
SFX: CRUNCH, CHEWING.
BOB:
WHY, IT’S SCRUMPTIOUS.
MOLLY:
IT SURE IS, BOB!
MIKE:
SAY, OVER HERE ON THIS OTHER PAGE, I SEE WHERE PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT SAYS WE’D BETTER KEEP OUR HANDS OFF THOSE WARS GOING ON IN EUROPE AND ASIA. I’LL GO ALONG WITH THAT, MOLLY AND BOB. WHAT DO YOU THINK?
MOLLY:
IF PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT SAYS SO, IT MAKES GOOD SENSE TO ME.
BOB:
IT SURE DOES MAKE SENSE, MOLLY AND MIKE. YOU KNOW, WE’VE PLENTY OF HARD WORK TO DO RIGHT HERE IN THE GOOD OLD U.S. OF A. THE LAST TIME WE GOT INVOLVED IN EUROPE A LOT OF AMERICAN BOYS MADE THE SUPREME SACRIFICE, AND HERE IT IS JUST A FEW YEARS LATER AND THEY’RE AT IT ALL OVER AGAIN. I SAY, LET THOSE
FOREIGNERS SETTLE THEIR OWN SQUABBLES. I’M AN AMERICAN!
[BREAKFAST WITH MOLLY AND MIKE, WQCY, CINCINNATI (1940)]
CHAPTER ONE
Somebody was dead.
Marvia Plum slapped the handset back into its cradle, bounced out of her chair and sprinted for the exit.
* * * *
It was good to be back. Back in Berkeley, back at her old job, even back in her police sergeant’s uniform. As a homicide detective, Marvia Plum worked in plain clothes most of the time, but the option was hers to wear uniform or civvies. And at least for now, at least for her first few days back on the job, she reveled in the feel of neatly pressed blue wool, the weight of her sidearm on her hip, the reflection of her brightly polished badge when she glanced at a mirror or passed a glassed storefront.
It was almost like being a rookie again. She was doing something she believed in. This was a time when society was jaded and the public viewed police officers as either incompetent bunglers or deadly enemies, a time when all too many cops had become burnouts, cynics, or worse. Still, Marvia Plum felt that she was doing a useful job.
There really were good guys and bad guys, and Marvia was one of the good guys. And she was skilled at her work.
Maybe it was a disastrous marriage, an impulsive resignation from the Berkeley Police Department so she could leave the state and join her new husband in Nevada, the disillusionment and depression that came when she realized how badly she had blundered. Maybe it was all those things that made her understand what she had given up and made her appreciate her old life all the more when she got it back.
She’d spent the first few days moving papers, studying regs and manuals and case files, bringing herself back up to speed on conditions in the town where she had lived for so many years. Now she picked up her telephone and answered a 911 switched from the dispatcher upstairs.
Somebody was dead.
People died every day in a town the size of Berkeley, but most of them died of heart attacks or cancer or pneumonia or automobile crashes. Occasionally someone picked a basket full of beautiful wild mushrooms and cooked them for dinner and died of liver failure. Once in a great while a construction worker fell from a high scaffold or an industrial worker got caught in the jaws of a deadly machine and wound up crushed or mauled or torn to bits.
But this somebody had died in the seemingly safe surroundings of a radio studio, had apparently dropped dead in front of an open mike and an audience of uncounted thousands of listeners. When the cry came in to the emergency dispatcher the caller was hysterical.
The station had received a threat on their community news fax line. The mid-afternoon political show was about to go on the air. If KRED’s regular commentator went on the air today he would die, the message warned. It was worded in a weird broken English.
Nobody took the threat very seriously. KRED had a reputation for championing unpopular causes. It had a history of controversy and turmoil. If every threat, demand, or ultimatum that came to the station were for real, KRED would have disappeared from the airwaves long ago.
The commentator laughed off the threat. He’d heard it all before. He settled himself in front the microphone and there he died.
Marvia arrived at KRED three minutes after the message hit her desk. The first people dispatched had been paramedics furnished by the Berkeley Fire Department. Their ambulance stood in front of the KRED building, its roof lights flashing.
The station’s building was on Berkeley’s recently renamed Barbara Jordan Boulevard, just a few blocks from the Hall of Justice on McKinley Avenue. Police headquarters and city jail were crammed into one outdated building, due to be replaced soon. It had been due to be replaced soon for years.
As she jumped from the cruiser she took in the surroundings of the station’s two-story terra cotta structure. To the left, on the corner of Jordan Boulevard and Huntington Way, was the Bara Miyako Japanese restaurant.