Setting her personal misery aside, she grabbed another cup, added extra sugar to the blackness, and held it in shaking fingers. She frowned at the sweetness, but swallowed it down, enjoying the titillation of the need. Coffee would never replace gin, but for the moment, it was all she had. The Traditions book was in her pocket, a lifeline to others who might offer help. One more personal duty was required of her. She found him at the door of telecommunications.
“Eberhart, I owe you. Wouldn’t blame you for not caring. You went out of your way, but I was such a smartass I didn’t listen. I’m sorry.”
The detective took his time, reading through the report in his hand, ignoring her at first. Finally, he looked up and nodded. The depth of his expression told her what she needed to know—he had been there before. Leading stubborn horses to water and watching them drown—his sobriety dependent upon the sharing of information—anyone could be saved from the perils of drinking if they were sincere.
Maude could tell he was disgusted with her, but there was nothing to be gained from long-winded confessions. She moved back toward her desk, waiting for Joe to return from the captain’s office. Not a good day to see Patterson. She hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. She checked her holster, reassuring herself she was put together. Her eyes had lost some of the redness with the coffee, and somehow the clothing she chose for the day was paired as it should be. Black slacks with a crease sat just right over polished low-heel walking boots, and a blue knit pullover that matched her eyes covered a gold cross necklace. The small wedding ring that circled a finger on her right hand was a sharp reminder of the love she had lost in the war. Across the back of the ergonomic chair hung a black and white hound’s-tooth-print blazer, part of the uniform. Maude Rogers always looked sharp, even when she was on the way to see her archenemy.
Joe returned from the second floor where Captain Patterson was housed, their once-lieutenant now sitting with the big dogs. Both of the detectives, and some others who weren’t afraid of the truth, knew it was the work of Rogers and Allen that pushed their lieutenant toward promotion. He had been given the glory and took it. Patterson was a decent sort and handed out a few plums as he was able, not holding the wealth to himself. Maude’s car had been upgraded and a few other perks had come their way. She was okay with the trade-out. James Patterson had always tried to be fair, even when his old captain had pushed to get Maude to quit the force. As her lieutenant, Patterson had given her the freedom to do the job as she saw best. He had never regretted it.
This morning, when her nerves were on the thin side, it was best for Joe to do their talking and explain the day ahead. She was content to wait, knowing it was at least two hours before she could smoke the second cigarette of her morning. Sometimes life seemed a bitch. Addictions lay in the path, waiting to be picked up by the unwary. She had succumbed to smoking unfiltereds and drinking gin. Maude also had a passion for tacos and other spicy food. At least some things remained the same, she thought, hoping she and Joe could grab breakfast on the way to their first stop. A prayer for her stomach to settle was in order. Tacos wouldn’t be the best thing for a bad belly.
“So, let’s go,” Joe said. He drank the rest of his coffee, quelling his own growling stomach. “Think we can get a bite on the way?”
“Yeah. Maybe a taco stand. Breakfast kind, with eggs and bacon,” Maude answered, glad they could be on their way. “You okay, you know, with your ex leaving?”
“Yeah. I’ll be all right. Thanks,” he said, looking off.
Maude was more than eager to get away from the station and Eberhart. He was a good man whose kind offer of help she had abused. She wondered when the mess that was her life would begin to make sense again.
“Think we ought to call the hospital and make an appointment?” Joe asked. “Maybe talk to that doctor. What’s his name?”
“Ian Hopkins. Neurosurgeon, psychiatrist, behaviorist,” she said, concentrating on the case, thinking of the doctor’s past protective attitude toward Robert Dawson. “We’ll be lucky to get through the mish-mash of stalls that man has prepared. He knows a great deal he isn’t telling.”
The ride to the Madison-MacArthur Hospital for the Criminally Insane took the better part of an hour, with stopping for tacos to go. A much more settled Maude Rogers arrived at their destination having filled her stomach with food. She parked the car and got out, fingering the Traditions book in her blazer pocket. Funny how it seemed to belong there—just in her reach. The printed words soothed her, easing the pain of alcohol deprivation.
