“No, Bob, shoot the son of a buck. Don’t let him get away,” Maude said, trying to get off the floor.
Laying the gun aside, Eberhart looked at Maude and grimaced. He knew the maniac would do as he threatened.
Dawson, now fully Ridge Roberts, grinned, the old scars on his face drawing the skin into a macabre wooden puppet mask effect. “After all that has happened, you’re here. I don’t have time to make killing you fun because my money has been stolen, and I must hurry and find it.”
“What’s wrong, Bobby? Somebody treat you bad?” Maude asked, rising to her knees.
“Shut up! There’s no Bobby. He’s gone. It’s me, Ridge, I’m in charge.”
“You may be in charge, but Bobby is still there. He’s what keeps you from blowing your own head off.”
“Shut up!” he said again. “Keep your mouth shut, shut, shut. No time for you; must go to the airport. My money is gone. It’s going away.”
“Who stole your money, Bobby?” Maude asked. “Is that why you killed Eve Devine? Did she steal your money?”
“Who? Eve Devine? Who is Eve Devine?” He looked surprised, as though he had never heard the name.
“Eve Devine, a nice lady that you told Stringer to kill. What did she do to you?”
“Uh-uh. Stringer killed someone for me? Good. Who was she?”
Maude was puzzled, and even though she knew the nutcase in front of her wanted her dead, she needed to understand what had happened to Eve Devine.
“It wasn’t you who scattered body parts on the Missouri-Pacific tracks? You’re saying you had nothing to do with draining her blood or removing her heart? Come on, Bobby, you like that kind of work.”
Chortling, the demented killer became less coherent. “Stole my money, all my money. I must leave you,” he said, lowering the gun toward Maude’s head.
It came then; the most terrifying screech Maude had ever heard filled the hallway behind her, as Ellen Goodbody sprang from the bathroom and ran toward them, brandishing her hatchet in a continuous circle above her head. Her voice reached full volume just as the wooden handle flew from her hand in a graceful arc, its metal blade connecting center point with the skull ridges between the maddened eyes of Robert Dawson, a.k.a. Ridge Roberts.
With a surprised expression, Dawson dropped to the floor, his clenched fingers discharging the gun harmlessly into the ceiling. Lying there with the metal axe embedded in his forehead, Robert Dawson appeared to be no more or less violent than any other murderer. Maude leaned over him, making sure he was out of commission.
“Dawson, Bobby, who has your money? Whoever it is, he ordered that woman killed, and expected you’d be blamed for it. Who was it?”
Too late, Dawson opened his mouth as if to speak, but was no longer part of the living world. The Heartless Killer was dead, and would never harm another woman.
Ellen could only stand staring at the hatchet that had belonged to her daddy, the one he’d first used to decapitate his brother-in-law then shortly afterward plunged into his own brain. She couldn’t believe what she’d done. Giving Maude a helpless shrug, she said quietly, “I used to practice throwing that thing in the backyard. Hitting trees and knocking bottles off the fence. I never knew I would use it for such a thing as I did today.”
“You saved my life,” Maude said, standing finally, “and I’m never going to forget that. Thank you, Ellen.”
Turning to Eberhart, Maude said in a rush, “The mastermind of this whole thing is at the airport, trying to leave the country. You’ll have to finish it here. I can’t allow a criminal to get away,” she said, hurrying toward the elevator full of cops and emergency trauma people.
Getting back to her car was easy, but all the activity had caused more pain in her joints. She quickly took two ibuprofen, put the car into drive, and headed toward the airport with sirens and lights blazing.
“How could I have missed it?” she asked herself. “It was there all the time, but I was fixed on Dawson and didn’t see it.”
The glass doors were closing when she arrived. After leaving the car in a No Parking area and locking her gun inside the glove box, Maude entered the security section, waiting for them to search her before showing her badge. She explained that it was a matter of life or death, that she needed to be allowed to go through. One of the security men gave her a visitor’s sticker for her blazer, and followed her down the line while she searched the waiting areas for a murderer, one who waited to board a plane to a country without an extradition agreement with the United States.
