One Murder at a Time: A Casebook. Richard A. Lupoff
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drug dealers now known as Blue Beetle and Acid Alice once had very different lives. But now they are destroying the lives of children, and “Marvia the cop” must find a way to stop them.
Throughout this series, Richard A. Lupoff takes us back and forth through time and space, interweaving, ripping apart, putting together again. As a student of history and popular culture, I find Lupoff’s ability to connect past and present and create readable, thought-provoking books that also manage to be engaging mysteries rather fascinating. The stories in this casebook are enjoyable, but I would recommend that anyone not familiar with the exploits of Hobart Lindsey and Marvia Plum start at the beginning and read his or her way through the series.
In the meantime, here’s hoping the next Lindsey/Plum book will be available soon.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Ms. Bailey’s comments were written shortly after the publication of The Radio Red Killer (1997). There would indeed be another Lindsey-and-Plum novel, The Emerald Cat Killer, but it was not to be published until 2010. The thirteen-year delay was not planned, nor had I suffered a protracted writer’s block. I continued to work on many other projects, but the planned eighth and final Lindsey-and-Plum novel, The Tinpan Tiger Killer, simply refused to emerge from that misty sea where planned-but-unwritten books drift forlornly. Finally, at the suggestion of my friend and colleague Michael Kurland, I simply set it aside, cleared my mind, and —voila!—in a matter of weeks, there was The Emerald Cat Killer. Some bibliographers persist in listing The Tinpan Tiger Killer among my works. Alas, that book remains adrift on the misty sea and will probably never be written. At least, not as a Lindsey-and-Plum novel.—RAL
STAR LOTUS
“Why me?” Marvia Plum asked.
Dorothy Yamura gave her the kind of look that cops give other cops when they’re speaking in private. No civilians around. No media around. No politicians around. No civil rights activists around.
“You know, I’d like to be treated as a cop for once. I like to think I made sergeant because I’m a good cop, not because I’m an African-American female.”
“Don’t forget to add single mother.” Dorothy Yamura leaned back in her chair. “And I’d like to think I made lieutenant because I’m a good cop, too, Marvia. Not because the old Irishman was suffering from white guilt over the detention camps. Well, O’Hara’s retired now and I’ve got his job and you’ve got mine and we’ve got a serial killer in Berkeley. At least, I think we’ve got a serial killer.”
Marvia grinned, not happily. “How many bodies does it take to make the case? How many have there been now, five, six?”
“Five.”
“And you’re sure they’re the work of one killer?”
Dorothy Yamura shook her head. She wore civilian clothes, the dress-for-success look. With her glossy hair pulled behind her head and her thin northern Japanese features, she looked like a bank executive or the newest partner in a major California law firm. She did not look like a cop.
Neither did Marvia Plum—or she would not have, to an observer from an earlier era. But in this age, a black female in a smart, form-fitting police sergeant’s uniform did not draw the stares and comments she once would have.
“We called in our tame consultant from the University,” Yamura explained. “These murders have some of the earmarks of the classic serial killer. But others are missing. In fact, some of the signs point straight away from a serial killer. Some of them make me wonder if they’re even connected.”
She extended a slim, meticulously manicured hand and tapped a glossy fingernail on the top folder on her desk. “Look at these, Marvia. How familiar are you with this series?”
“I’ve followed them. Remember, Telegraph Avenue was my old beat. I’ve had enough cases that centered there. It’s kind of a hobby, now, following the incident reports and the stats. Everybody knows this town would be a dead duck if the Telegraph merchants had to close up and move away. But every time we try and get a handle on the crime there, you’d think we were trying to repeal the Bill of Rights.”
Now it was Dorothy Yamura’s turn to grin wryly. “That’s why I want to pull all these cases together. We’re going to work on the notion that they are connected. If they are, if we’re right and we can figure out what’s going on and catch the perp, we can get a major bad guy off the streets and stop these killings. If we’re wrong…well, we can still tackle the cases one by one and solve them that way. Like the Twelve-Step people say, One day at a time.”
Marvia Plum nodded. “One murder at a time.”
“Okay.” Yamura seemed relieved. “What’s your plan?”
Plum pulled the stack of folders toward herself. They slid smoothly on the polished glass on top of Yamura’s desk. “I have to study these, of course. And I want to talk to your pet big-dome, and to the people who are bringing the pressure.”
“Sounds good to me. Okay, jot this down. Consultant at UC is Martha Rachel Bernstein, Ph.D. Here’s her phone number. And Mistress Moonflower, she runs that shop called Woodstock West on the avenue.”
“I know it well. And I know Mistress Moonflower.” Marvia Plum made a sour face.
“Yes. Moonflower’s after us to solve these murders. Says that the publicity is killing trade. Half of her customers are fourteen-year-old kids from Walnut Creek who think it’s daring to take the train into Berkeley and buy black light posters and rolling papers and take them home with them. Now all the mommies and daddies are cracking down on their little darlings and Woodstock West is losing money.”
“Moonflower has no other ax to grind?”
Dorothy Yamura gave her little, breathy laugh. She seemed reluctant to let the laughter out except in tiny, rationed bursts. “Woodstock West got hit by a burglar or burglars. You must have read the report. Or at least seen it on the news. Channel Two loved it. I think there was even a little network pickup.”
“Oh, yes. Jimi Hendrix’s guitar. The very one he used at the Monterey Pops in the Summer of Love. I did see the footage. That was the one he poured lighter fluid all over and set fire to.”
“Yes. That was considered art in 1967. The Who smashed ’em up and Jimi set ’em on fire.” She got a faraway look. Marvia wondered where Dorothy Yamura had been in 1967 but there were some things that a sergeant did not ask a lieutenant. Even if they were friends.
Marvia Plum stood up and hefted the stack of folders in her arms. She started to leave Dorothy Yamura’s office.
“Oh, one more thing.” Plum turned back. “You know Councilmember Hanson?”
“Sherry Hanson? Sure. Never met a cop she didn’t hate.”
“Right. Well, she’s interested in this case.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“She’s been burning up the phone lines. She says this is a conspiracy between the business interests and the Fascist police to ethnic-cleanse Berkeley.”
“Ethnic cleansing? What does that have to do with it?”
“Her phrase, Marvia. You better call her up, or better yet go see her at City Hall. At least she can’t say it’s a white male conspiracy.”
“No, her favorite line is that I’ve sold out both my race and my sex.”
Yamura waved her hand. “Do your best, Marvia. Just do your best.” She ran her long graceful fingers through her long, glossy hair. “Oh, I meant to tell you. Sally O’Hara sends her love.”
Marvia grinned. Sally O’Hara was the old lieutenant’s daughter. She’d refused to join the Berkeley force. Didn’t want to ride her daddy’s coattails. So she’d joined the Chicago PD. She was a rising star in that city, and when her father retired he’d gone to live with her.
“What’s new with Sally?”
“Just