The Radio Red Killer. Richard A. Lupoff
“His brother always brings him and drops him off and picks him up afterward. I don’t know what he does while Bob is here. I mean, while he was here. He didn’t come inside the station. I just saw him once in a while when he dropped Bob off or picked him up. Some of the staffers hang out around the corner at Shaughnessy’s. On Huntington. But I don’t know if Mr. Bjorner—the other Mr. Bjorner—ever did that. Bob used to go next door for a snack after his show, or sometimes to Shaughnessy’s for a glass of wine. But he always came back here and waited for his ride.”
“What’s this brother’s name?”
Jessie Loman rolled her eyes. When they came back into focus she said, “Herb. Herb Bjorner.”
“Do you have an address for either brother?”
Loman shook her head. “No, I—Bob was kind of paranoid. He didn’t like people to know where he lived. He always picked up his paycheck and his mail at the station.”
“Okay.”
“As a matter of fact, I can give you a directory of station personnel. It has addresses and phone numbers, but of course we only have what people give us.”
“Please, yes.”
“I’ll have to go get it.”
“I’ll go with you.”
The list was longer than Marvia had expected. Loman explained that KRED used a lot of volunteers and part-time people.
Marvia folded the list and slipped it into a pocket. She looked at her own wristwatch. No red radios or lightning logos, just a plain timepiece. She said, “Thanks for your cooperation, Ms. Loman. You’ll probably be asked to help us out later on. We appreciate your assistance.”
Jessie Loman got up and headed for the stairs.
Marvia followed her. The crime scene was cleared now. The glass shards outside Studio B had been swept up, the smashed door was removed, and KRED seemed to have returned to normal.
Robert Bjorner was on his way to the county morgue, in downtown Oakland, subject to the tender ministrations of the coroner.
The evening news was on; concealed speakers carried the station’s programming in the lobby atrium. A smooth voice was describing a shouting match in the Oakland City Council over who would pick up the bills for a hundred million dollars worth of defaulted stadium construction bonds. Marvia thought the money might have been better spent on schools or health care, but what did she know about Oakland politics?
Last to leave. She found herself longing for her old apartment on Oxford Street, a turret room in a gorgeous Victorian that had long since been split into rental units. That was gone forever, but she had to get another place of her own. She was going stir crazy back on Bonita Street.
Or maybe, she thought, she was just tired and hungry. The thrill of being back at work had passed.
She heaved a sigh and pushed open the frosted-glass doors and stepped onto the sidewalk and bounced off something huge and soft and warm.
It was a man’s belly.
CHAPTER THREE
She staggered back and bounced off the door. Her right hand moved to her holster and her fingers reached for the snap that secured her S&W .40 automatic. Night had fallen but light from a streetlamp on Barbara Jordan Boulevard combined with the glow that penetrated the frosted glass of the KRED doors. There was enough illumination to show her the man she had collided with.
He looked a lot like Bob Bjorner. A little thinner—not much—and a little younger. And his skin wasn’t bright red. It was the khaki-tan shade that Marvia had seen on many brothers and sisters of mixed ancestry. His hair was crinkly. His eyes were pale blue. He wore a quilted jacket and patched khaki trousers.
Marvia dropped her hand to her side. Paranoid cop. Typical paranoid cop reflex.
An old woman swathed in sagging layers of colorless sweaters stopped and watched the encounter. She was singing something unrecognizable and nodding vigorously to an invisible companion.
“Move along, please,” Marvia urged the old woman.
Eyes opened wide and the woman waved her arms like a bird trying to take wing. “Help, sister? Is this bruiser bothering you? You need help, sister? This brute pigess harassing you, brother? You need help?”
Marvia moved toward the woman. “There’s nothing happening here, ma’am, please just move along.”
The woman spun around and wandered back toward Huntington Way. A street crazy, that was all Marvia needed now, a street crazy on her hands. She focused on the big man.
“Are you Herbert Bjorner?”
The man nodded. Behind him a huge Oldsmobile ticked like a time bomb. Probably just the engine cooling. It was parked behind Marvia’s cruiser. It was in a ten-minute zone but by this hour the parking limit was off for the night. And besides, he must have his priorities.
Bjorner tried to push past Marvia but she stopped him with a hand on his wrist. He said, “Let me in. My brother—let me past, please.”
Marvia stepped back.
Bjorner tried the frosted-glass doors but they wouldn’t open. They’d locked automatically behind Marvia Plum.
Bjorner cursed.
Marvia said, “There’s nothing to see in there. Did you know—”
“Bobby’s dead,” Herbert Bjorner said.
“That’s right. I’m sorry.” The brother seemed fairly calm. That was a relief; Marvia didn’t want a three-hundred-pound elderly man having hysterics on her hands. Why did the Bjorners carry that much weight anyhow? Didn’t they know they were looking for an early grave?
Right, she thought, just look at poor Bobby.
“Were you notified, Mr. Bjorner?”
“I heard it on KRED.”
“When was that?”
“Uh—I don’t know. I dropped Bobby off like always and went home and lay down. I haven’t been feeling too good lately, I was a little worried about my health. And what would happen to Bobby if anything happened to me.”
“And you had your radio tuned to KRED?”
“Bobby has one of the old monitors. Sure. But I must have dozed off. I woke up and heard Nikki Klein’s voice, I thought maybe I was dreaming.”
“Please—?”
Herb Bjorner shook his head. “What?”
“Nikki Klein.”
“Oh. She does KRED news. She was talking about Bobby. His years of faithful service to the cause. Steadfast in the years of trial, unwavering before the winds of travail, a fighter who would be missed.”
He stopped and looked at the ground.
Marvia said, “You knew then?”
“No.” Bjorner shook his head. There was a smile on his face, a very sad smile. “I thought she was talking about him going off the air. I know they’ve been trying to dump the old-timers. Sun Mbolo, Jon Lennon, Serita Sunset, Willem O’Hare, Sojourner Strength, Lon Dayton, that whole disgusting bunch. They were trying to get rid of all the real movement people, the fighters, the strong revolutionary-fronters. I thought there had been a coup at KRED, they were finally firing everybody who wouldn’t turn their coats and join the capitalist sellout gang that’s running KRED now.”
He looked flushed. She thought, All we need is for him to kick, too. “Are you all right? Do you need any medication?”
He waved her objections away. “You know what they were doing to Bob? Salami tactics, salami tactics. Your opponent starts with the salami and you start with the knife and you take a tiny slice