Bob Eberhart was a dark-skinned man with a bald pate, his eyes dark and kind, patient—a man like him would have to have great tolerance to continue working with Alfred Wheeler, his partner. Tall and big all around, Eberhart had a sense of himself; his character filled out, not defined by others, but by the strength within the man. It was that strength that drew Maude to his words. He gave her hope.
The Northside Pawnshop was on the east side of Madison, just off the dividing line where north becomes east. The two detectives discussed the misnomer, and decided the owner didn’t want to associate his business with the lower economy eastern part of the city. Joe drove the city vehicle, trying to remember where the business was located without using a GPS. A quirk of his, but he enjoyed the hunt when there was time. That Tuesday was setting up to be a busy one, so Joe didn’t have any playtime; he quickly programmed his phone for the address, and began making his way there. Maude was sitting against the passenger door, looking as though she was going to jump and run. Joe had seen some perps with that look. He wondered about his partner’s problem, but was sure that whatever it was, it wouldn’t interfere with the job.
Getting out of the car took all her effort, but once out, the brisk wind revived her, taking her mind off the drum beating in her brain. A small drugstore was next to the pawnshop, and she nodded at Joe then darted inside, searching the counter for vitamins. Bob had told her to start taking multivitamins with thiamine, and to drink lots of fluid. She found what she needed and popped a handful, downing them with a pint of lime-flavored sports drink. The shock to her stomach had her gagging at first, but she held it down, apologizing to the clerk, who stared vacantly at the empty drink bottle in Maude’s hand.
“Getting the flu,” she said, closing the door behind her.
The pawnshop smelled of sulfur and smoke and the unmistakable odor of blood. A puddle had begun to dry behind the counter, and even with the markers left by the crime scene investigators, there was plenty of it undisturbed. Maude figured the manager must have died from blood loss rather than the injury. There were pieces of glass on most of the floor tiles, glass that came from the jewelry and merchandise display windows. They were all blown out. The noise must have been incredible, she thought. On and on the firing continued around the room. The clerk was shot first, or they would have seen some sign he tried to defend himself or run.
Joe was busy taking notes and talking to the owner, after calling and asking him to come to the scene, maybe help out with some answers to their questions. The man’s name was Wallace Avery, a fiftyish, pale-skinned man with watery blue eyes, and oily light brown hair. He was dressed in brown slacks, white shirt, and a brown with white dotted bow tie. Avery seemed overwhelmed by the violence around him.
“Mr. Avery, this is Maude Rogers, my partner. We’ll both be asking some questions. Is there a back room where we could sit for a few minutes?”
“Sure,” Avery said, “follow me,” leading them to a small room with a padlock on the outside. “Just a minute,” he said, pulling his keys from his pocket. I keep this door locked.”
“Was it locked last night, Mr. Avery?” Maude asked.
“Oh, yes, it’s always locked if I’m not here. I keep the pawn receipts and payments, plus the more valuable jewelry is put away each night, inside the safe.”
“So you had most everything locked up last night?” she asked, then swallowed a few times to get rid of nausea.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry Marlin had to die for a few pieces of jewelry. I guess the man who killed him didn’t know we kept everything locked away. Or maybe Marlin wouldn’t give him the keys. Seems strange, the way that happened.”
Maude nodded. “Most crimes don’t make any sense.”
Joe pulled up chairs around a small table.
“Sit down, Maude. Take a load off,” he said, knowing she was suffering.
She looked at him gratefully, her eyes bloodshot as though she’d pulled a real drunk the night before, but he knew better. She wasn’t herself; he could see the pain in her face.
Joe decided to ask a few questions himself. He talked to Avery about the people who normally came in the shop, if anyone had been hanging around suspiciously lately. Avery told him people did that regularly at a pawnshop, eyeing the merchandise from their defaulted loans.
“We have to threaten to call the cops every now and again,” he said, shaking his head. “But nothing lately.”
“Did your manager have any enemies?”
