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

by Linda L. Dunlap

  Admitting to his fault, the manager said if it was true, he would like to make it up to her with a free mower service the next couple of times her grass got tall. She grudgingly agreed, and said she would confirm with him if it had happened, that it would mean changing locks on her house and he could pay for that. There was no way of knowing if the man had broken in, or used a key.

  By the time she went back into the house, Bill was standing at the kitchen counter, pouring two cups of coffee. Beside his cup lay two small devices. He indicated they came from her phones. Taking their coffee outside, they sat down on the porch and discussed the meaning of the listening devices and what should happen next.

  “You must have really upset this man—he’s trying to stay one step ahead of you. I don’t think you should let him know what we found. That hole in your yard was to piss you off and take your mind off his real purpose, to get someone in the house.”

  Bill was disturbed for Maude and wanted to help, but there was little he could do. As an employee of another state’s police force, he had no jurisdiction in her town. But he could advise. That made him happy enough, if he could help. That night, though, belonged to them. He didn’t intend to share it with anyone else.

  “Tell me about the drinking, Maude, so I can know firsthand what you had to go through.”

  For the next couple of hours, they sat like old friends, talking through her abuse of gin over the years, and how it had come to her to quit. She was embarrassed to admit it, but not so badly she wanted to keep it to herself. That was the thing about her relationship with Bill. She felt she could tell him anything but goodbye, and he would understand.

  “As for me,” Bill said after she was finished telling, “I’ll do whatever it takes to support your efforts. Drinking is a pastime with me that comes and goes. I don’t rely on it much, so it isn’t something I can’t do without. I don’t intend to take your problem as mine, because it isn’t, but I’m here all the way.”

  She thanked him, and said she liked his attitude and would depend on it. Her meetings had to come into a daily life, and so as long as he understood, they should be okay. Bill nodded and gave her a sympathetic look.

  “I have a few friends who would understand. Police work encourages the letdown that alcohol allows. It helps to put things in perspective, that life is not all about the criminal element. It’s about living with your family or people who love you. Like me.” He ducked his head when he said the last part, as if, to admit he might love her, Maude might think him weak.

  She reached out a hand and touched his face, smiling into his eyes.

  “That’s just about the nicest thing I’ve ever heard anyone say, Bill Page. I had begun to think I was unlovable before I met you.” She wrapped both arms around his neck and snuggled, enjoying the shaded coolness of the porch overhang. “Doesn’t change a thing, but it’s good to hear you say it.”

  The locksmith came around 2:30 and changed the key locks on all three doors, front, back, and garage entry. Bill put the devices back in the phone after Maude decided to use them against the listener. It wouldn’t be the first time a thing like that was done, just the first time in her own home. She often sat amazed at the changes in the world around her, the lengths criminals would go to steal paintings, the artwork of masters who would never have agreed to such a fuss. Or they used sophisticated stethoscopes and broke into safes, where diamonds and gold commingled with precious colored stones, where coin collections amounted to much more than the value printed upon their silver and gold faces. Little machines made of tiny microphones and sending units—how did they come up with such miracles for the criminal mind? She supposed it wasn’t only criminals who used them, after all—the government of, by, and for the people had been committing similar acts upon its citizens for decades.

  Funny how fast the weekend flew by, she thought, showering on Monday morning, after the alarm buzzed her awake. Bill’s presence in the house was comforting and wonderful, a light reaching into all her dark thoughts. The animal stayed docile while Bill was there to touch her, and reassure all would be well. Water from the hated showerhead washed away tears of gratitude. Old woman tears, she thought. I’m feeling my age. Loneliness was harder to bear as the years passed, leaving more behind than there were ahead. For a great period of life Maude had believed she was set apart from such things. She denied the emptiness at the end of the day, when there was none to listen or speak, except for the sound of her own voice. She had believed there was no love for Maude Rogers.

  Bill was sitting on the edge of the bed, sipping his first cup of coffee. He grinned at her as she worked the blow dryer, styling her hair. Bless him, she thought, he doesn’t ruin the morning with useless chatter. Soon she was ready to go, her dark red blazer left to put on over the rest of her clothing. Mondays were sometimes hard days, finishing off work left from Fridays, or writing any kind of report that happened over the weekend. Maude needed to play the Dawson situation very close, avoiding any outside agency’s involvement. Also, she might be called paranoid by her coworkers if the word got out she thought the maniac was alert, and planning chaos again.

  They sat on the porch, enjoying the early morning air, the sounds of morning birds chirping all around. Feeders with millet and sunflower seeds brought them in, just as the copious amounts of food appealed to day-foraging squirrels and raccoons visiting at night. Bill had offered to trap the big-eyed marauders and drop them off at the animal shelter, but Maude didn’t mind feeding them. Still, the first time they dumped trash from the receptacles left outside would be the day she pulled the live trap out of the shed.

  “Time for me to go,” she said, rising from the chair. “Lots to do today—cleanup from the weekend.”

  “I know,” Bill said sadly, “it’s a long time till five o’clock when I see you again.”

