“I thought you knew. Who else could have arranged everything?”
“And Chavez?” Maude asked, knowing the answer.
“Dean Stone brought him in as an expert. He’s the one who knows the formulas.”
“Do you know where Stone is now?”
“He…he said someone had found out and he had to leave. He…left me and Chavez to the take the blame for everything. I never wanted anyone to get hurt. It was my husband, he has dementia, and I needed money. You understand don’t you, Detective?” she asked pleadingly.
“Yes, I understand,” Maude said disgustedly, “Just as I always do when criminals get caught. Everyone has a good reason. Tell it to the district attorney.”
During Maude’s chase after Paula Bledsoe, Jack had been busy. The chemistry lab was running strong when he opened the door to the addition that was kept locked during school hours. The ingredients to make the potent pills were scattered in buckets under work tables. Workers in aprons were rolling the tubs of blue, green, and yellow pills away from the work tables to the packaging area across the room. Huge, air-handlers were roaring, cleaning the air of residual chemical substances before releasing it back into the environment. Great stacks of hollow books sat ready to be filled with the illegal substance for transport by B&G drivers.
Jack pulled his weapon and yelled, “This is the police. You’re all under arrest for the manufacture of a controlled substance. Put your hands up.” He saw a man at the far side of the room, reaching into his pocket. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“You got this Jack?” Maude had entered the room quietly, not wanting to disturb Jack’s authority. She waited until he nodded and asked, “Got those flex cuffs?”
“They’re in my pocket,” he said, keeping his eyes on the five workers at the tables.
Maude ran the cuffs together, making a chain to keep all the men together until drug enforcement officers could arrive and take over. When the last one was secured, she asked about Chavez, the cook. The men in cuffs looked toward a closed door within the room. “Want to take him Jack?”
“Much obliged Maude. I do at that.”
The rest was easy, because Chavez was a professional, and knew that his best bet was silence. His Mob connections would hire a powerful lawyer to get him the best deal. Chavez went quietly, without a struggle. He didn’t have a weapon of any kind, or if he had one, he made sure that it was well hidden.
“I have to go, Jack, Dean Stone is waiting for me. He has too much against him, so he may not go without a fight, but I promise, I’ll be back then we can get a cup and have a smoke.”
“I’ll be waiting for you right here.” Jack said, his face set as always in a frown of concentration. “Don’t take too long, they might run out of coffee.”
The administration office was closed, the business of academia over for another day. Maude met Mrs. Clark in the corridor. The woman was frazzled, her hair askew, sweat glistening on her forehead. When she saw Maude with the Glock in her hand, she stepped to the side.
“He’s in there,” she whispered. “I know nothing of all this, detective, except it’s disgraceful and very inconvenient. I suppose you’ll arrest him?”
“Yes, if he allows it.”
“He has a gun. I saw it on his desk.”
“I’m sure he does, Mrs. Clark, now you’d best go on and get out. There’s going to be a lot of lawmen around soon. They’ll be taking your statement, so don’t go too far.”
“I wouldn’t consider leaving. I’m a law abiding citizen,” she said in a huff, leaving Maude alone in the corridor.
The quiet was overwhelming after the noise of the laboratory and the wailing of Professor Bledsoe. Maude wondered why Dean Stone had stayed instead of trying to escape. Big man that Stone was, he still could have made it as far as his car, maybe hidden out for a while. Human behavior never ceased to amaze her.
“Dean Stone, I’m coming in. Put that gun on the desk where I can see it. I am in no mood to kill you today.” She spoke from outside the wooden door, her voice carrying into the quietness of the large room.
“The gun is on the desk, detective. Come right in.” Stone said, coughing a little.
She opened the door to see the butt of a silenced .45 automatic pistol, not unlike the one that was used by Leroy Thomas on his victims. Dean Stone was sitting at the desk, his chair turned toward the window, a trail of blood running down his left arm. The blinds were open, allowing the late afternoon sunlight to filter in, highlighting the dust mites in the room.
