Maude asked the driver to take her to the local newspaper office where she could search for the old editions, especially the ones from around ten years earlier. She surfed thorough the digital papers finally finding the one concerning the woman’s death.
The article was brief, describing the woman as Wilma Penrose Borden, 73 years old, housewife and mother of two daughters, Ellen Borden Matthews and Isabella Borden Dawson. Grandchildren weren’t mentioned in the article, neither was the service publicized. The woman was found in her bed, her mouth in a rictus of death past any medical intervention. The writer noted the short time between the woman’s passing and her husband’s. John Borden had suffered a fall that took his life only two days earlier. The coroner ruled Wilma Borden’s death a suicide by self-administered poison.
“Please, take me to my hotel,” Maude told the cabbie. She didn’t know how the words came out of the chaos that was her mind. Her shoulders felt the weight of discovery upon them. This can’t be true, she thought sometime later, it can’t be happening. There must be a mistake. The gin bottle called her, its soothing liquid drowning her thoughts of evil that roamed the earth wearing the faces of men.
The next morning was Sunday, and her flight was due to leave Flagstaff in three hours. Maude went to a small church she had passed on the way to the hotel. She prayed some, and left the fear behind, choosing to face whatever it was coming head on.
On the way to the airport she called her partner, hoping she hadn’t wakened him from a deep sleep.
“Joe Allen here,” he said. His voice was clear, and wide awake.
“Joe, Maude. I’m about to board a plane from Flagstaff headed home.”
“Find out anything?’ he asked, a small yawn creeping into his voice.
“Maybe. I need for you to do a search on the Madison-MacArthur Psychiatric Hospital for the criminally insane. See if any major changes have taken place there. Check for an increase in incidents since a year ago. Look for anything that might have changed the status quo.”
“Okay, want to tell me what I’m really looking for?”
“I will when I get there. See you in about five hours. Can you pick me up at the airport?”
“Sure, I’ll be there.”
“I’ll see you then.”
“Maude, you sound different. Anything happen there?”
“I’ll see you in about five hours. We can talk about it then.”
The trip was smooth and Maude fell asleep on the plane, a blessing as far as she was concerned. She saw flying as a necessary way to get somewhere quickly, and the best way to catch a nap while you were working.
The flight attendant who worked the aisle saw that Maude had awakened and asked if she would like coffee.
“Bless you child. I would love coffee. A whole barrelful if you have it.”
Her knees hurt after sitting cramped in the seat for so long, the arthritis flaring in the stiff joints. Soon, she promised herself, I’ll get some plastic parts. She swallowed two ibuprofens with a small amount of water from a bottle in her bag, the dry residue of the bitter pills burning her throat as she choked them down. She heard it often, getting old isn’t for sissies, the words well-spoken by someone living the life.
The airport was almost empty, the commuters already gone, leaving the people such as her, traveling on a last minute impulse or necessity. She saw Joe outside waiting for her, worry lines across his young forehead as he watched for her. She gave him a wave, trying to ease his concern, but it came out half-hearted, an afterthought.
The door to Joe’s car was open, waiting for her, his 1966 Mustang classic a beauty of a ride. Maude remembered when she had seen the pink one on the car lot, back in September of 1965. She loved it immediately, but could only gaze at it from afar. Now here she was riding in a blue one just like it, with a handsome young man of only twenty-nine years. My, how far she had come.
The wind blew the remaining cobwebs of airplane sleep from her head, the reality of the city where she lived buoying her mood. She felt better just having Joe around. She knew it would only wait a few more minutes. Soon he would know Richard Dawson was back in business. Perhaps, she thought, someone has used him and his sickness for their other reasons; maybe to grind their own axe, someone I’ve dealt with in the past. Of course it was possible. But Joe, like her, would quickly dismiss an imposter, recognizing the work of a real psychopath when it was presented.
The alarm bell had sounded when she saw the envelope with her name. She had seen that scrawl before, but had forgotten, or maybe she had forbidden the thought to come. The blatant teasing of a watcher had seemed almost a benevolent action in his benign, bright blue Chevy. Lilly Ann, the most precious of all that Maude held dear, abducted and frightened beyond measure, but unharmed. They were all immaculately planned incidents from the mind of a bona-fide madman.
“Joe, you got time for coffee, and for me to get a smoke? I have to tell you a story.”
It was a little later, the coffee was cold in his cup, hers had been refilled twice during the time she sat and smoked her second unfiltered of the day. She had learned to make them last. He was silent, thinking. She left him alone in his reverie, just as she had been since last night.
“Think you could be wrong?” He asked, just because it was the thing to do.
“Sure, I guess I could. Which part though? The part where I think he killed his grandparents, and took their house and possessions, or the part where he is now using the old man’s name to buy vehicles?”
“Nothing has changed about the place in the last year, Maude. They haven’t had any new incidences since the inmate was killed a few months back. Dawson is still there, or at least he was when we checked last. Is he that good at what he does; can he really fool a houseful of psychiatrists?”