  “Where are you going? Got it planned out?” she asked, finishing the morning cigarette. She smoked outside, not in the house, and was pleased with the clean smell of the air in her home. Not like the old days when she puffed unfiltereds continuously. Her whole house back then had reeked of stale smoke. Now she couldn’t believe the difference in her smoke-free home. Someday maybe the last four cigarettes would go, but for now, she wasn’t interested in hurting any more.

  “Think I’ll go to the criminal justice building and pick up an application. Who knows, might be some interesting work for a retired cop. Besides, I would see you more if I stayed in Madison.”

  Maude didn’t know she’d been holding her breath while he was talking, but there at the end of his sentence, she swallowed hard, and breathed at the same time. Bill close by. What the heck, life could be more fun with him around all the time.

  “See you later. Good luck on your hunt,” she said, and kissed his cheek.

  “Hold up,” he said quickly, and gave her a kiss on the lips. “Try this one on for size. You’ll be more likely to remember me throughout the day.”

  She laughed at his antics and went for the door. Turning back, her face was serious.

  “We have to line something up for our telephone pals,” she said. “I intend to work on it today. Also, I need to bring Joe and the captain in on the recent happenings. If you have any brilliant ideas today, call me. You know how,” she said, closing the door behind her.

  Joe was waiting for her at the apartment, his mug of coffee transferred to a carry cup. Climbing in the car, he commented, “From the looks of your face, you had a good weekend.”

  “I did, a really fun weekend with a little work involved.” She relayed the part about the airport, Buzzcut and his game of hide-and-seek, the girl, and, finally, the bug in the phone.

  Joe turned serious and said, “I’m not sure what we ought to do next. The profile for killers like Robert Dawson doesn’t fit with tracking you, unless he intends to do something to impress. I saw the expression on his face in the hospital. He was pleased at having his nemesis close by. That by no means should make you think he won’t harm you, even kill you
given the opportunity. The man is a bad dude. Oh yeah,” he said offhandedly, “if that was him listening in on your phone call to Bill, he now knows the man is important to you. That makes him a target.”

  “It will please me if he tries something. Bill is capable of taking care of himself. Probably the only way we’re going to catch him is if he comes after us. The minute I’m sure he’s playing possum and I can prove it, all his privileges are gone and there’ll be no visitors except by phone. And if he had to do with Eve Devine’s murder, he’s looking at the needle. By the way, Joe,” she said, glancing toward him, “you did good work with the Avery case. As your partner, I appreciate the way you had my back.”

  “You’re welcome—besides, that’s what partners do.”

  “Indeed it is,” she said, watching the road. So much goodwill and sweet words had gone down during the morning that Maude began to wonder if there was someone else living her life. Even the animal was quiet and still. Still, a bead of worry had lodged itself in her brain. Bill had become very important to her. The further thought of losing him was more than she could consider.

  Monday morning started a new week. Whatever was accomplished last week didn’t matter. What counted were the outstanding cases waiting on their desks. Police work was that way; there was no time to wear a crown of laurels from a win. It was always one step forward, and two back in solving crimes. Maude liked the constant busyness of her job. The justice wheels were slogged down by criminal events, waiting for dispensation from juries and judge, but never so overloaded one more couldn’t be added. Being a cop of any kind had its follow-up, with recordkeeping, evidence storage, and witness location. Then there were appearances before judges, where defense lawyers did their best to belittle the evidence and sensibilities of the arresting officers—all in the name of justice and client rights. It was never-ending, but she loved it.

  Chapter 17

  Ellen Goodbody’s home was her sanctuary. Once she opened and closed the front door after returning from work, seldom was it reopened until forty-five minutes before her shift. A woman living alone had to be very careful; she never knew what might pounce upon her, if the door was accidentally left ajar. Between shifts at the hospital, sleep was possible only if her right hand lay wrapped tightly around what she described her “utmost protection,” and the left was clenched and ready for quick response. She missed her sister, and thought if Deen still lived in the house they could take care of one another. Safety in numbers had always been a good policy. Being around Daddy those years after he went bananas from his own doing was a learning time for Ellen. Besides the smell thing, she had developed a crackerjack response to the heebie-jeebies that followed behind one of the “bad ones.” They could walk across the top of mirrored floor tile, gliding on the balls of rotten-smelling feet, bypassing casual folk, but never past Ellen. Oh no, with her eyeballs glued to their jibbing and jabbing shoulders, she watched for any hostile or aggressive move from the evildoers. Ellen Goodbody intended to live another day.

  There were things happening on twenty-two, things that worried Ellen. She wished one of her supervisors gave a darn about her worries, but they didn’t. Too much work, and too few workers, kept the little bosses hopping, helping the nurses with pill call. The dining room was another matter; a riot could easily start there if anyone went off. Doctor Walker Milstein, the director of the whole shebang, believed inmates who were conscious and ambulatory must practice socialization. In other words, they had to be taken to the dining room for meals. The scuzziest, most dangerous people in the hospital had to sit together and play nice. Ellen held her breath each mealtime until the last door slammed shut when it was over. She always said a little prayer of gratitude when the lock turned.

