The Bessie Blue Killer. Richard A. Lupoff

to be at work this early. What—

      “Lindsey, get yourself together and start earning your paycheck. They beat you to the punch.”

      Lindsey said, “Mr. Richelieu? I’ve just—”

      “Never mind what you’ve just. I should have sent you back there early, or put someone else on this thing.”

      “You mean—”

      “Bessie Blue.”

      Lindsey said, “Who?”

      “Haven’t you read the case folder yet?”

      Lindsey could only stammer.

      “Good grief, feed ’em red meat and send ’em to the best of schools and they still don’t know a damn thing. That’s the name of the star airplane. And of the movie. Bessie Blue. They’ve already got their film crew in Oakland and they’re at work at the airport. Look for North Field. Find out what’s going on. Elmer Mueller’s already there, talk to him and take charge of the case. But don’t step on Elmer’s toes, Lindsey.”

      “Yes, sir. But what happened?”

      “Somebody got himself killed on the set. You just came through that airport, you must barely have missed the party. It’s still going on. Get your tail out there and see what’s happening. You’re off to some great start in SPUDS, Lindsey. Well, what are you waiting for?”

      “You’re talking to me, Mr. Richelieu.”

      “I don’t care. You should be on your way to Oakland by now. Try to get there before everybody else leaves. What do you think—”

      Lindsey took him at his word, cradled the handset and headed for a quick shower. Minutes later he was en route to Oakland. The Bessie Blue folder, still unread, lay in his attaché case on the seat beside him. It was still dark out, the first rays of dawn raising a mist off the hills beside the freeway.

      The Hyundai’s dashboard clock said it was four-thirty AM. Lindsey had turned on an all-news station and heard all about a threatened strike by supermarket clerks and a People’s Park protest is Berkeley. There was a piece about the aircraft carrier Abraham Lincoln sailing from Alameda with its battle group for maneuvers in the Pacific. Made sense. America had to be defended against aggressive Easter Islanders, or maybe swarms of penguins attacking from the South Pole.

      He switched to a jazz station. That was one thing Marvia Plum had done for him. She’d introduced him to something besides the discordant screeing that he’d thought synonymous with the word.

      It was easy to find the Bessie Blue set. There were half a dozen police cars with their roof-lights flashing red and blue. Lindsey parked the Hyundai behind them. A TV news-van was pulling out of the lot as Lindsey pulled in. There was another vehicle there, a coroner’s wagon. The body might still be in place. Lindsey had never seen a fresh murder victim. He shuddered at the thought, but something else was going on inside him.

      He felt his heart pounding and his blood pumping through his body. This had to be an adrenalin rush. He’d been involved with murders twice before, and there was nothing like the excitement they produced. He was getting addicted.

      He’d parked the Hyundai in a square clearing behind an aircraft hangar. At first the surface looked like blacktop but then Lindsey realized that it was an old type dirt-and-gravel lot where they sprayed a layer of oil every now and then to keep down the dust. Talk about poisoning the earth!

      The police cars were pulled up near the hangar. At the end of the line was a decade-old Cadillac. Area lights illuminated the parking area. They were bright enough for Lindsey to read the vanity plate on the Caddy. SURETY-1. That had to be Elmer Mueller’s car.

      The hangar’s huge rolling doors were closed and only a smaller metal door, the size of a normal house door, stood open. A uniformed Oakland policeman stood outside the door. His features looked Chinese. He was big enough to play a bad guy in the World Wrestling Federation. He stopped Lindsey. “Can’t go in, sir. Crime scene.”

      Lindsey tried to talk his way past the cop. He flashed his International Surety ID. Insurance credentials usually got him past cops. This one chose to be difficult.

      Twenty feet away a figure in a brown tweed jacket and slacks was paced back and forth. His face was directed down as if he was studying the hangar floor. His hair was thick, dark, curly, unkempt.

      Lindsey kept trying to talk his way past the cop. The cop raised his voice.

      The rumpled man turned, startled. He recognized Lindsey at the same time that Lindsey recognized him. He headed for the doorway, put his hand on the officer’s arm, said, “Let him in, Walter. This is Mr. Lindsey. He helps us out sometimes.”

      Walter touched one finger to the bill of his uniform cap and let Lindsey pass.

      “Walter Chen,” the smaller man said. “Good young officer. Bright future. How are you, Lindsey? You don’t mind if I call you that? I feel as if we’re friends, after that Duesenberg case. I remember we put you through a lot on that one. But it all came out in the end, didn’t it? It always does. Well, not always but usually. You’re here because of Mr. McKinney?”

      “I don’t know. I—It’s nice to see you again, Lieutenant High.”

      “Doc. I’ll just call you Lindsey—you like that better than Hobart, I recall. You call me Doc, right?” The two men had shaken hands, then Doc High patted the pockets of his tweed jacket, looking for his forbidden pipe and tobacco pouch.

      Lindsey smiled.

      “Caught me, eh?” High grinned sheepishly. He was several inches shorter than Lindsey and a few years older. Compared to the blue-uniformed Walter Chen he had looked tiny.

      Lindsey said, “Is Mr. McKinney the, uh, victim?”

      “Looks like it. Name on his coveralls, ID tag with a photo and his name. Leroy McKinney. Resident of Richmond. Come on, you want a look, you’d better look now. Coroner’s here, crime scene technicians are almost finished, Mr. McKinney will be leaving in a few minutes.”

      He took Lindsey by the elbow and steered him across the oil-stained cement floor. The hangar was cavernous and had the feeling of age. North Field was the older part of Oakland International, dating from the daredevil era when Earhart and Hegenberger flew out of Oakland to make their Pacific hops, back in the days when airplanes were exotic machines and aviation had the charisma of professional sports or MTV stardom.

      The body lay face-up, presumably where it had fallen. The forehead was caved in and brains and blood had filled the unnatural cavity, forming a horrifying triangle with the staring eyes. The brains and blood looked like scrambled eggs in dark ketchup. Lindsey’s stomach lurched and he turned away.

      “You all right, Lindsey?”

      Lindsey pulled a folded handkerchief from his trousers and mopped his brow. He felt uncomfortably chilly, despite his sudden outburst of cold sweat. He shoved the handkerchief back into his pocket. “I’m okay. It was just—”

      “Understand. You’ll start taking it in stride after you’ve seen your first few hundred.”

      “I don’t want to see that many. I’ve seen enough.”

      “You don’t want to look at Mr. McKinney? Up to you, but you never know what you’ll notice. Sometimes.…” He gestured vaguely.

      Lindsey turned back and looked at the body. The technicians had marked its position with white tape. The man was black and elderly. His short hair was mostly gray. His head was tilted slightly and one hand rested against his cheek. Lindsey could imagine this old man as a sleeping child long years ago, lying with his cheek nestled against his hand. There was a startled expression on his face. His other arm lay outstretched, the elbow bent so the hand lay palm-up, even with the face. The fingers were horribly deformed, clawlike.

      Lindsey felt a chill. The hangar was chilly. An old-fashioned woodstove did little to dispel the cold and damp of the previous