Elevators in the expansive building were smooth and fast, taking them quickly to the twenty-second floor, the top-level housing of the hospital’s most dangerous criminals. There on that floor, where inmates were known by number and not by name, Robert Dawson, Number 73, was somewhat of a legend. He had tortured and killed several women, but had been convicted of the death of only one. Mary Ellen Sampson had been Maude’s renter and friend, a young college girl, targeted by the killer for the sole purpose of getting a reaction from Maude, his one-time nanny. Dawson had mutilated Mary Ellen’s face and mouth then stabbed her in the back, leaving her hanging on a cruel cross inside a deserted Texas cave. Maude and Joe, with the help of Deputy Ernest Garrison from Buena Vista, had found the girl. Later, the killer followed Maude to her house, where she eventually was responsible for his capture.
The past violence was on her mind when the elevator came to its stop, opening to the high-security floor. Several armed officers were positioned throughout the twenty-second floor, additions to the building soon after Dawson’s sentencing. One took the detectives weapons after a brief frisk. He apologized for the security procedures, aware that Maude had been the arresting officer when Dawson was captured. Maude nodded understanding as she set her eyes on the barred entrances near the housing area of the section. Dawson’s room had been located near the back of the floor on her last trip. Recently, 73 had been relocated toward the front, a concession made to his comatose condition. After all, where could he go in his unconscious state? Immediately, Maude had a big problem with the logic presented to them by the staff doctor who’d made that decision. She vowed to do whatever necessary to get the inmate moved further away from the elevator doors.
“I would like to see Doctor Hopkins, please,” she said, using her most persuasive voice. Showing her shield and picture to intake personnel was a necessary part of entry into the building.
“One moment,” a young staff member said, leaving them standing in the open area. He returned in a few seconds with a balding man wearing glasses on his nose. A nametag signified the man as Doctor Blaine Ponder, Psychiatrist.
“Detective Rogers,” Ponder said, “I am sorry to tell you that Doctor Ian Hopkins no longer works for the hospital. A terrible accident took him from us about three weeks ago.”
“What happened?” Maude asked, her internal radar sensitive to false words and coincidences.
“Doctor Hopkins was hit by a speeding car while crossing the street in front of this building. A hit and run. The authorities haven’t found the driver yet,” Ponder explained. “So terrible,” Ponder murmured. “Such a terrible loss. Ran over by one car, then another just behind—a very messy incident.”
“Who is 73’s doctor now?” Maude asked, her stomach aching from the knowledge that Dawson had manipulated events leading to Hopkins’ death. “It’s important that your patient be watched closely now. We believe he’s capable of his old behavior.”
“Nonsense,” Ponder said. “Number 73 is hardly more than a pampered vegetable. His family brings in the occasional item hoping to get a response from him, but nothing penetrates the layers of his psychosis.”
“I want a list of family members who visit him,” Maude said. “I want it today, right now.” She was furious with the stupidity of the doctor. “This man is dangerous, probably the most dangerous inmate you’ve ever encountered.”
Ponder stared hard at the two detectives, fastening his eyes on Joe, looking for repri
eve from the woman who held him hostage with her words. When his stare produced no response, Ponder began blustering that Maude’s behavior was out of line.
“Maybe so, but you’ll give me the list of visitors, or you and I will soon be visiting your supervisor. Get it, Doctor Ponder, if you value your position here.”
Joe eyed the doctor and nodded. “I’d get it if I were you,” he said quietly. “You don’t want to rile this woman.”
Ponder turned and stormed toward a room at the end of the hallway. His shoulders were stiff, the set of them disapproving and defiant as his feet carried him away from the two detectives.
“Think he’ll do it?” Maude asked, her well of tolerance nearly empty.