“I don’t know Joe. That’s why I went to Flagstaff. I remembered something from the records about a man named John Borden, some part of Dawson’s life that was used by his lawyer to prove insanity. I prayed I was wrong. I pray that I am wrong now.”
“Tomorrow, when the hospital is open for visitors, I’m going to face him, to see if the man is still alive in the body, orchestrating chaos. Only then can I be sure. You can go if you want, Joe, but I won’t feel bad if you don’t.’
“Oh, I’ll go with you, wouldn’t miss it.” Joe answered. “So how about we get out of here, and I take you home. Then I’m going to play some pool, and drink a lot of beer.”
“Sounds good. I think I’ll get in touch with Jack and tell him some of what I think has been happening. He deserves to know of the possibility.”
Chapter 24
The next day started badly for Maude. Her head ached, and a cloud seemed to cover all the blue in her eyes. She vaguely remembered the last drink she had taken before passing out on the bed. A sickness filled her guts; her drinking was taking its toll. She thought about alternatives to booze, and that made her headache worse. Maybe after a cigarette and a cup of black coffee she would feel like a human again. The morning sky was filled with rainclouds, a great thing for a country in a drought, but a bad thing for a person who already had a headache.
A little later, it eased, and her stomach settled, but Maude’s disposition was still sour. She wondered what was happening to her life; drinking it away wasn’t helping solve any problems. If anything, the booze was making problems of its own. She eased into the shower, hating again the large reservoir that dumped water upon her. She vowed that after today she would never be troubled again by the piece of crap shower head.
Stretching her arms upward, Maude began her breast exam as she did without fail each week, in honor of her mother. The fear of cancer was strong in her. She thought it was because of the control the disease exercised upon the body. A person such as her mother had no choice but to live with it until it finally took her life. Now, fully satisfied that she had beaten the disease one more week, Maude left the bathroom and got dressed, her mood lifting some as the sun broke through the clouds.
&nbs
p; Getting to work was faster those days. Her lieutenant had insisted Maude be given a better car to drive after the Heartless Killer was finally jailed and neither she, nor her partner was ever officially credited with the killer’s capture. Lieutenant Patterson had felt guilty that Maude was treated badly by the chain of command, more especially by their captain who wanted to be rid of her. The best that Patterson could do was to give her a new model, unmarked car. Up to that time, she had been forced to drive an old beater car whose noise gave advance notice of her approach to a crime scene.
Most of the time, she and Joe switched out who would drive since it was a lot more satisfying now to be behind the wheel. Besides a smooth ride, the new car had a top of the line computer in the dash, making it easy to stop and write a report without leaving the vehicle.
It was Monday morning, a workday, and Maude headed out to fetch Joe from his apartment near downtown, stopping first to run through the drive-in for coffee and a breakfast taco. It was a ritual that she enjoyed when it happened. The street where Joe lived was about five miles from the Cop Shop, the big building that housed the police agency of Madison. Most of the time, he rode his bike to work. The detectives’ offices were located near the warrant division, making for a more convenient transfer of information when actual paperwork had to be exchanged. Digital information was being used more and more, but there were still signed documents that required paper.
Joe had researched the website of the hospital already and found that everything was intact, no reported escapes or unusual activity. The information that Maude had obtained on her own in Flagstaff had to be recorded along with other case facts. She used the term information for her report, making it short with observations, but no personal bias. It was business as usual, regardless of her intuition.
When they came into the office, Joe took a left into the Patterson’s office and stayed a few minutes, and then returned with a silly grin. Maude raised her eyebrows, wondering what could be funny in James Patterson’s office early in the morning. “Taking some vacation days, that’s all,” he said.
“Going somewhere?” she asked him.
“I’m thinking about taking a trip down past Rhodes County toward Ellison. Maybe spend some time with your niece, get some fishing done too. Want to come?”
“No, you two don’t need me around. I’m going to get with Jack and make a trip to Houston to check out B&G Transport. When are you leaving?”
“Friday, be back Tuesday. I don’t want to run out on you for too long. Lieutenant put me on desk duty today, got to catch up with my expense reports and some paperwork from the trip. Sorry I can’t go with you to see Dawson.”
“I’m going to clear with the Lieutenant and maybe leave in the morning for a day or so to Houston. Maybe back the same day, but I kind of doubt it. That’s a long trip. I could go by and see if our friend Jesus Jones is still turning over rocks. I also want to put in a word for him with Jack, maybe make the man an honorary deputy. We owe a debt to the man for spotting Leroy.” Maude was thinking about the trip already, hoping to wrap up the rest of the Edwards Bay murder case.
“You want to go where?” Patterson asked. “What have you lost in Houston?”
“We didn’t get to finish the investigation, the man who organized the hit hasn’t been found yet. If we go to Houston, there’s connection with a transport company that owns the van one of the killers drove. I don’t need to do Jack’s work for him, I want to help find the man who had those people killed. I’m willing to take a couple of vacation days to do it.”
Patterson looked around his office and out in the big room full of cubicles that were occupied by detectives doing their paperwork and waiting for lunch.
“Two days, Maude. That’s all I can give you, but your partner has to stay. I need one of you on duty here.”