  Number 55 was an old man of about eighty, who had been already been incarcerated for twenty years, after handcuffing his wife to their marriage bed, and setting fire to her new sheets. A retired fireman, he had obtained a set of cuffs and an accelerant capable of remote ignition. Some sex toys said to belong to his wife, Mabel, were found on the bed, melted together, with one of them showing a loose connection in the tiny wiring system. A strong spark had burned through the plastic, and spread to fine Egyptian cotton. It was her favorite pink cylinder as the culprit. The handcuffs were assigned to a law enforcement officer formerly of Colorado, whom 55 had intended to accuse of an affair with his wife. All would have surely gone smoothly, and the wrong man sent into the oblivion of prison, had not 55 gone nutso and returned early to the scene, where he began dancing around the house in the manner of wild Indians in cowboy movies. He whooped and hollered, lost in the world of arson, and abandonment of senses.

  Each night 55 was escorted to dinner with others from his floor. He had difficulty walking with ankle chains attached, but rules were rules, even for an inmate who had passed his eightieth birthday. The sight of even the tiniest spark sent the octogenarian into spasms.

  “It’s guilt,” a nurse once said, “guilt and fear of hellfire, where the old man is headed for burning his wife to death.”

  That Tuesday night—spaghetti night in the dining room—Doctor Ponder, who was strictly in charge of 73, but new to the facility, and unaware of 55’s affectation, reached in his pocket and removed a small flashlight he often used to stare into the eyes of his patients. One end was a standard flashlight, but on the other was a tiny red beam used by educators to highlight certain items on a whiteboard. As bad luck would have it, Doctor Ponder shined the red light into the eyes of a noisy patient, and accidentally flashed the red dot on 55’s arm. The table shimmied and shook as the startled pyromaniac moaned and rose from his chair, pushing away from the table as he slapped at the red light playing across his skin. A full-scale inmate happening began then. Previously docile men, old and young, began attacking the table, believing it to be the nemesis of their dreams. Plastic plates and cutlery were sent to the floor, with scattered green beans and spaghetti washing the shining tile. Two nurses slipped and fell, staining white uniforms with red tomato sauce. The other inmates, who up until that moment had remained calm, went into convulsions at the sight of what they believed to be blood on their caretakers.

  Nurse Goodbody was on duty at the time, removing soiled linen from a recently vacated bed. The wing where she was located sprang off the main dining room a few yards away. She heard the commotion, and immediately began running toward the groping group in the left quadrant of the serving area, nearest the kitchen. When she arrived, there was a mess of red sauce on most of the screaming crazies (as she described it later), and poor number 55 lay unconscious after being hit by a falling chair. The melee was difficult to bring under a calm umbrella, but Ellen was experienced in chaos control, and soon had everyone in their places.

  Doctor Ponder observed from afar the efficiency of the nurse, and determined that whatever sorry mess came out of the dining room incident, he wanted Nurse Goodbody assigned to him, and his practice in the hospital. Later, after the floor was shining again and all traces of the disruption gone, Ellen’s nurse supervisor called her to the office and grumblingly explained Ellen’s assignment was changing immediately to day shift as specialty nurse.

  Lucky Ellen, as she began thinking of herself, didn’t realize that in the group she was assigned to care for was Number 73, Robert Dawson, the murderer who knew she knew. Had she been aware of Doctor Ponder’s patient log at the moment of assignment, her dance card might have been lessened by one. Even so, the news was exciting, and long in coming. Ellen Goodbody had finally achieved status.

  The next morning when she arrived at work, congratulations circled around the nurses’ section, and all the licensed vocational nurses were happy for her. But the registered nurses, the ones who had gone the long way through college, were not at all happy at Ellen’s promotion. For that’s what it amounted to—more money, and better days off—when you received stardom as a doctor’s assistant. From that moment on, she began to feel her years as a grunt hadn’t been wasted. It was only later, after
walking the floor with Doctor Ponder, that Ellen grew uneasy. Inmate 73 lay in catatonic state as they approached the cell, never acknowledging her presence, except for a slight movement above his right eye. The doctor sent her to the pharmacy to retrieve medications, just as he had done with the previous nurse. Number 73 didn’t allow anyone except the doctor to attend to his needs. Of course, no one but his doctor knew the level of consciousness in Dawson. That knowledge provided the Porsche Carrera in the parking lot outside the building. Doctor Ponder was bought and paid for.

  Nurse Goodbody was reluctant to go, but even more reluctant to stay in the same room with the maniac she and the detective had talked about. His overpowering odor that morning was strong, coming through the doorway as the guard let the doctor enter. Not that anyone else would have noticed it, but Ellen certainly did. She shivered then, headed for the pharmacy, determined to do her duties, as was expected.

  Chapter 18

  Maude kissed Bill on the cheek, glad to see him when she returned home from work.

  “Find anything interesting today?” she asked, removing the badge from her pocket. A quick trip to the bathroom and she was done. Meanwhile, Bill was at the table, going through the want ads of the paper.