“Maybe. I think you scared him pretty bad,” Joe said with a grin.
“Let’s hope. His life may depend upon it. Meanwhile, call around and find out what you can about Hopkins’ death. Someone must have seen something. Maybe the hospital cops have some information. It’s too convenient, this man dying. I think he knew too much and Dawson had him eliminated after using him for his purposes.”
“You convinced he’s awake?”
“Yes, I am. Before we see him, I want to talk to that nurse, Ellen Goodbody. She sounds like someone who might know what is really going on.”
“Good idea, Maude. Maybe one of the staff will cooperate.”
“Don’t bet on it,” she said, eyeing the frowning woman who operated the doors electronically. “We aren’t loved here.”
“Give me a minute. I’ll be right back,” Joe said, headed toward the frowning woman.
Maude watched from across the room, seeing the operator’s expression changing as her face pinked from something Joe said. “My, my, that man of mine, how he does shine,” Maude said, smiling to herself. In a short time, Joe returned, his green eyes twinkling.
“She’ll be here in about ten minutes,” he said. “Let’s hope the doc returns before then.”
“Joe, you’re wasting your talent. With your winning ways and handsome profile, the world is your oyster, just waiting for you to open it and find a pearl of great price.”
It was Detective Allen’s turn to blush, his head dropping just a bit as Maude teased him. She thought of Joe as both a partner and a friend, and he knew it, but sometimes she managed to get the best of him. Luckily for him, the tide both swelled and receded. His turn came around often enough to keep Maude on her toes. A good working relationship included fair play and a return of harmless barbs.
Beyond the curve of the mirrored tile floor, Doctor Ponder grudgingly made his way toward the two waiting detectives. Without acknowledgement of his right or wrong behavior, the doctor handed a printout to Maude, a list showing four visitors who had made their way to the twenty-second floor. One was Maude Rogers and a companion from the Madison Sheriff’s Department; an incomplete visit was noted in the small log. Another was a person named Mr. Smith, a visitor listed as a relative who had made multiple trips to see Robert Dawson, often staying the maximum time allowed. Smith was allowed in the inmate’s room along with the attending psychiatrist. The last was Laura Bell Stanton, listed as a family relative. Maude was surprised to see the children’s grandmother listed as a visitor. The revelation was intriguing, prompting a later investigation.
“Doctor Ponder, when did you first begin treating Robert Dawson?”
“I don’t have to tell you anything, detective,” he replied. “All you need to know is he is now my patient.”
“Are you aware this inmate is a criminal, having been sentenced by the court to serve his time under harsh supervision?” She eyed him unwaveringly, waiting for his response, hoping the shakes didn’t give her away.
“Doctor Hopkins called me in, asked me to assess the patient,” he said prissily. “I resent your implication that I did anything wrong.”
“I didn’t say you did something wrong, Doctor Ponder, I asked you if you realized the conditions of this man’s confinement. He is a murderer and a psychological maniac, a torturer of women, and totally unfit to live in society.”
The doctor drew himself up, bristling with dislike for Maude. She had hoped to see his true colors, and believed he was finally showing them. It was obvious that the man had been snookered by Dawson, or bought with his money. Either way, she knew he was not to be trusted for genuine information. She had a feeling Dawson had orchestrated the man’s responses, and was probably having a belly laugh over her troubles with the good doctor.
“There are certain disciplines you as a layman can’t possibly know,” Ponder said, his mouth pursed. “I would not expect you to understand the human psyche, nor do I feel the need to justify myself as a doctor or explain my patient’s condition. Number 73 is locked away from the world, both physically and psychologically. He is unaware that you hate him to such an extent.”
“Perhaps, Doctor Ponder,” Joe interrupted, “we will make that assessment ourselves shortly. We’re here to see your patient. Please make him ready.”
Ponder glared at his new opponent, then nodded, defeated for the moment. “As you wish,” he said. “Follow me.”
