The 6:10 To Murder (The Maude Rogers Crime Novels Book 3)

by Linda L. Dunlap

  Chapter 6

  Maude’s city vehicle had a guidance unit built in, its maps a must on trips such as the one they made to Bisbey. For a small town, the population was scattered, in Maude’s words, “from hell to breakfast,” making it difficult to find businesses. The Bisbey Memorial Rehabilitation Center was medium sized, stuck back off the main road about five miles, surrounded by a new housing addition where an affluent neighborhood had grown up. Joe found the business and drove into the parking lot next to a 1959 Ford. His tongue was nearly hanging out over the vintage car, but to Maude, it was a has-been somewhat like herself, and not at all attractive. The door to the rehab center was unlocked, but visitors had to pass through the front patio with its several rocking chairs, small round table, and matching set of gliders before entering the building. The whole area was tree-shaded and quaint, somewhat like the Ford in the parking lot. They opened the double doors with squeaking hinges needing oil, and entered the musty-smelling building. Joe signed their names at the top of the visitor pad and stated that their business was to visit Wanda May Wilson.

  The detectives showed their badges and were given quick access to the corridor where Eve’s sister lived. She had a semi-private room with another female, who was watching television when Maude and Joe walked in the door. They closed off the curtains and proceeded to introduce themselves to the woman in the bed. At first Wanda May was reluctant to listen, fearing bad news, and later, she cried hysterically when they told her about her sister. The chaplain was visiting the halls at that time and Maude offered to go get him for Wanda May, but she refused, spitting out words of dislike for the man and his religion. Maude was concerned for her, but hopeful they might ask her some questions before the day grew too late. She really wanted to get home on time and go to bed.

  “Wanda May, I need to ask you some questions,” Maude said, and gave the woman a moment to prepare herself. “I know that’s the last thing you want to do right now, but we need anything that might help us find the murderer of your sister. Anything at all.”

  “What do you want to know? I’m stuck in this bed and can’t get up, but I’ll help any way that I can to find the horrible person who hurt my sweet sister. What kind of maniac would harm her, detective? Eve was good and kind, never hurting anyone. Oh, I can’t imagine life without my big sister.” She was gone again, into a sobbing hysteria that Maude had seen too many times. God, she hated telling people the sad news of the loss of a loved one.

  Patiently they waited for Wanda May’s composure to return. “Okay, detective, ask me what you need to know that might help you find the psycho who killed her.”

  “Did Eve come to see you on Friday?”

  “You mean the day she died? Why no. I haven’t seen her since two weeks ago.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” Maude said. “Someone pretended to be her, all the way down to buying a ticket to Bisbey.”

  “But why? Why would they do that?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a bizarre case. We know your sister told her supervisor she was coming to see you and never made the trip.”

  “But why would she say that when she never had any intention of coming here? Eve wouldn’t surprise me; I have too many appointments. I might not have been here.”

  Joe sat quietly, thinking of the conversation between the women, then he asked a question. “Wanda May, did Eve ever talk about any of her enemies? Or anyone she might have had difficulty with in the past?”

  Wanda May got very quiet and looked away, not meeting Joe’s eyes. “No, not that I know of,” she said distantly. “At least, nothing I can be sure of.”

  Wanda May was a thin woman; her body had deteriorated from spending too many years in a bed or confined to a chair. She had brown hair that hadn’t seen a full shampoo in a while, and her complexion was suffering from medications with side effects. Her saving feature was a pair of dark blue eyes under thick lashes that didn’t require mascara. The rest of her was unremarkable. She gave the impression that she lived in fear most of the time, and Maude could understand the reasons. Being dependent upon others for your survival took away self-confidence. Wanda May was a woman afraid to live.