“None that I know, but then, Marlin kept to himself. He did his job and never talked about his personal life.” Avery pushed his glasses back, the strain of losing an employee to murder telling on the man. He shrugged and rearranged the bow tie a little, getting more room to breathe, his shirt collar wet from sweat. Avery reached into a pants pocket, extracted a white handkerchief, and began mopping his forehead and eyes with one corner.
“Mr. Avery, do you have any enemies who would like to see you suffer?” Maude asked, eyeing the man’s distress.
The store owner was silent for a minute then nodded once. “Maybe,” he said quietly. “There’s a man I knew many years ago; a friend, I once thought, but now I don’t know. He was in my store a few days ago, standing at the front door, not saying anything. I recognized him and spoke out, said hello, but he stared at me, almost as if he hated me, then he left.” Avery mopped his face again, sweating more.
“Does this man have a name?” Maude asked, her fingers shaking as she began to write in her book.
“Yes, Phillip Mason, from Woodsboro, a small town outside Detroit.”
“Detroit, Michigan?” she asked, trying to process what he had said.
“Yes, I lived in Detroit once myself and knew him from there. Phillip and I had known each other in the Army. We met during Desert Storm. I got out of the Army soon after and started a business in a small jewelry store. Phillip looked me up when his time was over in the Army, and invested his savings in the store. That made us partners, though not equal. We had an argument over his demands for full partnership. By that time, I didn’t trust his business sense and bought him out. He became very angry with me, but it was in the contract we had both signed: if at any time we could no longer work together, I could buy him out. Because I didn’t know him very well in the beginning, I protected my store with the clause in the contract.”
“Yeah,” Joe said. “So later, what, you came here?”
“Yes, I stayed in Woodsboro for years and built my business into a very profitable one. Then I sold it for a profit and moved here. A month later, I invested in this shop and never saw Phillip again until three days ago.”
“So you think this Phillip Mason might have a big gripe with you and took it out on your manager and your shop?” Joe asked.
“I…I am not sure of anything. I only know he glared at me as though he wanted to kill me.”
The two detectives looked at one another, recognizing the perp might have just been given a motive. Revenge served cold. But why not wait until the shop was open then shoot Avery? Why shoot Thompson? Was the murderer confused and shot the wrong man? If so, how did it go down? Maude had to wonder if it made sense. She knew they would have to find Phillip Mason. In the meantime, they could get the facts from the crime scene investigators. Maybe tie him to the crime. They thanked Avery and left, said they would be in touch. He nodded, his thoughts far away. Maybe a place near Detroit, Maude thought.
Outside the office they looked the scene over again. Maude turned and asked Avery if there was camera footage. He said the camera lens had been shot out by some toughs a few weeks earlier, but he believed the back-up smaller camera was working the night before. He said he had the previous films that might help to identify Phillip Mason. Avery got up from the table, unlocked a drawer, and removed a digital card.
“This is from the last few days. Probably since last Thursday. Phillip was here that day, I think.”
“Give us the video for the last month,” Maude said. “We’ll need
you to identify your friend if he’s here.”
“Sure,” Avery said. “As soon as you need me.”
After making a few more notes, the detectives left, and drove to the county building where evidence was processed. All the city-county work was coordinated through a criminal justice building under the heading of Criminal Investigation Division. The county morgue was next door, and Maude hoped to catch Doctor Keller, the pathologist, in—failing that, she would be just as glad to talk to his part-time man, Theodore Hollingsworth, who had already steered her in the right direction.
The technicians from the lab hadn’t processed their information, and when Joe went in asking for the findings, he got what they had to offer, but it wasn’t much. No fingerprints back yet except on Marlin Thompson, the manager. Pawnbrokers were fingerprinted for jobs because of fraud opportunities, selling gold and gems and laundering stolen and counterfeit money. There were few prints on the scene due to the broken glass from the showcases. What they really needed was lead from the bullets and any empty casings left behind by the killer. Joe asked and was told there were no casings found, but some lead had been removed from the wall. Once they found the gun it could be matched.
