The Maude Rogers Murder Collection

by Linda L. Dunlap

  Going to the local watering hole for a Gilbey’s and tonic or two before going home would have been nice, but her on-call status put the quietus to that thought. Even so, a decent cup of coffee sounded good after drinking department swill all day. Most bars kept the pot on, and changed the coffee regularly if cops were known to frequent them.

  “Joe,” she said loudly over the noises of the other detectives at their desks, “Want to go get a cup or a beer?”

  “Nah,” he said, “got a date. Something you ought to try.”

  “Maybe I will,” she said lightly. “When pigs fly home to roost, I’ll do just that.”

  He laughed and left the room with the other detectives gathering their gear and filing out of the offices.

  “Hope you have a good weekend, Maude, with no calls.”

  “Fat chance of that,” she said, shaking her head, sliding arms and shoulders into a dark blue, hound’s-tooth-print blazer that had hung on the back of a chair all day. “Really fat chance. Thanks anyway.”

  The door had just closed behind the others when the phone rang.

  “Homicide, Maude Rogers,” she responded, the desk phone dangling from her hand as she hurriedly straightened her desk for the weekend. A voice from dispatch told her a call was on the line and could she look into it, for most of the uniformed officers were in the middle of shift change. Sighing a little, Maude said to patch the call through. Immediately, a young-sounding voice asked to speak to a detective.

  “This is Homicide, Maude Rogers speaking, what can I do for you?”

  “It’s my mom,” the voice whispered, sounding close to tears. “She didn’t pick me up from school and she’s not home. I’m scared.”

  “What’s your name, kid?”

  “Jacob. My name is Jacob.”

  “What’s your mom’s name?” Maude asked.

  “Her name is Eve Devine. I’m really scared, Mister. I think she’s hurt and can’t come home.”

  Maude was taken aback for a minute. “It’s detective, son, Detective Rogers.” Dang, she thought. Do I sound like some old-fart man? Can’t this kid tell by my voice I’m a woman?”

  Vowing to work on her telephone delivery, she asked Jacob if he was alone, or with a school attendant, but he got quiet and didn’t answer.

  “How about your daddy? Can he come and pick you up?” she asked, hoping for a way out.

  “No, I don’t have a daddy. Somebody killed him when I was little.”

  Jeez, she thought. Did this kid ever get a break?

  “Okay,” Maude said. “Never mind that. Tell me where your mom is supposed to be. Where does she work? One more thing: is there any adult you can call?”

  “Yes,” the small voice choked. “I can stay with the lady upstairs where we live. My mama works at the grocery store—the one on Peach Street.” With that, the phone connection was lost and the voice disappeared from the line.

  She tried calling back several times, but there was nothing but static on the line, not even a busy tone. Finally, she shrugged tiredly and accepted the duty. Coffee was sounding better and better, even the thick black stuff that sat in the bottom of the pot. Sighing, she poured a cup while wondering about the kid. He had sounded frightened, but not confused, sure that his mom was in trouble of some kind. A quick Google search showed five grocery stores on busy Peach Street: three small gas station convenience stores, one major grocer, and one vegetable market that sold bread, milk, and a few imported spices.

  The first three she called were rude, the answerer getting off the line quickly. One said he was busy and asked what the hell she wanted; another quickly denied anyone named Eve Devine ever came into the store, so how could she work there; and the third hung up before Maude could identify herself. A clerk at a major grocer situated on 334 Peach Street answered the phone and replied to Maude’s request.

  “The store manager is out—be back in about fifteen minutes, so you need to call then.”

  The fifth was a vegetable market, and a clerk said they had three employees: Debbie, Jane, and Willie. Finally, Maude stepped outside to light a cigarette, the nicotine soothing her nerves somewhat. Tired, irritable, and ready to go home, she was determined to get answers to her inquiries before leaving.

  The coffee was worse than she remembered, but she sipped it for a while then tried the major grocer again, catching the store manager, a fellow named Howard Funk, on the fly. She identified herself and her reason for calling.

  “Yes, Detective Rogers, we have an employee on the day shift whose name is Eve Devine. She was out of town today; never came to work at all. I really must go. I have a load of ice cream waiting on the forklift.”

  “Know where she went?” Maude asked, ignoring the remark about the man’s hurry. She grimaced after swallowing the last of the coffee, the grounds sticking to her lower lip as she put down the cup.

  “She said she was taking the train to Bisbey to see her sister, and would be back this evening. I don’t know anything about her personal life, though. She’s scheduled to work tomorrow.” Funk sounded sincere.

  “Know anything about her kid?” Maude asked.

  “Kid? Didn’t know she had one, but that fits with other stuff I don’t know about her.”

  “Yeah, kid sounds young, seven or eight, worried about his mom. Said he’s at school alone, but he has an adult who can come get him, someone he can stay with.”

  “Detective, I can give you her address if you let me call you back at the police station. Privacy, you know. Give me time to put this ice cream away.”

  “Sure,” Maude said, understanding that the manager was protecting himself against a lawsuit for giving his employee’s home address. “Call me at this number. Or look it up. Homicide Division, Madison.”