  “You see, Eve knew some people a few years back who helped her find a good job working as a hospital nurse,” she said hesitantly, after getting control. “Eve went to school and got the training, hoping she could help me as well. The problem was, she could only find work at one place, that hospital for the crazy people. She went to work there and stayed for about a year, then she quit one day and never went back. I asked her why she did it that way, but she wouldn’t tell me. At least, not for a long time. When she did talk about it, she kept looking over her shoulder, like someone was chasing her.

  “She said they brought in this man who was in a coma, and he never opened his eyes or acted like he was even alive. Eve had always asked to work with the children in the building, but when that man got there, they put her to work on his floor, helping with his care. She got real scared because she saw something. It was about six months after he arrived. She was giving him injections because he couldn’t take pills, when he opened his eyes and looked at her. Just looked, not trying to say anything. Then he closed them again. But Eve got scared, because she told me he was pretending to be like that, but he was really conscious. She saw it when he opened his eyes. She knew he had done terrible things to women before he was locked up in the hospital, and her fright was because he knew she knew. She left there, and didn’t tell anyone where she was going. Just dropped out, went to Madison, and got a job in the big grocery store. Eve told me that it was okay, she just didn’t want to work in the hospital anymore, but I could see she was scared real bad.”

  Maude had stood all the while, staring out the small window in Wanda May’s room, dreading to hear the story, but knowing she must. Outside a storm was brewing, and rain would be beating down on them on the trip back to Madison. Summer rain was usually nice, but not while you were traveling. Maude needed her third cigarette badly and wished for a bottle of cold gin, but neither was available at the time. Her worst fear had come alive: Robert Dawson was alert again and manipulating people to get what he wanted. She had known for some time that the halcyon days of his comatose condition was over. The day she went to the hospital with her lieutenant and saw Dawson’s doctor, she knew the man was hiding something, but couldn’t believe it would be so drastic. Robert Dawson, the Heartless Killer, was back in business.

  “Did Eve ever have any contact from the hospital after she left work?” Maude asked, still with her back turned.

  “No, I don’t think so. She said she had made one friend there but wasn’t going to tell her where she was. The last time I saw Eve, she seemed far away, her mind somewhere else. My sister was really afraid. That man must have scared her badly.”

  “Do you remember the name of the friend at the hospital?” Maude continued absently, her mind on the monster.

  “Yes, I believe so. Ellen Goodrich, I think. No, not Goodrich. Goodbody. She was a nurse there. Been there a long time, Eve said.”

  “We appreciate your help, Wanda May. By the way,” Joe said, “if it isn’t too personal, what do the doctors say is wrong with you? Can you walk?”

  “They don’t know. Some kind of muscle deterioration started when I was little. I used to be able to walk, but that was a long time ago. Now I get out in a wheelchair sometimes, but my hands and arms don’t work very well. Most of the time, I stay in bed or go to the pool for rehab. I keep hoping that someday I’ll get better.” Wanda May started crying again, sobbing against her pillow. “What will I do without Eve? You have to find the person that killed her. She deserves that.”

  “I’m sorry I asked,” Joe said. “I didn’t mean to upset you even more.”

  “No, it’s okay. I’m used to it. Please find who killed my sister.” Wanda May was back in control of her emotions,

  “We will, Wanda May, we will,” Joe said.

  Ellen Goodbody had been on duty S
aturday and Sunday after the train incident. The good days off never seemed to be good enough for her. Most of the registered nurses got those days. Of course, Ellen knew that getting her RN certification would take more education, but sometimes she thought about doing it just so she could say she did. The RNs bossed the other nurses around, giving orders about how to medicate the patients. Land’s sake, Ellen thought, you’d think their poop didn’t stink the way they carry on sometimes. On the Monday following the incident, she was on duty, emptying bedpans because the interns were in a meeting, when she saw a newspaper in the lobby, lying across a chair where someone had left it. She took a minute to sit down and be Mrs. Rich Bitch. The front page of the Madison Gazette said that someone had been killed by a train, which didn’t surprise her none the way those big locomotives went scooting by the hospital pulling a long line of cars. Further down the page it said the woman was Eve Devine of Madison, thirty-two years old and unmarried.