Maude had a little better luck talking to Holly. He said the killer had used a .45 automatic, firing two bullets into Marlin Thompson at close range. An enormous amount of firepower had been used in the pawnshop as Maude saw it, a terrible load of revenge if that was the motive. She left the morgue with the promise that more information would be forthcoming when the autopsy was finished. Holly told her the initial report on Eve Devine should be on the Homicide desk.
Chapter 9
She made it to the car before her stomach began acting up again, the need for a drink turning her inside out. She knew it was going to get worse before it got better. Add that to the arthritis in her knees, and Maude was ready to find a place and get drunk. If it hadn’t been for the promise she’d made to Bob Eberhart, she might have done just that. Instead, she made her way back to the city car and found Joe waiting for her. She asked him to drop her off at the small church three blocks from the Cop Shop. He didn’t ask why, just said okay, waiting for her to tell him. Looking out the window, she kept silent, then opened the door and got out when he stopped the car.
“Want me to pick you up later?” Joe was more than her partner; he was a friend and could tell she was having worse than a bad day.
“No, I’ll catch a ride with someone. Tell you about it later.” She lowered her eyes, not wanting Joe to see she was scared.
“Okay, see you back at work,” he said, and drove away.
The room was a meeting room or a dining room, whatever need was greater. The small group that met in the Assembly of God building every day at noon posted a sign that said they were not affiliated with the church and that all that was required was the desire to stay off alcohol in all its forms. Maude sat down and waited for someone to ask her to fill out a membership card or pay some dues. She had never been to a meeting before and was uncomfortable with her situation. Finally several more people showed up and formed a circle. As they began to talk, Maude decided she didn’t belong there. She had a job, had family, friends. Her drinking hadn’t changed her life that much. Looking around the room, she searched for Bob Eberhart and, not seeing him, began to get out of her chair to leave.
A young woman of about twenty-five leaned over and whispered in her ear.
“It’s right down the hall. First door to your right.”
“What?” Maude asked, trying to keep her voice low.
“The bathroom. Down the hall. First right.”
“Oh. Thanks,” she told the girl. “Going for coffee.” Maude had noticed the big pot surrounded by people waiting for a cup. She went for it and stood with her cup in hand, noticing the hodgepodge of people attending the meeting. Finally her turn at the pot came and she poured the cup and loaded it with sugar. The day screamed for it.
She listened to people talk about alcohol troubles, some of them sounding familiar, others completely foreign in their depravity. Finally the meeting was over and she left, the voices going over and over in her mind. They were not her kind of people, she thought. She could stay away from booze by herself. She wasn’t sick. A short walk back to the office helped to clear her mind as the headache receded, and her rationalizations continued. The pamphlets they gave her were too small to read as she walked; they would wait until later. Wondering what happened to Eberhart, Maude walked through the Homicide door and spotted Joe.
“Hey, Joe,” she said, tapping him on the shoulder as she passed his desk. “Did you see a report from the coroner?”
“Yeah, it’s there on your desk. How you doing?” he asked with genuine concern.
“Better, I think. Listen,” she said, studying the printout, “I want to look at this then take a ride to the Amtrak station, see if they have a new stationmaster. Maybe get some answers to questions about Eve Devine’s murder. You going?”
Joe checked the time on his watch.
“Can’t go, partner. Personnel needs me to sign some papers to get my kids covered by health insurance. My ex lost benefits when she lost her job.” His tone was grim as he remembered the visit from his ex-wife. “She’s not the same woman I married,” he said thoughtfully. “I’m seeing her for a while today, for coffee. I hope for our kids’ sake she doesn't pull the same stuff.”
“We all change, Joe. It’s our nature to be jackasses,” Maude said, the report in her hand. “When you got married you were both kids. Sounds like you grew up straight, but her trip took a side road.”
“Yeah, I’m seeing more and more the life she’s leading is bad on my boys. Not anything I can do about it. They don’t want to talk to me. The Christmas and birthday presents I send them come back, refused by recipient.”
