She didn’t follow the rest of them when they left the crime scene. Her exhaustion was overwhelming, demanding rest for her weary body. She knew that she should get up and go to work, follow up on some of the case leads, however flimsy, but she just couldn’t move. The picture of Mary Ellen kept spinning around in her head and she kept seeing the printed sign with its cryptic message. It made no sense.
Several cigarettes later found Maude in the same place of confusion. She hoped that Joe had found something in the reports on their desks, some obscure piece of information that might point them in the right direction.
The doors of her house were locked as she had left them, even though Maude knew that anyone wanting to enter could get in with minimal difficulty by breaking a window. Her bed called to her even louder than the gin bottle on the night table, sending her spiraling into a restless sleep only to toss and turn as the nightmares raced through her head. After about an hour in the bed she came wide awake, an idea running through her tired brain. A map, she needed a map with lines across and down. The urgency within her was stronger than her exhaustion, and she reached for the phone to call Joe, to run it by him.
“Joe, call me as soon as you can,” her message said, “I have an idea.” She heard the beeping on the phone as she pushed the off button. A message waited for her and listening to it she became agitated for Joe had called and said he had new information. She dialed the phone again, hoping that he had been busy, but was now available. Still there was no answer to her call.
Yelling out loud got rid of some of the frustration. Feeling a little better, she jumped in the shower, dressed quickly, and grabbed her cigarettes and vest, and some items from the closet. Buckling her holster belt around her waist, she left her house and headed toward the Cop Shop to locate her partner and some much-needed materials. On the way, a stop at an open-all-night fast food place loaded her down with two cups of black coffee and four tacos to go. She was suspicious of some fast food, believing that many of the food additives were cancer causing, but she was hungry enough to overlook it. Besides, she liked tacos with hot sauce any time of day or night and hated to cook.
The trip downtown went quickly. There was seldom any traffic at that time of night--another reason Maude couldn’t work the night shift. Not enough action to suit her. Around Fourth and Vine streets, she began to slow the car. There was plenty of parking in front of the shop and one of the spaces was close to the front door. Maude parked and entered the building, carrying the bag of food, headed for the homicide section. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Joe, asleep on the couch in the lieutenant’s office. She couldn’t imagine what reason had kept him there all night, but she was glad to see him. The opening of the heavy door was enough to wake him from his nap, and when Joe saw Maude coming in the room, he looked at her with bleary eyes, and shook his head, figuring he was dreaming.
“I fell asleep, didn’t mean to, just so tired.” Joe said.
“Why didn’t you go home and sleep in your own bed?” Maude asked, handing him half of the fast food. “We can’t work all day and all night too.”
“Then what are you doing here, Maude?” he asked. “For Pete’s sake, it’s in the middle of the night. You should be getting your rest.”
“You mean, because I’m old?” she asked with a smile. “I couldn’t sleep because of an idea I had. I need your help; my brain doesn’t work well with lines and numbers. Besides, you left me a message about something we had overlooked, and I wanted to know what it was.”
“Give me a minute,” Joe said, unwrapping one of his tacos. “Let me clear my head. Any coffee?”
Maude handed over a cup and gave him some time before she dove into her latest wild idea. Sitting with Joe, eating her makeshift dinner, Maude was getting more fidgety, thinking of Mary Ellen, wondering about the young woman’s welfare. There was little hope for a good end to the terrible scene she had witnessed on the computer, but she felt they needed to try everything possible to save her.
Time was against them, the longer the madman held his victim, the smaller the chance Mary Ellen would be alive, and in good health if they found her. Maude hated to think about her young friend’s mental condition if she was still alive. The terror in Mary Ellen’s eyes had spoken louder than words; the murderer had either done some terrible things to her already, or he had made known his intentions and frightened her horribly. Maude felt the weight of responsibility on her shoulders, for his violence was linked to the murders in Chicago, and she had been one of the cops who let him get away.
“Maude, I got to thinking,” Joe said, between bites. “Remember the bathrobe on the floor in 509? We got the blood tested, to see if it belonged to the victim, but I had a strong feeling that the perp wore it and some of the victim’s blood got on it before he pulled it off his body. The blood was analyzed and it belonged to the victim. We assumed the robe belonged to the victim. What if it was his? What if he was so arrogant that he slipped up? He could have been staying in that apartment for days, making himself comfortable, and forgot to clean up that one detail. I know it seems impossible that a killer usually so meticulous would make a critical error, but it happens.” Joe was eager to get it all out, to share his excitement with his partner.
“Call it in to the lab, tell them to find the robe and pick it clean. Maybe they already have, if so, we’re wasting a little time, but right now every possibility needs to be investigated.” Maude agreed with Joe, wondering why she hadn’t considered the robe herself.
“While we’re talking, I need for you to figure some numbers for me,” she said, headed to wall and a large Texas map. Pulling it down from its hanger, she laid it carefully on the table.