“Do you see that building across the parking lot, the one under construction?” Stone asked, coughing again. “We paid for that building with the money from the operation, and the rotunda on the chapel? That too, but don’t tell the Bishop,” he said, giving a short laugh. The coughing was getting worse. Maude saw the blood trailing onto the floor, a few drops at a time at first, then more.
“Why did you have the girl killed? She asked, keeping the weapon trained on his body.
“She wanted money. That little red Mercedes you thought belonged to Aaron Dennis-that was hers. But it wasn’t enough. She wanted a big cut of the pie, but I told her we had so much to do here, it wasn’t possible to give her more. She was going to the police, and chance getting immunity. Aaron didn’t have anything to do with all this. He didn’t know.” Stone’s voice was shakier, his breath coming in short gasps. “It was unfortunate, but he picked the wrong girl.”
“How did you know about the resort; that they would be there?”
“I paid that girl in the dorm to keep an eye on her, to tell me if Jenny was planning a vacation. She needed the money. I guess everyone needed money.” He laughed again, his life fading.
“And Leroy, what rock did you turn over to find him?” Maude asked wearily, bone tired from the waste of life in front of her.
“Leroy was a special case. His reputation came before him. He was easy to find, and I must say a loyal employee; much more so than some of my others.”
“Is that it, Stone? The good you’ve done in your life erased because of a desire to do what? Put up buildings? You’d kill two people for an addition to the university?”
“Oh yes,” the dean said, his head drooping. “Oh yes. Isn’t it a beautiful sight?”
Maude finally turned to go, long after the man in the chair stopped talking. The evil within men and women always surprised her. Their good intentions were no more than asphalt patches on the road to Perdition. Dean Stone was just one more person who was overcome with his own importance-so overcome that he lost his humanity along the way.
What epitaph would be written for the man who tore down people to put up buildings? She couldn’t wrap her mind around it, but it was sometimes that way. Criminals were often well-meaning people who took a wrong turn, and couldn’t find the way back.
Maude left the office and returned to give Jack a hand, but the work was all done. The building was rife with drug enforcement people taking over the manufacturing part of the lab, the criminals already removed and incarcerated by various law enforcement officers. Maude knew she would be required to return for her testimony when the case went to court, but that would be a while.
Jack offered and drove them to a coffee shop close by where they had a cup and a smoke, each wondering what next, terrible event would occur in their cities. But they were ready for it; ready for whatever diabolical plot might be conjured in the streets, or behind locked doors. For the moment though, the two friends sat together peacefully. Tomorrow was another day; it would take care of itself.
“Jack, what do you think-any fish in that bay of yours? As my young friend Susan Bright would say, “I might, like, you know, drop a hook in the water, so how about you and Sarah going fishing with me tomorrow?”
“I believe we could do that, yes ma’am, I believe we could.” Jack said.
“Jack,” Maude said, rising from the table, “If you call me ma’am again I may have to shoot you.”
The short bel
lowing sound lasted for just a moment, but long enough for Maude to smile, realizing she had made him laugh. It was its own reward.
Epilogue
Sheriff Jack Fuller was a hero in his county; the Edwards Bay murders had been solved, and people in the area could rest easily knowing the killers were from out of town and none of their own. Jack, being the modest man that his constituents knew and appreciated, made it a point to give credit for solving the crime to a couple of out-of-town detectives, but that was just his way. There would be none to come close to him at the reelection polls.
Maude had made a friend, and a fine one at that. Sarah was so pleased to see her husband come home after the ordeal at the university that she sent Maude a thank you card and a whole pecan pie by mail.
Philadelphia Homicide Detective Bill Page was making plans to retire and take a security job somewhere in Texas. Maude was looking ahead to the day.
Joe visited Lilly Ann, and later, she made the trip to Maude’s for Christmas, bringing her mother along with her. They all shared a love for pecan pie for breakfast and an admiration for Joe Allen.
Lieutenant James Patterson received a pat on the back from his chain of command. His part in solving the organized crime case at the Ellison University Medical School near Harris County was seen a brilliant move in his career. He was up for the next Captain slot. Some suggested he should run for mayor since the current one was in jail.
One member of the press mentioned Maude Roger’s involvement in solving the case, but the article was small and on page six of the local rag.