The chairs were standard, blue, and attached to each other by nuts and bolts in a long line. Sitting passengers waiting to board were eager to be on their way. The third seat from the end she found him, his thin hair covered by a straw hat, and an AMA magazine tucked under his arm. She could tell he was dozing peacefully, oblivious to the hold about to be put on his trip and his life.
The airport police officer was armed, a fact Maude had known ahead of time, the reason she had left her weapon outside. Had she tried to go through the security line with a gun, her quarry would have boarded the plane and left the country before they had cleared her. She nodded to the officer and edged forward, making sure he was close by.
“Ian Hopkins, you are under arrest for murder, for obstruction of justice, for grand theft, and for anything else I can add on to it. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right…” She continued on with the Miranda, making sure it was done right. At her insistence, the officer took the doctor into custody and escorted him outside the boarding area. Hopkins was silent and didn’t object to anything. Seeing her there was hard to accept, but he was a practical man.
Finally, he turned to her and asked, “How did you find me?” His shoulders drooped with defeat, for the doctor was not accustomed to the criminal’s way of life.
“Your patient had a last lucid moment before he made the trip to hell. You took his money and he couldn’t stop talking about it.”
Later, on the way to the Cop Shop, Maude asked the doctor what made him go wrong. “You had it all, a good career, respect. Was the money that enticing?”
“He was going to kill me. Told me so then laughed. But I knew he was serious. He’d paid me well to arrange the deception, the coma, but it was coming to an end, so I faked my death then hid out for a while. I paid someone to break the code to Dawson’s bank accounts. The money became the reason I lived, then one day, I was at a coffee shop, just for a minute. Eve Devine came in and sat down across the room. I knew she recognized me from the days she worked as a nurse. I left as quickly as I could, but I caught her staring. She had to die. Stringer took care of it, made it look like something Dawson would do, so he’d catch the blame.”
“Mr. Hopkins, murder was a business you should never have invested in. You should have stayed with healing the sick. One question: why the kid on the phone? Even though it was a brilliant way to get me involved, why bother?”
“Because only you would have connected it all together, the missing heart, the blood. What other cop would have thought beyond the accident with the train? You knew Dawson and would assume he did it all.”
“And Stringer? How did you get him involved? He was Dawson’s man.”
“Money, detective, the root of all evil. Stringer is an egomaniac who believes he can do anything he wants. You have him in custody, but I daresay he seems unconcerned. In his mind, he has power over the situation. He was a good partner, but the time would have come when he would have tried to take everything.”
“Don’t you have some regrets, Doctor Hopkins? Did you kill the man you traded identities with?” Maude asked as an afterthought. He was silent as she made ready to release him to other officers at the station. “Any remorse for any of it?”
“I’m a psychiatrist, detective. I am familiar with aberrant behavior. If you’re asking if I compare myself to others like Dawson, then no, I am not sorry. What I did was necessary, though unfortunate for some. And no, the man on the road
had recently died. It was convenient for me that I had friends in a funeral home. For a small charge, they provided me with the body of a homeless man. It was good talking to you, detective, especially off the record. You can never prove any of what I’ve told you, but I’m glad you know.”
“I’ll take my chances with the evidence, doctor. My job was to stop you from getting away, and I have.”
The first person she called was Bill—she thought he’d be glad to know the mystery was over. The second was Joe. Even though he was out for a while, she knew he would be called to testify in the shootings. He was very pleased to know his work had been a major contributor to helping close the case.
Going home that night, after all was done, Maude happily noted the animal hadn’t raged for several hours. Her AA sponsor had warned her of those times when the need might release her then come back with a vengeance, and she shouldn’t become overly confident in her own abilities. The best thing to do at those times, Claire had said, was for Maude to go to a meeting at the small church, and express her gratitude. That was what she did, smiling at the world around her, absent of a few more bad guys. There was room for others to take their places, and the gaps would fill quickly, but for that moment, Maude Rogers reveled in the peace that sometimes came after her job was done for the day.