“Look Joe,” she began, leaning over the table. “Here’s Madison on the map, so what if the ‘5 hours from midnight’ is referring to lines on the map? Is it possible for you to figure where we would end up if we used our location for the starting point? You know, those arcs mean something even if I don’t understand them, and if the killer wanted to really confuse us, he might just get some map making advice, and use longitude and latitude to stump us. I remember a short lesson I had when I first went to work for the P.D. but darned if I remember anything about it. Directions using right and left are hard enough for me to follow.”
“I need a protractor and a ruler. Do you think we can find one in the desk drawer?” Joe asked excitedly as he studied the map. Both detectives looked long and hard at one another, considering going into the lieutenant’s desk drawer.
“Maude, I’m going to run in the lab and borrow their tools. I’ll be right back,” Joe yelled over his shoulder. It appeared to her that the young detective didn’t like the idea of rifling his new boss’ desk, which was fine as long as she wasn’t the one doing the running. Besides, she needed a minute to stretch her back muscles after leaning over the table.
Her eyes burned from lack of sleep, and she needed a cigarette badly, neither of which she could take care of right then. The lieutenant would string her up if she smoked in his office. The thought of his face purpling with high dudgeon from smelling smoke residue in his office made her smile.
What the heck, she thought, lighting up, taking in a deep drag of nicotine and smoke. I can’t sleep. Might as well do what it takes to stay awake.
“‘The lab had what we needed,” Joe said, returning through the doorway. He stopped for a minute, surprised to see Maude puffing away in the boss’s office. “Living close to the edge?” He asked.
“Never mind that, let’s figure this out. See if it could work,” she said, looking around the room for something that would serve as an ashtray.
Joe checked the map, studying it intently. He took the protractor and made some circles, biting his lower lip in concentration, nodding as he worked.
“Two degrees, that would be the same as five hours, and using the mile gauge, it would equal a circle about one hundred-fifteen miles across, so we look for known caves within a fifty-seven to fifty-eight mile ra
dius of Madison.
“The biggest ones are in west Texas, at a place called Buena Vista, a tourist spot that was shut down a couple of years back. The reason I know about the area is that when my oldest boy was four years old, my wife and I took him to the caves, back before they were shut down.”
The whole time Joe was talking, Maude was taking notes in her book, already convinced of the need to follow through with his findings. It was worth a shot. Joe sat still, the map in front of him. “Are we going?” he asked.
“Just as soon as I can get the car gassed up. Not a long trip, but it’ll take about an hour. ” Maude said, half to herself and half to Joe. “I think we need to call ahead, and inform the cops in Buena Vista that we’re coming. Maybe they can give us a hand if there’s more than one group of caves to search. I’ll call the boss and give him heads up too.”
Chapter 11
The old car rattled and shook most of the way from Madison to Buena Vista, the doors leaking air around bad gaskets, making it difficult to cool the vehicle’s interior. Surprisingly, Joe noticed, the motor stayed true, revving when Maude put her foot in the carburetor just outside Madison.
Several deer stood alongside the deserted highway, itching to cross to the grass on the other side of the road. Using some kind of animal radar, they remained immobile, living through another night. Next to no human traffic met them on the highway, allowing for a quicker trip.
The detectives had picked up four cups of coffee and were busy slurping as Maude careened down the road, one hand on the wheel and the other on the cup. She wished for a third hand to hold a cigarette. Because the coffee was more important than smoking, she kept the cup close to her, but it would have been nice to have both.
Buena Vista was a small town, just a hole in the highway where a six room motel blinked a neon vacancy and a gas station advertised its price on a handwritten sign. A flashing yellow light lit up the side of the highway in front of a building where two sheriff patrol cars sat parked. Both cars were older than Maude’s. She couldn’t help feeling a kinship to the guys driving the beaters on the job every day. Chasing bad guys was a farce because they always had much newer and faster vehicles than the cops.
It was one o’clock in the morning, not too many people around, the streets totally deserted except for a newspaper delivery van, and a produce truck in front of the Piggly-Wiggly grocery store.
Parking the Madison City vehicle in front of the county office was easy with no traffic, but it would have been pretty simple anyway, given the amount of businesses in the small town.
The smells of old garbage and a recently dead skunk greeted the two detectives when they got out of the car, an odor combination that only a few can tolerate for long periods of time.
The door with the words, “Sheriff’s Office” was cracked in the bottom corner, not enough to cause it to shatter, just enough to make the place look really seedy. Lettering on the front of the glass was fading in some places, and scratched away in others, probably by bored or angry citizens who lounged against the door for too long.
Maude and Joe looked at one another, both thinking a similar thought. There were worse places to work than Madison, Texas. The man behind the desk was asleep in his chair, his legs propped on the desk, a line of drool running from mouth to shirt collar. An old-fashioned bell clanged against the glass when the heavy door moved to open, and the watchman behind the desk jerked awake as the two detectives entered.
