The Maude Rogers Murder Collection

by Linda L. Dunlap

  “When I rejoined the straight life, drinking became a way to end the day; a few gin and tonics made the violence of the streets easier to manage. Even later, it made my mother’s illness more bearable. I knew she was dying, and I didn’t want to feel the pain. Just never quit after she was gone, so here I am today, older and further along as a drunk, but not a darn bit wiser.”

  The echo of her last words filled Joe’s head. He was afraid to say anything in response for fear it would be too much or too little. He glanced over at his partner, understanding her better. She stared straight ahead, the Traditions book in her hand, a thoughtful expression on her face.

  “So, what do you think? This guy Mason do the murder?” Maude was finished talking about the past—it was time to get back to work, finding bad guys.

  Her third night went the same way as the one before. She tossed and turned, trying to sleep without a sedative. A couple of ibuprofen helped with the aches and pains, but the animal that had taken up residence in the bed beside her demanded a reckoning. The need was strong, as strong as a wild creature in a net trap. It kicked out at odd times, twisting itself into positions designed to slam the solar plexus of its host, taking all breath away. A few times she thought she saw old faces floating across the darkness, some glaring and fierce in shades of outrageous colors. The bedroom light helped make sleep more accessible without the ghosts of her past taking form.

  Weary and worn, she woke in the morning to the alarm, feeling as though she had not slept at all. But it was the fourth day, and that was saying something. Three full days without a drink and she was still alive. After coffee and a shower, Maude read for a while from the little book, finding comfort in the words. She made another pot of light coffee and drank most of it, the sugar infusion reviving her with its energy. Realizing the day was Saturday, she called Joe’s house and reminded him he was on call for the weekend. She told him her intention was to visit Ellen Goodbody on their mutual days off. Mostly, she needed to be away from the house and around other people. He seemed to understand her need to mix with others.

  Apart from her earned income from the hospital each month, Ellen had very little savings or valuables. When her parents’ property was sold by the state, the money went to pay for lawyers and psychiatrists for the children’s welfare. After every dime was spent, the overzealous advocates deserted Ellen and Geraldeen, content to see the girls in the home of an elderly great uncle and aunt as caretakers and maids. Being a naturally guilt-ridden person since the murder of her younger brother, Ellen felt privileged to exchange a childhood of indenture for a home with her sister. Truth was it didn’t much matter where they lived if they were together.

  The little house left after the uncle died was a three-room clapboard, where the girls grew from early childhood to young women, sleeping on pallets near an old wood heater. Their privacy was never a consideration. They didn’t even know the word, but often wondered why Uncle Rupert stared at them as they lay upon the quilts and blankets. Somehow it didn’t seem right—in fact, it was almost indecent the way he drooled at the sight of a bare leg. Their aunt was sickly and died when Ellen was fifteen; however, nothing much changed. The sisters had been taking care of the housework and the old lady since they had arrived at their new home.

  Geraldeen figured she was made for better things than being a service maid, and had begun planning her future around that thought. Ellen, on the other hand, dreaded her older sister’s departure and was worried the old man would die, leaving no one to care for. She always believed her life was meant to provide comfort for others.

  Going to see Daddy had always been a pleasant duty for Ellen. She would fluff his pillows and feed him breakfast and lunch, never getting upset, even when he accidentally popped her with his fist. She knew he never meant to hurt her; the reflexive movements of atrophying muscles sometimes made his arms flail.

  At seventeen, she was employable and out of high school. That was one thing Uncle Rupert and Aunt Gertrude had insisted on: the girls must attend school. They hadn’t wanted uneducated beggars living in their house.

  The office door was open when Ellen first decided to apply with the hospital by just stepping in and asking for work. The overpowering smell of pee and shit offended her desire for cleanliness as she walked down the hallway to the open door. There were many who lay in their own excrement for hours, unable to get about on their own. Ellen swore to the bald man in the office that she would change that part. She didn’t think herself too good to clean up a mess if it was her job. The man hired her on the spot, having advertised for cheap labor only a short time before. He knew there were few willing to do the work required for the money paid. A religious man might have seen Ellen as God-sent, for there was plenty of work to be done and few to do it.