Leroy Thomas called a Mob-related connection to warn him of the cop’s interest in B&G Transport, hoping to make some points, but DEA sources had already shut that connection down. A DEA officer sent a note to the Prosecutor, informing her of Leroy’s duplicity. She pressed for lethal injection as punishment for the three murders and one rape. The last information had Leroy waiting on death row for his appointment with the needle.
Maude continued to work with her partner in the Homicide Division of Madison, Texas. Every so often she felt a ghost walk across her grave, and wondered who was rattling the bones.
In the Madison-MacArthur Hospital for the Criminally Insane, inmate number 73, Richard E. Dawson, also known as the Heartless Killer, was moved from his high-profile cell to a more comfortable room with a few accoutrements. A television, radio, desk, and easy chair were allocated to the inmate for the benefit of his rehabilitation and recreation. A small lap-top had found its way into the room by way of a security guard on a tight budget.
Number 73 had dozens of charts by this time for he had celebrated one year and six months in a catatonic state of confinement with his personal physician, Doctor Ian Hopkins attending exclusively to his needs. The charts all reflected the same information: condition unimproved, does not respond to stimulus, no hope for reclamation of personality.
Three visitors had come for Dawson in the most recent past, a detective and her lieutenant, and a family friend, a young man with a blondish crew cut and round glasses that sat high upon his nose. Doctor Hopkins relayed chart information to the detective and her lieutenant who left shortly afterward.
The young family friend had visited once before and took a series of notes, entering information into the lap top. The same action was repeated on the second visit. Both times he left shortly afterward, stating he would return soon.
Number 73 was in fact more than coherent; his mental acuity was at the top of the chart. His physical health had improved immensely and his ability to function independently was growing daily, leaving behind the physically wrecked body that had entered the hospital.
The statement that the lack of money is the impetus to do wrong, had worked admirably in inmate 73’s favor, for the zeros in his bank balance were staggering. He had no shortage of those willing to do wrong, over and over, for a taste of his riches.
A burning desire for freedom lived in 73, but confinement had taught him patience, and patience had taught him to plan ahead. A little more time was needed before all would be ready; before he could totally rid himself of the whining kid who haunted him. Then he could be free. After that, all hell would break loose.
For now, 73 had his doctor to care for him, to heal him, to nurture him, to lie for him. When he was ready, he would no longer need the doctor.
The 6:10 to Murder
Copyright © 2017
Prologue
At 5:20 p.m., still far from its destination, the 6:10 p.m. passenger train to Madison, Texas, sounded a long whistle blast, as the engine and ten cars passed the crossing on the Missouri-Pacific railroad, just north of the MacArthur, Texas station. Forty miles lay between the stations of those two cities. Working track covered a rough, ugly, mean, and undesirable route through marked-up neighborhoods, with gang graffiti and profanity outlining eastern borders. Every warehouse and factory building’s backside edging close to the rails was decorated with all the marker and paint color mixes of the rainbow.
Passengers on the 6:10 rode with legs outstretched in reclining seats, grabbing a last five-minute nap before arriving at their destination. A few elderly, or overweight, sat with swollen feet in shoes grown tight during too-long periods of sitting. The last comfort stop since Wilk, Texas, was fifty miles ago, a long sit-down without a cigarette break, or a decent restroom. The train’s facilities, okay for the pee that wouldn’t wait, or burgeoning gas explosions courtesy of a dining car burrito, offered little to passengers with ailing backs or sensitive noses.
The final stop in Madison was always appreciated by long-distance riders who bailed as soon as the conductor called the stop and opened the doors. At 6:05, the long blast of whistle near a small switch, two-plus miles from the station told the tale. They were close. All riders should begin to make way to the stairwell, and not forget personal belongings. And please, watch your step.
Samuel Blevins was the six feet, five-inch, Native American engineer driving Engine 99, the giant, metal horse that pulled a load of cars every day over hundreds of miles of tracks. The 6:10 to Madison was the schedule he’d maintained with an unblemished safety record for the previous two years and ten months, and he was dang determined to keep it that way. The upcoming stop was the end of the line, and he looked forward to it on his daily commute. Samuel’s day ran from 9:00 a.m. until 7:00 p.m., four times each week and then off work for three days, a good schedule that left him time to carry a second job at Lowes, directing people in the plumbing section to the parts for their home repairs. He liked both jobs.