“Great, Lieutenant, I’ll give Jack a call. Then I’m taking a drive out to the hospital. Would you like to ride along?”
“I think I would, Maude, I wouldn’t mind getting out, seeing the city.”
Sheriff Jack Fuller was in the middle of eating a sandwich bag of Captain Crunch when the phone rang. Most of his department was slow that morning and it seemed slower because of the hectic pace of the previous two weeks. The Prosecution was all set to bring Leroy and Ginger to trial for the murders, but rumor was his defense attorney was going to try to get Leroy’s confession thrown out. It wasn’t looking good since Harry Charles was dead and his testimony unheard.
The idea of going to Houston and finding the Boss was a good one. Jack was ready, and he would be ready the next morning. The ride to Houston would be long and interesting with Maude Rogers along. He figured they would take his county car, it was unmarked and comfortable.
The trip with James Patterson opened a whole new window for Maude. He tended to talk very little in the office, but in the car, it was difficult to get a word in. He was wound up, glad to be back on a police call, even if it was no more than a handshake with other officials. The hospital for the criminally insane didn’t offer much that a person could take home as news, but it had been a while since Patterson made the rounds with any of his detectives. He didn’t have a sergeant in Homicide, just the four detectives, which made him the go-to guy in all situations.
A big building loomed ahead, a surprise to the first-time visitor. The surrounding scenery was mostly hill country grass and trees. A Madrone or two stood near a group of cedars, their evergreen beauty always a wonder. Light colored stone covered the huge building, the latest addition to the Madison-MacArthur cooperative effort. The City of McArthur was much smaller than Madison but their tax base was huge, with large industrial companies moving into the area. The city could afford to purchase the stone.
Maude glanced over at her lieutenant, hearing him rattling off, wondering if his wife ever let him talk at home.
“When did you last visit this place?” she asked him when he finally gave her an opening.
“The day they had the grand opening; that was the one and only time I’ve been here. To tell you the truth, these places give me the creeps.”
“I know what you mean. I wouldn’t be here today if I didn’t feel I had to do it. We’ll be going to the 22nd floor, that’s where the violent and aggressive ones are housed. On Dawson’s one year anniversary an inmate was killed here. The killer was never discovered. Some thought it might be Dawson, but he was catatonic, also he’s locked in his cell most of the time. I guess there are some hours he gets out for therapy, or some kind of activity, but the security staff were certain he was incapable of the killing.
“Makes me feel better knowing a guy like him will be here forever.” Patterson said, a small shiver running down his arms in the big elevator.
“Hey, she said, after the long trip into the building. “We’re here. This is the twenty second floor.”
The two police officers walked through the wide bullet-proof glass door, observing the rooms with locked entrances. A planned parade of soft colors had every door a different shade, the rainbow broken down into peaceful pastels.
“Nice looking place. This isn’t the room where Dawson is housed. These people are temporary residents. The facility tries to make the short stays very pleasant.” Maude had been there before.
Identification was required at the desk by security personnel who also took their weapons and deposited them in a locked safety area. It was awkward for Maude to give up her Glock for it was a part of her daily uniform.
“We’re here to see Richard Dawson #73, police business. We want a visual of the inmate and would like to speak to his personal physician.”
“Please, be seated, Detective. We’ll call Doctor Hopkins.” The first officer told them.
Maude began to want a cigarette in the worst way-the thought of having to see Dawson again had triggered the nicotine urge. She held her thoughts, observing the staff and their routines.
“Where are they? Patterson asked. “They in cells or rooms?”
“The men
and women on this floor have iron bars to keep them in. Rooms are for those who have never killed for pleasure.”
“Excuse me. Sorry to keep you waiting, I am Doctor Ian Hopkins. I understand you need proof of Number 73’s welfare?”
Maude and her lieutenant introduced themselves and showed the doctor their badges. “You could call it that. Do you have some time, Doctor?”
He looked at his watch and frowned. “Yes,” he said, “but only for a few minutes.”
“Is there somewhere we can talk besides this corridor?” Patterson asked, his phobia getting the better of him.
“Of course, please step into my office,” Hopkins said, opening one of the locked pastel doors. He seated himself in the chair behind the desk and asked what they wanted to know.
“Has Richard Dawson’s condition changed since he has been incarcerated here?”
“Why, what do you mean? Our job is to help him heal, to realize the wrongness of the actions he performed. We always hope our clients have become less burdened during their stay.”
“How much do you know about this man, Doctor Hopkins?” Maude responded.
“A great deal, I’m afraid. He was a very troubled man when he arrived. His mental condition, I am sorry to say has not changed much.”
“When Dawson was first admitted, he was in very critical condition from a bicycle/motor vehicle accident. He was catatonic as well. That’s what I want to know, does Dawson have his wits about him?”
“No, I’m afraid not.” Hopkins ruefully admitted. “Too much happened to his brain, the damage can’t be undone.”
“How sure are you of that, Doctor Hopkins? Would you bet your kid’s life on it?”
Hopkins sat still for a minute then nodded. “Yes, I would.”
The Maude Rogers Murder Collection Page 50