  After taking care of her daddy and many others just like him, Ellen had begun to detect an odor of vinegar mixed with sulfur when she was at work. At first, she thought it came from everybody and put it down to her nose giving her problems, but later, she realized just some of the air carried the smell. Curiosity got the best of her, and she started reading charts on the inmates where the air smelled bad. It wasn’t everybody like she had first thought, and it wasn’t her nose. Well, maybe it was her nose, because no one else picked up what she smelled, but mostly, it was them, those she began calling “the really bad ones,” the ones who had a burr under their saddle that made them kill and maim others. The ones who liked it.

  These elements of her life were part of what Ellen related to the lady detective, Maude Rogers, who came to interview her about the Madison-MacArthur Hospital and its famous inmate, Number 73, Robert Dawson.

  “You make good coffee, Ellen,” Maude said, enjoying her second cup. “Not everybody does.”

  “Why thank you, detective. I do enjoy a cup myself, though I can’t abide weak brew or thin character in a person,” Ellen said, rocking in her chair, enjoying company for the first time in several days. The last person who’d sat on her small divan was the man who fixed the plumbing. She had offered him coffee and cookies and he seemed grateful.

  “Ellen, what do you know of Robert Dawson, other than he’s on the twenty-second floor and comatose?”

  The nurse looked sharply at Maude and frowned as though something rotten had crossed her sensitive olfactory nerve.

  “He’s a bad one, is what I say. Maybe the worst I ever knew.” She stirred her coffee for a minute and rocked.

  Maude could tell there was more to be heard if she kept quiet and let Ellen think.

  “There are times make me wonder what he’s up to,” she said, finally.

  “What do you mean, Ellen? Sounds as though you have reason to believe the man is conscious.” Maude was playing her hand close to the vest, not wanting to put words in Ellen’s mouth that weren’t there already.

  “What I mean is, would you like some cake, detective? Just baked this morning.”

  Ordinarily she would have refused the offer, but Maude believed Ellen was old school, and laid trust on the table along with the products of her work. What she had to say seemed so important she had to trust Maude before telling it.

  “Probably shouldn’t, but why not? I love good homemade cake.”

  The serving done, the cake was proven to be delicious, probably an old recipe Ellen had learned from her aunt. Maude detected a hint of lemon with lots of butter. She complimented the cook on her baking and proceeded to finish off the large piece, stilling the animal with an overload of sugar.

  “You see, detective,” Ellen began, “I’ve seen them come and go, watched their faces as they tried to get to me, hoping to strangle the life from my body. Medicine holds them for a while, keeps them down and harmless. That fellow 73 is like that. His medicine keeps him down for a while, but not forever. Sometimes when I go by that room and the door is open outside the bars, I see him lying there and I know he’s pretending. When Doctor Hopkins was around, 73’s door was never open. I believe they were up to no good, and the doctor ke
pt it all hush-hush so the patient wouldn’t be moved out of his comfortable room. As it is, he has a laptop in there, a television, and even a cell phone. Now why does an unconscious man need all that unless he’s pretending? Doctor Hopkins said it was for visitors to use, but I don’t believe a word of it. Anyway, they got me moved where I won’t come in contact with 73. Which is fine, but it makes me wonder why. Tell me it isn’t because I saw too much! And what happened to Doctor Hopkins? Detective, who gets run over and killed by a car in front of a hospital? Doesn’t that sound fishy to you?”

  “You bring up some good points, Ellen. Protect yourself is my best advice,” Maude answered, her sympathy going out to the woman. “Thank you for speaking to me today. If you see anything suspicious you think I should know, here’s my card. Don’t wait to call. Your life may depend upon quick action.”

  “I won’t, detective, I do protect myself. Learned a thing or two from my daddy. Even though he was a bad one, there was a time he loved me.”