Maude glanced at Joe, shrugging, as if to say their bluff had been called. Ellen Goodbody would have to wait. Maybe a trip to her house at the end of her shift would be better. She might speak more freely then.
Number 73 was lying in his bed, a striped blue and white blanket tucked in beneath his feet. The previous months had not been kind to Dawson. Maude’s attention upon the killer was a palpable connection, forcing her to stare at the creature who had taken so many lives, forcing his victims and their families to suffer in retaliation for his own abused childhood. Dawson’s black hair was thin and lifeless, his forehead bereft of the widow’s peak that Maude remembered from his boyhood. She could almost see the small boy whose body needed comforting after the cruelty of his mother’s blows. A light growth of facial hair filled in the hollowness of his cheeks, with scars from the crash between bicycle and automobile visible above the growth. His body was covered, but Maude knew there must be a plethora of old marks from gouges made by the pavement that night. She felt no sympathy, only disgust with the criminal lying in the bed. It was her intent to make him betray himself. Believing that she could influence Dawson and make him react against his will, Maude stood stock still, wondering which button to push.
“Hello, Bobby,” she whispered. “How’s your tummy? Has your mommy punched you today? It’s Maude, your old nanny. I know you’re awake—remember, I can see into you. Have you made messy in your pants today?”
The stillness in the room seemed manufactured. Dawson was cuffed at the wrists and his feet chained to the end of the bed. His body appeared totally limp. For a moment Maude wondered if maybe she had been wrong; maybe she was hoping for the easy solve to her murder case. Then she saw it, the tiny tic above his right eyebrow. One of the several facial muscles above his eye had responded to her questions. Experience with interviews had taught her to watch closely for tics indicating a person’s anxiety. It was only a matter of time before he gave himself away. Joe stood quietly, ready to respond if necessary. Maude felt his protective presence, and was grateful to have him there. The man in the bed had embraced evil, and it radiated from him as he lay confined. She saw it again, the uncontrolled movement of his facial muscles.
“Doctor Ponder,” Maude said, “do you know who you have here? He’s a cowardly little boy hiding behind a sleep mask, pretending to be unaware of his surroundings, all the while messing his pants and crying for his mommy.”
The dark eyes opened quickly, staring into Maude’s soul. She felt the malice in them, confirming her suspicions. Dawson was alert, his mind working all the while, and she saw the hate behind the sleep mask. His eyes shut again, all sign of life gone from his expression. But it had been enough for her. She glanced at Joe and he nodded, having seen into the inmate’s eyes.
“That’s enough, detective,” Ponder said. “You have proven nothing with your attacks upon my patient.”
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“Your patient is fully aware of his surroundings, doctor. You saw him look at me.”
“What I saw was a reflex action. Not at all uncommon in cases similar to Number 73. I must insist you leave now before you destroy all the work that we have done with this patient,” Ponder blustered. “I put in a call to the circuit court. You will be hearing from them with a cease and desist order. My patient may have been a criminal at one time, but now he is helpless and I must protect him.”
“How can you say it was reflex when he opened his eyes and stared at me?” she asked indignantly. “You saw him. He knew me.”
“I saw no such thing, detective. What I saw was the uncontrolled movement of facial and eye muscles. That means nothing. Now you must leave here or I shall be forced to have you removed by security.”
“Oh, I’ll leave. But I’m not through. You are a foolish man, Doctor Ponder. You have positioned yourself in the jaws of a hungry lion. You must listen to me.” Maude was trying to save the man, but then it occurred to her that maybe she was concerned for no reason. If Dawson was planning his own future, he had hired Ponder to take over after Doctor Hopkins. Ponder knew all there was to know about his patient’s condition. As far as she was concerned, he deserved whatever he got. Dawson used people then destroyed them. The doctor would receive no better treatment. His life was in a tenuous place.
The 6:10 To Murder (The Maude Rogers Crime Novels Book 3) Page 11