The End
Epilogue
Horace Malone went to prison for ninety-nine years without parole for the murders of Eve Devine and Henry Fonda. He seemed unconcerned at the sentencing. Lola was charged with a misdemeanor and received time served for helping police officers in their duties. Sammy Green went back to prison for his part in the whole ugly scheme. Doctor Ian Hopkins managed to beat some of the charges, but the judge wasn’t impressed with the good doctor. He threw the book at him. Miscellaneous arrests were made at the Madison-MacArthur Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Bribery charges were rampant among security and medical staff.
On a happy note, Joe’s doctor said the wound was healing just fine, but even though his patient believed he was ready to go back to work, an additional week was necessary for him to be off his feet. Maude took the liberty of calling his ex-wife and laying a load of guilt on her for not bringing the kids to see him. She even hinted that some bad things might happen if Sheila kept the attitude.
Three and a half weeks from the day he was shot, Joe was sitting up in a rehab bed, wishing he could get out, when the door was opened by his two boys. They were older, and he had difficulty recognizing the little one. Sheila had dropped them off, and told them it was their daddy in the room. Like so many children, they were shy around someone they hadn’t seen for a long time. After a while, they began to ask him about how he got hurt, and were fascinated that he had been shot by a bad guy.
When it was time to go, the boys asked if they could come back and visit the next day, and of course Joe said, “Yes, please do.” They even gave him a small, shy hug.
Robert Dawson’s money was found in some offshore accounts. After sundry bills were paid to the hospital for property damage, the money was given to his two children. They had lost their mother and dad, but at least they would never want for anything money could buy. The children’s grandmother called to thank Detective Rogers for finding the money, and later set up a large trust fund for the care of Wanda May Wilson, Eve Devine’s sister. The last Maude heard, Wanda May was improving mightily with access to a specialist’s care.
Maude continued the battle with her addiction, and was a regular at the church meetings, learning and practicing humility—a difficult task for her. She continued working as a homicide detective, not because she had to, but because she loved it. Besides, she had to do something until Bill arrived. With Dawson dead and no longer a threat to anyone, she closed the book on his life, even though sometimes the memory of the small, abused boy who had become a monster still crossed her mind.
The Corner of His Eye
Copyright © 2017
Chapter 1.
The phone call from Detective Joe Allen to Maude Rogers came at 2:00 A.M. Usually they worked the same hours and days, but this week was different. He had requested a few vacation days down the road, and was working overtime to build a backlog of hours against them.
“This is Maude,” she answered on the second ring. “Two in the morning, this better be good, Joe,” she grumbled, after seeing his name on the cell screen.
The line was static-filled. “Joe,” she repeated, “Talk to me, if this is you. If it isn’t, whoever’s there better speak up. You don’t want to make me any madder than I already am.”
“Maude.” A weak whisper filled her ear, and she knew his voice well enough to recognize he was compromised, either hurt or in a bad position.
“Where are you Joe?” she asked, trying to remove the cobwebs of sleep from her brain. “Do you need help?”
“Maude, I…” The line went dead. She pushed the callback key and waited, but the phone went directly to voice mail. Neither Joe, nor anyone else was answering his phone.
Easing out of bed, Maude nursed her worst knee, and limped to the bathroom. A couple of ibuprofen and coffee was what she needed to feel alive after so little sleep. The coffeepot was on a side table against the wall, and she pushed the button to turn it on manually. The mirror on the bathroom wall showed a tired face, with black smudges beneath dulled blue eyes. Memories of other times and places, when people she cared about were out of touch, and in harm’s way, came to her, but she quickly dismissed them, remembering instead what her AA sponsor drilled into her head.