  Several minutes later, the phone rang and the store manager began the conversation with a question.

  “Homicide? Is Eve hurt?” The man seemed sincerely concerned.

  “Don’t know. I pulled the duty this weekend, and a kid called here looking for his mom. Probably a false alarm. Give me that address anyway. Do you have her next of kin listed anywhere?”

  “Let me check her file. Let’s see. Lives at 220-A Sycamore Street. Says here to call EMS in case of emergency; no family mentioned except a sister, an invalid in a rehab center in Bisbey. Guess Eve didn’t figure on getting any help from her. Sorry I can’t tell you anymore. She’s a real private person, doesn’t talk about her personal life, as you can see. Can’t believe I didn’t know she had a kid.”

  “Know the name of the rehab place?” Maude asked, just before closing her book.

  “Yeah, I do have that. Don’t know why, but she left the name with her supervisor yesterday. Said she could be contacted at the Happy Hills in Bisbey, a retirement and rehab place, government cases, people with no money. I had an aunt lived there. Treated her pretty bad. Cheetos and dry ham sandwiches for Sunday dinner.”

  “Got the phone number?” Maude asked.

  A few minutes later, she shut down the call, more puzzled than before she spoke to Funk.

  The prospect of working during the late evening became abhorrent when the weather changed from hot to hot and humid, and the sun lowered itself to the horizon. The mugginess of the evening finally gave way to liquid, with a light sprinkle of late summer rain working its way across Madison streets. The steering wheel on Maude’s city car was damp from the moisture in the air and the oil left behind from barehanded driving. Dang, she thought, I hate sticky.

  Maude had lived most of her life in the same house where her grandmother raised a family, but she never learned to love the Texas heat as some did. During the first fall “norther,” she would sit on her porch with a drink, light an unfiltered cigarette, and revel in the cool wind. That wasn’t the case as she drove her city car away from the Cop Shop, headed toward 220-A Sycamore. The light rain had mixed with oil on the street, giving motorists a slick driving and braking surface. Car wipers worked overtime, clearing the accumulated goop of smashed
bugs and dust off long-dry windshields. The city car was no better than the rest. She stopped driving and got out with a handful of paper towels to wipe the oil blowback from her own windows.

  220-A Sycamore presented as one-half of a wood-sided duplex built in the 1980s, complete with a brick chimney at the roof, a small, fenced backyard for the obligatory pet, and a carport big enough to hold a compact. Trash stood at the front stoop awaiting the weekend pickup. From her car, Maude eyed the house, hoping to see a family dog in the window, or a cat leaching out from under the pier and beam foundation of the building in search of its evening meal. Except for the trash, the house appeared deserted, its overall appearance suffering from neglect and the effects of the summer heat.

  The sidewalk was broken in several places, with crumbled concrete on the sunburned grass offering an uneven surface for walking, but she gingerly stepped aside and covered the distance to the house without incident. The door was faded green wood, trimmed in white, and alongside the hinged area, the paint was peeling one of its many coats. Looking around the neighborhood, she noticed most of the houses were duplexes, possibly rent houses. The young voice on the phone had been less than truthful about having someone upstairs to watch over him. The one-story building was all that was there.

  Knocking produced no response, even after several taps with her baton. There was either no one home, or someone inside couldn’t, or wouldn’t, answer the door. Maude had a decision to make. Should she leave the residence and go about her business, or check the door to see if it was unlocked? The cry for help from the young voice earlier in the day had heightened her senses. Something about the whole scenario didn’t smell right.

  She pushed against the paneled door, but found it to be solidly closed. Walking around back in the semi-darkness of the overcast sky, she saw two doors, a paneled wooden entry and a screen door on the outside to keep mosquitoes out of the residence when the main door was left open. The screen was open, hanging on its hinges, as though it had been forced, and the entry door stood ajar, allowing Maude to see a table overturned, and chairs scattered on the floor.

  The cell phone in her pocket was coded to call the Madison Police dispatch with the push of a numbered button. She spoke to the dispatcher and asked for backup at 220-A Sycamore Street, possible disturbance in domicile. Without waiting for the unit to respond, Maude quietly pulled the Glock from its holster, and pushed the hard-paneled door with the other hand. Stepping carefully inside the small kitchen, looking right and left, she was alert for others that might be hiding in the house. The sink was in her purview, the first thing seen. From a short distance, it and the near cabinet appeared to be stained by standing puddles of tea or coffee. Her first thought was that someone had broken a coffeepot and left the liquid behind. The coffee spill was belied by a closer look and smell. The sharp, nauseating odor filled her nostrils as the floor tile showed her footprints outlined in dark red.

  “Oh crap,” was all she could say, stepping carefully away from the congealing liquid on the floor tile. A couple years back during a mental makeover, Maude had vowed to clean up her language, but it was a difficult job on some missions. Turning from the kitchen, she spied the living room; beyond came two small bedrooms, and the bathroom. Realizing blood was being tracked with each step, she inwardly cursed, but continued forward, searching the rest of the house. The Glock 19 sat squarely in her palm, its barrel leveled and aimed carefully at whoever might violate its kill zone, but the house was silent and empty. All earlier activity had shut down, leaving the messy kitchen for someone else to analyze and clean.