  Poor Ellen puckered up, her eyes sprouting tears over the loss of a friend. Eve had been just as sweet as pie, and nobody ever disliked her while she worked there. Ellen couldn’t figure how her friend could kill herself that way. Run over by the train! She hoped she could go to the funeral at least. Not that anyone else would care now. Eve had made some enemies at the hospital when she left without a word. Some of the women who got their schedules messed up and lost vacation plans were not going to cry over her. Ellen thought it was a shame too, that no one believed Eve when she tried to tell them that 73 was putting on a show, pretending to be comatose when he wasn’t. Eve hadn’t told Ellen, but later someone said that was what made her leave so quickly.

  Ellen got up, and went on about her business, thinking about Eve, wondering why she killed herself. A minute later when her nose began twitching, she knew without a doubt a ‘bad one’ was coming down the hall. Lingering a minute, she thought, He better be in the right place. She gave a little smile as the guard brought Number 89 out of his room, passing Ellen near the swimming pool. Yep, she still had it.

  Chapter 7

  Driving back to Madison, Joe kept up a running commentary on any subject he could think of that might bring Maude out of her reverie. So far he had been unsuccessful. Joe was worried, afraid that she had become depressed over the information about Dawson. He knew the psycho had dealt Maude some heavy blows in the past, but that was before he went down in a bicycle chase with Maude behind him. Since that time she had quit being concerned about him. Joe tried again to engage his partner in light conversation, then he shut up, leaving her to silence.

  They were five miles from Madison when Maude spoke up, “Joe, I need to pee, so don’t drag your feet.” He grinned and nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll make sure I don’t. Glad to see you back in the world.”

  “It’s him, Joe. It’s him in this slimy business. I don’t know how it happened, but it did. Dawson is back. He’s pulling strings even if he’s not the one using the knife or the gun. He’s in charge of the turmoil. Doctor Hopkins must be on the tit, taking Dawson’s money. Can’t even trust the medical profession anymore. Joe, we’re going to get to the bottom of this murder and take him down.”

  “I think you might be right, partner. I wish you were wrong, but it sets up to be him. The question is, who’s the guy doing the work?”

  “That fellow Buzzcut is on my list of possibilities. He fits the profile. I’m sure he kidnapped Lilly Ann as part of a bigger plot.”

  Henry Fonda stood behind the ticket window every day of the week, Monday through Friday. His job was to run the station and maintain schedule information with the engineers of the several locomotives that worked through the station. Monday was a slow day in the business, so when he saw the woman detective driving up, he was glad she came during the slow part of the morning. Young, good-looking guy in the car with her must be her partner. That old girl could use some help hustling around the tracks. Henry could tell she had some aches and pains stored up. Good-looking woman, though; he might give her a look-see if it wasn’t for the little lady at home. Henry chuckled, thinking what Inez would do to him if she heard what he was thinking. He laughed a little more, then stopped when something slammed him in the neck and hurt like the devil. Reaching up to put his hand where it hurt, Henry got fuzzy-brained, like he was in the hospital getting ready for surgery. He looked at his hand and saw it came away real wet with all five fingers bloody. Confused, he tried to call his mama, because something was awful wrong and hurting bad. “Mama,” he tried again, his head falling onto the metal countertop behind the splintered glass of the ticket window.

  Sitting in the city car, the detectives looked at one another when they heard the unmistakable sound of breaking glass. They looked for vehicles then quickly turned toward the station, seeing but not quite taking it in: the whole front panel of glass was gone. The sign indicating Station remained intact, but the Madison part had dropped to the floor in a thousand pieces.

  “What happened, Maude? Did you see anything?” Joe was moving away from the car seat, opening the door and crouching behind, looking toward the wrecked front of the building.