Maude looked him over, saw the pain, and decided to leave it alone. God knows she had enough of her own.
“Well, you go take care of your insurance, then when you get back, write up the report on what we found this morning and the conversation we had with the owner. Avery. Okay?”
“Sure, sorry about not riding out with you. You going to be all right?” Joe was concerned. Maude hadn’t been right all day.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, hoping it was true.
The air had cooled some, with a wet front on the way. So much rain had already fallen in August the weather guys were saying the summer was a drought breaker. Even the lakes had come up some, taking pressure off the people needing water downriver. Maude drove through the rain, straight to the train station, hoping she had made it before the daytime employees went on break. The need had subsided some, just enough to make her feel almost human again. Problem was it came in waves—one minute she was fine, the next she was seeing things that were doubtful. Hazing in the distance, ripples across her near vision, almost indistinct, yet still there, were unusual and a little scary. So far there were no signs of pink elephants crossing the road. She was trying hard to keep from falling into a blue funk, but, convinced it was mind over matter, the problem began to be more manageable and less foreign. She could do it, just as long as it didn’t get any worse. Later she remembered, anything coming too easily never amounted to much in the long run.
Driving in, she noticed a few cars parked in the lot. Maude looked at her watch and knew it was too early for the crowd to begin gathering for pickup. The 6:10 was at least two hours away from the station. She had found out the runs continued, even after Eve Devine was killed: hers wasn’t the first body to be found on the Missouri-Pacific rail lines, nor would it be the last. Something about the rails drew people to the small line of steel, it was a come-on to the down and out. Sometimes they lay down voluntarily, feeling the vibration in the rails as metal bumped wood, carrying the engine closer and closer to the end of a journey, the sleeper’s journey from breath to what lay beyond. Men who worked the cars and the engines could never figure the attraction-such an ugly way to die.
“Maude Rog
ers,” she said, her extended hand shaking slightly, “Homicide, wonder if you have a few minutes?”
The man at the other end of the handshake said he was the temporary stationmaster, Walter Weems, and he was headed toward the stack of tickets that lay behind a newly installed glass panel. “Bulletproof,” he told her. “How can I help? I just got here.” Weems eyed the counter behind the glass. “If you can make this quick, there’s a lot of work to do.”
“How well did you know Henry Fonda?” she asked, needing a cigarette almost as much as she needed answers.
“I knew him, though not well—came down here a couple of times over the last year for an audit. Normal procedure for us. Henry was a good man, joked and laughed with everyone. Can’t understand why someone would kill him.”
“That’s what we intend to find out, Mr. Weems. Did he ever talk to you about his personal life?”
“No, mostly what I remember about the man was his name. You know…the actor in Hollywood.”
“Uh-huh. Is there anyone in this station I could talk to that might have known if Mr. Fonda had any recent threats or disagreements with anyone?”
“Probably Freddy, that guy over there in the corner. He’s been around a while. Helps out, gets people on the train, cleans up. Other than him, the conductors, and the porters on the train, there isn’t anyone. Small operation, these stations.” Weems had settled a little, not as worried now about the work to be done.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Weems. I may have other questions later. In the meantime, I’ll speak to that fellow Freddy. If you think of anything else, give me a call,” she said, passing him a business card. “You can talk to my partner, Joe Allen, if I’m not there.” Weems nodded disinterestedly and entered the now safe room to begin a lengthy recount of tickets versus income over the past forty-eight hours. He could see it was going to be a nightmare.
Freddy ‘English’ was a pool player and cleanup man. One he did because it provided the money for him to do the other. His pool skills were widely known in Madison—even Maude had heard of the man and some of his wins. A little bent over from life, he was busy manipulating a broom as though spinal curvature was something other people had. His body moved rhythmically, back and forth, swinging the broom in a classic pendulum movement, moving trash from behind the rows of seats and near the water fountain.
The Maude Rogers Murder Collection Page 60