  A car with two patrolmen inside arrived in front of the house, each eager to assist in a breaking and entering incident. Finding the door closed, they went to the back door, but Maude yelled and halted their entry outside the kitchen, explaining there was blood everywhere. The young officers began to realize that there was more to the story than they had first thought. One noticed the footprints that Maude had made on the tile floor and commented to her.

  “Yes, it was me walked through the blood,” she said disgustedly. “Had to clear the scene. Crime scene techs should be here soon, but in the meantime, you two go knock on some doors to see what the neighbors know about who lives here, and if there’s a kid involved. See if they know where he is. Woman who lives here is named Eve Devine. Also, what’s the time, officer?” Maude asked, making a note in her book. “My watch battery ran out of juice and I haven’t had a chance to get another one.”

  “The time is 6:05, Detective Rogers—just heard the 6:10 blow the warning. Do you think someone was killed here?”

  “Don’t know for sure. There’s no corpse, so I hate to speculate. But it sure looks that way.”

  The technicians arrived shortly afterward, grumbling at being called out on a Friday evening. Maude knew how they felt, so she kept quiet, concerned at the scope of what lay before her. The call from the kid had her worried. Who was he and what had happened to him? Did his mother return, and who, or what, lost all the blood in the house where Eve Devine lived? Maude remembered that Howard Funk said his employee was out of town, riding the train. The 6:10 end-of-line passenger stop at Madison was due and appeared to be on schedule. Maude told the officers she was leaving, but would be at the train station if they needed to ask any questions. Without further delay, she jumped in her car, and drove with the grille lights flashing, making a fast trip from Sycamore Street to the station on Vine.

  The parking circle was a cluster of trouble. Two drivers were in a shouting match in the center of the lot. A woman older than Maude stood toe to toe with a short, stout Asian cabdriver, whose head barely reached his debating opponent’s breasts. They were screaming racial slurs at one another, with each telling the other “Shut up” regularly. Maude’s money was on the woman, but she didn’t have time to stay and listen to who won the argument. An officer who worked for the station was on scene, trying to solve the parking conundrum by directing traffic away from the lot, away from the fracas, but his words were drowned out by the screamers. It was understandable. After waiting in the heat and humidity for the train to arrive, the other drivers were starved for entertainment and not about to lose sight of the ring. Maude shook her head, thinking, I get them, don’t I?

  The passenger train was nearing the station when Maude heard big brakes lock in an emergency stop. Only a serious incident on or off the train would provoke such a screeching halt. Without wasting a moment, she began to run down the track, toward the screaming wheels and the passenger cars attached to the braking engine. A fine mist wet her face and hair, making the whole experience an even more unpleasant ordeal. Added to that, she knew it was happening, knew it was all connected, knew her worse fears as a cop were fleshing out, and she was helpless to prevent the drama on the Missouri-Pacific train tracks. Finally, after a long, exhausting sprint along the rough ground beside the tracks, the scene gave way to a grisly sight ahead.

  At first glance, Maude saw green cloth caught up high in the cowcatcher of a huge engine. The foot and leg from a human body were stuck below in the grille, near the rails, carried along by the locomotive like a pile of rubble pushed by road machinery. A quick inspection showed other unrecognizable pieces of flesh stuck to the heavy wheels and scattered outside a long stretch of ties and track. More remnants of green cloth could be seen here and there, their presence harsh in contrast to the battered pieces of flesh. Behind the engine and first car, at the origin of the accident, lay more carnage. The severed top half of a female victim lay crumpled on the ground, several feet away from the tracks. Long, matted red hair spilled out upon gravel and potholed pavement, the sight more terrible than Maude would have imagined. A small purse lay open in a shallow ditch, its contents dumped on the ground. Maude pulled her handkerchief and concealed the cheap plastic from prying eyes.

  The pavement around the head and torso was coated with tiny pieces of bloodied flesh torn from the body by the force of the wheel and spun to rest, as if a meat grinder had splashed its
contents. The absence of blood pooling was glaring and inexplicable, unless the woman was dead long before Engine 99 came in contact with her. Maude observed the mystery and knew what had happened to the blood, knew that the woman had died sometime before the train severed her legs. Diabolical was the word that came to her mind.

  The purse was a nice touch, although women who lay on railroad tracks to die don’t ordinarily carry handbags. It was probably in the ditch, posed by the woman’s killer, waiting for the pièce de résistance, the climax of the day, the moment when the atrocity would be viewed by police and civilians alike, evoking horror and loathing. Maude thought about calling Joe, and would when she decided how to approach him. Turning her head toward the people standing near the locomotive, she noticed a large man in a uniform standing apart, obviously distraught.

  “She was just lying across the track. Looked for a while like she was crawling away, but I don’t think so. She could have lifted her legs, rolled, or done all sorts of things besides what she did. Wasted; young woman like her. Just wasted life the good God gave her.” The man had tears in his eyes, staring at the body.