  “Not a thing, Joe, but from the looks of it, a bullet came through here just a minute ago. The inside is messed up,” she said from the cover of her car door. “I have to get in there. People may be hurt. Try to cover me if you see anything. I’m going in.”

  “Wait, Maude,” Joe said. “You’re the better shot. Let me go in first.”

  “Nothing doing,” she said, knowing Joe was trying to protect her. “Call for backup and EMS.”

  The broken glass was inside the building, across the tile floor, where it had skittered from the impact. A woman huddled in the corner of the building, hiding behind her bag, tears on her face. A man with crutches had fallen from his chair, sliding to the tile floor, where he lay in terror of what might be coming through the door. Bags were lined across the end of the building, waiting for the next train, their owners standing outside or sitting on benches when the bullet was fired. Maude stepped lightly, weapon in hand, skidding once or twice on the tiny particles of glass that covered the floor.

  The worst was yet to come. Directly across from the broken panes of glass, the ticket booth window was unmanned. Maude stepped closer and saw the blood swipes down the metal shelf and a spray of arterial blood across the cash register, the computer screen, and an open logbook. Henry was an old-time record keeper who liked figures written by hand. He lay on the floor, his face and upper body covered in blood from a hole the size of a silver dollar just below his temple. The jugular had been severed and the top of his jawbone could be seen through the gore. Henry had died on his feet, probably unaware of what had hit him.

  “Anyone hurt?” Maude yelled after a few minutes of quiet. “It’s okay; you can come out now if you’re hiding, just stay low.”

  A few people had small scratches from the glass, but nothing serious. None of the riders wanted to give up their ticket and miss the train, but Maude said she was sorry; they would have to make other arrangements unless she could get their statements before the passenger train was ready to leave. Quickly, each person in hiding came forth to tell what they had seen.

  The backup that Joe had called for was coming in, two and three blue uniforms at a time, crowding the passengers. Maude pulled her whistle from her pocket and blew, getting the attention of the officers who had showed up. She chose a few of them to interview the people outside the station, making sure they gave names and addresses and showed some identification. The crime scene crew arrived soon afterward and began their work, getting pictures of the victim and his surroundings.

  “What a sorry mess this is. Do you suppose the man was the target, or did the bullet go wild?” she asked Joe. “Why would someone kill him, unless he knew more about the murder of Eve Devine than he had told us?”

  “The crime scene people are going out with armed officers, looking for locations where the shooter might have set up, but if he’s trained by Dawson, they won’t find much,” Jo
e said. “The coroner didn’t have anything to say, except the bullet killed the victim very quickly. It was a hollow point, most likely. The shooter was a pro, knew where to put the bullet through the glass. Looks like he shot two, three times, breaking out all the windows.”

  “Joe, let’s find out if Fonda was married. If so, he might have told his wife what he had seen. It’s a good idea anyway to make sure she’s okay, although I don’t relish telling her about her husband. I’m wondering if we were followed over here, Joe. It’s obvious the gunman got to him first.”

  “Kind of a sorry feeling, that maybe we got the man killed,” Joe said thoughtfully.

  “No, it wasn’t us,” Maude said. “The man was doomed from the first, if he knew more than he was telling. ‘A secret once told has no more power,’ my mother told me, and she was right.”

  Henry Fonda’s house was near the station in one of the older neighborhoods with red peaked roofs and two-storied houses. The Fonda’s home had a wrought-iron white gate in front with summer roses and Esperanza blooming beside it, the reds and yellows giving a cheerful ambiance to the house and property. Maude knocked on the door, wishing she was somewhere else. A pretty woman with gray hair and bifocal glasses over hazel eyes answered the door.

  “May I help you?” she asked, more of a statement than a question.

  Maude showed her shield identifying herself as Maude Rogers, Homicide Division of Madison Police Department. “Yes, Mrs. Fonda? Inez Fonda?”

  “Yes, what can I do for you? Would you like to come in?”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Fonda. That would be better.”