The Friday evening traffic at the station lined up, waiting for detraining. Car trunks stood wide-open for the deposit of suitcases and bags, although the 6:10 was not yet in sight. A few vehicles were parked in the Don’t Park circle, blocking cars whose attentive drivers had followed parking rules. Henry Fonda, (yes, he knew it was the same name as an actor in the last century), the station master and ticket-taker in the station, looked out on the lot and noticed the melee, thinking, What a screw-up, and it will only get worse with horns blasting when blocked drivers try to force their way out of the mess. Every day was the same.
Marge Campbell was pissed off big-time. She had arrived early, followed around in the parking circle, and sat first in line, waiting for Harold, her salesman husband. Gritting shiny, new, white implants gently, Marge huffed her very fine nose at being blocked in by a dark-skinned man driving a yellow cab. He had blatantly broken the rules. Being early bought you some privileges, was what Marge was thinking, as well as wondering how she could get out of the parking lot when Harold finally got there. He couldn’t be blamed for the parking screw-up, but Marge was getting herself worked up and angry with Harold. It was his fault she had to be there to drive him home. If he had stayed in Wilk one more night as planned, she would be home now, curled up in her recliner, with a jar of cocktail peanuts, and a nice bag of chocolate drops in the lap of her one-size-fits all lounge dress.
Even though 99 had slowed to a stop, and switched over to let t
he fast-moving freight pass, Samuel had the big engine moving again quickly. Out of the corner of his eye, the engineer noticed the end of the split coming at him fast, with unidentified bulk on the left rail, never mind computer readings flashing, “All tracks clear.” The freight was already out of sight, clearing the way for the passenger train to continue on to the station, but the engineer’s years of experience won against what was supposed to have been. Samuel trusted his instincts more than maybe he should, but sometimes listening to what he knew paid off. He sounded the whistle, letting it ride, and started shutting down the engine quickly, because he knew nothing good would come of what lay ahead. He saw it up close as it passed under the wheel, knew in retrospect that what he’d just seen was the lower half of a body lying across the graveled-over ties between the rails. He thought he had seen the rest of the torso off-rail, crawling to safety, just before the wheel severed it, but he couldn’t be sure. Samuel swallowed his spit, wishing he was anywhere other than inside Engine 99.
Stopping the multi-ton locomotive and ten subsequent cars quickly took time, but Samuel worked fast. The squealing of the rails and the push of backward acceleration moved the standing passengers from one place to another, validating Isaac Newton’s law of inertia, but due to the slow speed of the train, no one was really hurt inside the cars. Pain in Samuel’s gut spread to his chest during the ordeal and sent him searching his pockets for antacids to soothe the burn. He knew the tragedy was not his fault, but it hurt knowing his accident-free run was over.
Chapter 1
Maude Rogers hated Fridays; they brought nothing good to anyone in police work. A case started on the last day of the work week tended to go on through the weekend. She especially hated Fridays on a call weekend, which meant she was sure to be tied up all the way through, like it or don’t. The day had been quiet. After working an old case with her partner, Joe Allen, until around four o’clock, she finally shut the paperwork down about five, and headed for the women’s restroom. A little primping meant looking in the mirror to see if there was greenery between her teeth, or ketchup on the side of her face. As it was, the mirror reflected her blue eyes and smoky blonde hair, a new color she had tried from the Kroger grocery store close to her house. She poked at the freckles across her nose, wondering why a grown woman still had them. A little lipstick on her still-full mouth would have helped her appearance, but Maude Rogers didn’t go in for pockets full of make-up. Maybe she should carry a lipstick as a concession to getting older, but a few swipes in the morning was as far down the road as she intended to go. Five-feet-nine, and on the thin side, she still managed to stand straight even though a recent birthday had brought her closer to the sixty mark. I’ll just have to do, she thought, straightening the collar on her blue, polo shirt.
The Maude Rogers Murder Collection Page 52