“Think positively, disallowing negativism,” Cheryl would say cheerily. “Things are never as bad as your imagination can make them.” Sometimes Maude wanted to pinch Cheryl’s cheeks when she spouted the mantra, but so far, she had simply nodded and grumbled.
By the time Maude showered and dressed, the coffee had brewed, and she filled her travel mug to the brim. Before going out the door, she called dispatch, and Marilee Williams, a friend of hers who was about to go off shift, answered the call.
“Hey Maude, sorry you’re up so early. Detective Allen’s last contact was at midnight. He said he was done for the night, and going to head toward home. He decided since the moon was out, he would ride his bike. The guys offered to give him a lift, but you know what a health nut he’s become.”
“He say anything else? Try to remember Merilee, even if it doesn’t seem important. I don’t know where he is, but I think Joe has a problem and needs help.”
“No Maude, he didn’t say anything, except…”
“Except what, Merilee?” Maude asked impatiently.
“Well,” the dispatcher replied hesitantly, and Maude could hear the girl’s sharp intake of breath, “He paid me a compliment.”
“He did what?” Maude asked patiently.
“I told him to be careful, and he said, ‘You’re sweet to care, Merilee. Not everyone does. I’m just going to check out my vision.’ I knew he was being nice, but it was good to hear. Anyway, do eye doctors work nights?”
“Not any I know,” Maude replied. “And that was at midnight?” She asked, lighting the first of her self-imposed allotment of four cigarettes each day. She drew a long puff, sipped her coffee, and considered what might have been on her partner’s mind. Usually, Joe would have worked until shift change at three.
“Like I said, about then.” Merilee replied. “I hope he’s okay,” she added softly.
“Me too,” Maude said. Joe’s gallantry to all females was familiar, but his remark about an eye doctor was puzzling. Probably his way of making a point about something on his mind. But what kind of point?
“Run a check for the last known location of his phone. If you need authorization, use my number.”
After speaking to Merilee, she put another call through, this time to Benny Long, the night shift sergeant. She asked about any complaints filed that Joe might have investigated during shift. “The night was quiet most of the time. A few complaints. A woman called about a man she believ
ed to be a peeper.”
“God I hate pervs,” Maude said. “They have no sense of propriety.”
“Yeah, don’t I know it,” Long agreed. “Woman said she knew he was peeping in her window, because the glass had his nose print where he’d been looking. She wanted to file a complaint on her neighbor and have the window printed. I told her we didn’t keep records of nose prints.”
“I take it she lived on the ground floor,” Maude said dryly.
“Nope, second floor, apartment house on Third Street.”
“Joe investigate, or one of your guys?” Maude asked, not commenting on the sergeant’s answer. Stranger things than second floor peepers happened sometimes daily.
“I sent a patrol car with one officer--usually send two--but being night shift and close to weekend, we’re short-handed. No need for a detective, just a complaint.”
“So Benny, when did you last see or talk to Joe?” she asked, her voice showing the beginnings of impatience.
“About midnight, when he checked out to go home.”
“And you never heard from him again?”
“No, like I said, he was going home.”
“I think you need to send some officers to look for him,” she said.
“Without a good reason, I can’t. I don’t have any men to spare.”
Maude quit the call, and sat fuming over the lack of information. Concerned that Joe was alone and needed help, she turned possible scenarios over in her mind, but none told her where to start looking for him or explained his unanswered phone.
Before leaving home, she filled a bowl with cat food for the stray that had made its home with her a few weeks before. “Stray” was the only name the orange and white tabby had earned since adopting Maude’s back porch and kitchen as his home. At times the cat showed a kind side, and purred to be scratched, but usually, Maude’s friendly human efforts were quickly rebuffed by the animal. Why she fed such an ungrateful beast was a question she couldn’t answer for sure, but she figured it was the cat’s sour disposition--it reminded her of her own. Nevertheless, for the first time in many years, a creature other than Maude lived in her grandmother’s home.
The Maude Rogers Murder Collection Page 76