  Driving home was a short trip, but it seemed to take hours. Maude was tired from lack of sleep and didn’t hope for much better that night. She had a doctor but hated to show up in his office whining. Maybe Doctor Lindsey from the job might have some suggestions. She called her a few minutes later, surprised as always to get the busy woman on the phone.

  “Doctor Lindsey, hello, this is Maude Rogers, detective from Homicide. Do you have a minute?”

  “What is it, detective? Another shooting?”

  “Uh no, doctor. I have a problem I thought you might help with. If you aren’t busy.”

  “Don’t you have a doctor, detective? Someone whom you see regularly?”

  “Well, no, I don’t, but even if I did, that’s not the kind of doctor I need. I’m sick but I’m not.” Jeez, she was sorry for the call, but it was too late to turn back.

  “Speak up, detective. What do you need?” Jean Lindsey was as impatient as Maude remembered, with little time devoted to chitchat.

  “I’m in your neighborhood. Can I come by for a minute? If you can’t see me, that’s okay, I’ll work it out myself.” Just drop it, doctor, she thought.

  Never one to get the easy route, Maude heard Lindsey’s sudden interest. She insisted that Maude drive right to her office. Maybe she heard something in the detective’s voice, a note of helplessness or pain.

  The smooth green walls hadn’t changed; neither had the calming effect of the soft pastels. When Maude entered the door, she immediately felt more relaxed. After a few minutes explaining to Lindsey about the alcohol and her body’s recent deprivation, the doctor stared through her, obviously considering whether to send her away or treat her condition.

  “Detective, what you are doing, while admirable, is foolish and dangerous. You have made it through the worst time, but luck is what saved you from serious withdrawal symptoms. Bleeding, hallucinations, difficulty breathing; all those things and more were possible. I can help you, but I strongly suggest a trip to your regular doctor for follow-up.”

  “Yes, doctor,” Maude said contritely. “Whatever you say.”

  “I have some capsules for you, something to help you sleep. Also, help for the anxiety. Small doses, won’t interfere with the job,” Lindsey said, busy writing on her prescription pad. She passed them over to Maude, staring at her, a tiny smile in the corner of her mouth. “I wondered when you were going to address your addiction,” she said sympathetically. “You’re a strong woman, Maude Rogers. I hope you make it.”

  Maude left the green walls, headed toward her own plain white ones. She stopped at the big-box grocer and filled the prescriptions. Afterward, the trip home seemed to take forever. She couldn’t wait to take one of the sleeping aids and hit the bed, hoping to get finally get some rest.

  Her pillow was dry, with a new, clean cover on it, drawing her to the bed. The small white capsule was half the dosage, but her reluctance to swallow any drug held the line to one. In about twenty minutes, the bed came up to meet her, and Maude fell asleep, resting for the first time since her last drink. The anxiety over quitting her old friend Gilbey’s had added its part to the mix. Several hours later she awoke feeling better. Clearheaded, she searched the pantry for food and decided on a bowl of potato soup from a can, warmed but not hot. It filled her stomach and set aside hunger. The summer day was still full sun, lighting the backyard and the canopy of oaks that lined the property. A memory came hard then, of a similar day in August when Robert Dawson had violated her privacy and entered the backyard, intent upon showing his power. She shivered for a minute, remembering the bullet in her side.

  “Best to shake that off; just a memory brought on by seeing that scum today. Think I’ll call my hero in Philly,” Maude said, to hear the sound of a voice. The only man besides Paul Rogers that she’d ever cared about was Bill Page, a homicide detective in Philadelphia. They had shared some good times over the past several months and hoped to share more when he moved to Texas. So far, his boss hadn’t found a replacement allowing Bill to retire. She knew it was a hard consideration to leave the work force, and gave him no difficulty over his decision. She did miss him, though. A telephone call later, Maude was less lonely. Bill had said he was retiring in the upcoming March, never mind whether the department was ready or not. He was leaving for Texas’s mild winters and Maude’s fiery temperament. She smiled at the thought of Bill showing up.

  “Maybe I’ll get a dog, one not too old so he doesn’t die soon. A lovable pooch that doesn’t require much. Yeah, a dog, man’s best friend.” Her mind shifted to Wallace Avery and his friend from back when. What could produce murderous wrath in a law-abiding man? Maybe Phillip Mason wasn’t so clean, and for that matter, maybe Avery was hiding something. The shooting didn’t make sense. Why would a man come all the way from Detroit for revenge on an ex-partner, after a long cooling-off period? Maybe there was more to it than that.

  She picked up the landline in her house and punched in the number for CID, hoping it was Alice’s turn to work Saturday. As luck would have it, she was at the cranky telex machine, receiving and sending fingerprint information. Maude was hopeful that soon Madison would come into the twenty-first century and replace all the old analog machines with digital. She had seen the results of their production in Philadelphia.

  “What’cha need, Maude?” Alice was busy, but never too distracted to help her friend.

  “Hey, Alice, glad I caught you. Could I get you to run a criminal history on Wallace Avery, around fifty years old? Previously lived in Michigan.” Maude tried to remember the man’s identifiers, but could only guess at his height and weight. “Hang on and I’ll get a sure thing on his DOB.”

  Her small blue book was on the dresser. Leafing through the pages, she found Wallace Avery, DOB April 24, 1960. After repeating the numbers to Alice and disconnecting the phone, the restlessness started in with the kind of jumpiness a gin and tonic once cured, but that solution was no longer available. She remembered the five o’clock meeting at the church and went to her car before thinking any more dangerous thoughts. Later she was glad, for the people who spoke in the small circle addressed some of her issues. She had a cup of coffee and felt peace come over her as the speakers talked of turning things over to a higher power. Afterward, she left the meeting with new resolve and gratitude for sobriety.

  Returning home, she found a message from Alice on the small fax machine near the landline. A few months earlier Maude had purchased the machine and had never been sorry. Email was nice, but having the copy come directly from her source gave credence to many types of evidentiary information. Using the parameters she had given Alice, a report came back that eight years prior, Wallace Ervine Avery had been arrested for felony theft, but later charges were dismissed. There was little to go on. Avery’s record was basically clear except for that. Maude took note of the arresting agency and decided to put in a call, hoping to find the officer who’d placed cuffs on the man. A further investigation of Phillip Mason’s past showed the same type of arrest a
nd results. Charges against him were dismissed as well.

  Coincidences always sparked a question, especially when two men were arrested for the same crime, yet neither was tried. Maude hoped the burg outside Detroit where the two men were arrested still kept records after eight years. The police report had originated in Woodsboro, a medium-sized town with a medium-sized population. Avery’s address at the time of his arrest had been 443 South Street, Woodsboro. That should make it easier to find the truth. A quick phone call to the Woodsboro Police gave her the names of two detectives, one a Jason Barton, who had been employed there for at least four years, and the other, Kyle Blanton, the older of the two and possibly the longest employed. They were both off on the weekend, but the dispatcher gave Maude numbers to voice mails.

  “Hello, this is Maude Rogers, homicide detective from Madison, Texas.” She went on to give her cell phone and instructions and that she was looking into the history of an ex-resident of Woodsboro. “Appreciate a callback,” she finished. Knowing Monday would probably be the soonest she would hear back from the detective, she put it out of her mind and decided to sit out on the porch and smoke her third unfiltered of the day. The evening sun was in the low part of the sky, reddening the horizon across a few clouds, reminding her of the adage “red sky at night, sailor’s delight.” A Texas sunset is glorious, she thought. She remembered her mother, and how much time the older woman had utilized the wooden rocking chair during toward the end of her illness, staring across the stand of small oaks as she rocked quietly in her pain. Life is a helluva thing, Maude thought. I cling to mine just as most everyone does. Mama wanted to live on, but she didn’t get the chance once cancer came to stay.