The man in uniform had a name tag that labeled him Garrison, E, Deputy, Buena Vista County, Texas. The town, also named Buena Vista, was the county seat; the courthouse and jail would be located somewhere nearby. Maude figured most of the employees in town worked for the county seat offices in one job or another. It was the way of small towns where the economy was poor and the people even poorer. Seeing the two strangers, the deputy rose from the desk and leaned close to his weapon lying on a small stool next to the desk.
“M’help you?” He asked of them. “Ernest Garrison, Buena Vista Sheriff’s Department.”
His double chins quivered just a little at the sight of two strangers during the early morning hours. Such visits were very unusual and almost always boded no good. Ernest Garrison had been a county deputy since he turned thirty, first trying his hand on the rigs in and around Lubbock, and then returning to his hometown after a big fire on rig number seventeen nearly cooked his bacon.
The sheriff at that time was his daddy’s cousin, making it a little easier to get hired on as a deputy. Ernest had been on duty rain or shine for ten years, taking off work when the sheriff gave him permission. Usually the night shift was Ernest’s choice because nothing much happened after dark and sometimes, like tonight, he managed to catch a few winks. It was his bad luck that visitors had come calling during naptime.
Maude and Joe pulled their identification very slowly, not wanting to startle Ernest into filling his hand. The stars on their leather covers were shiny and bright, telling everyone looking that the two were Detectives/Homicide Division, Madison, Texas. Ernest was very impressed that anyone of any consequence would venture into his small town and even more surprised that they showed up at one o’clock in the morning.
He repeated, “M’help you? Sheriff Biden isn’t here. He comes on at seven if you want to wait.”
“Yes, you can help us, we need information, and it appears we came to the right man.” Maude said, looking into Ernest Garrison’s baby blue eyes. They were honest eyes, she could tell.
The big man’s chest expanded as he stood straighter, accepting the compliment without knowing why it was given.
“Come on in and sit down,” the deputy said. “Want coffee?”
The detectives both accepted the bitter stuff, grateful to have more caffeine to help keep them alert. After they sat down at a small table close to the desk, Maude began asking about caves around the area.
“Which ones are still on the tours, which ones have been closed to people, and when were they closed?” She asked the deputy. She wished that the phone calls she made earlier to the county office had been answered, but all she had heard on the line was static. Now they were starting fresh with the deputy, after having wasted some valuable time, sitting and jawing instead of getting ropes and flashlights to explore the caves where Mary Ellen might still be alive.
“By the way,” she said, as an afterthought. “Your phone isn’t working.”
Ernest Garrison, Deputy, very proud of his job and the office of the sheriff, always tried to make a good impression on strangers. It was not held against the man that he was uneducated and overweight, nor that he slept on the job, for when the rubber hit the road, Ernest was your man. Just so, he began to draw out maps of the local area, indicating the series of caves that were still open to touring, and the ones that had been closed within the previous two years due to inactivity from the public.
Maude found his cooperation beneficial, but hoped there was at least one more man they could count on to offer assistance in searching for Mary Ellen. Sorrowfully, Ernest informed her that the police chief had resigned last year, and the only other person in law enforcement, besides the sheriff, who didn’t ever work nights, was the day-time deputy who was on vacation in Mes-i-co.
“When we need more help,” Ernest said, “the sheriff calls for the Highway Patrol to give us a hand.”
Using her cell phone to put in a call to the Cop Shop, Maude spoke to Fat Frieda who had gone to work in the Friday pre-dawn hours so he could get away early for a weekend trip. She asked if by chance the boss might have come in, but Frieda, ever the comedian and communicator, replied quickly.
“The Loo-ey is not here yet since it’s still night time. Why aren’t you asleep like the rest of the old people?” He chortled then at his own crude joke, and hung up the phone.
“Frieda hung up on me, “was all Maude could say, determined to have her revenge later, even though she knew that the detective would insist it had all been in good fun. The fact that she didn’t tel
l him she and Joe were out of town, ‘so how could he know it was important’, would solidify the reason for his capricious behavior.
“Well, Joe, it’s just you and me,” she said, mumbling under her breath.
“An’ me,” Ernest spoke up. “I’m going to lock up and go with y’all, but I’ll call and let the sheriff know where I am.”
Joe had been studying the printed brochures that Ernest had given them and thought he had located the place to start.
“We need to get some ropes so we don’t get lost,” he said, “and some flashlights, plus a hard hat would be good to keep from getting our skulls slapped by a low-hanging rock.”
Ernest was really excited then. “We have all that stuff! Last year we had some fellers out here looking to build a water slide, and they left all the stuff they used to go under the river.”
“What happened to the water slide?” Maude asked curiously.
“They just never came back to build it.” Ernest said sadly.
“Ernest, tell me about the river cave that’s about ten miles from here. The brochure says it was used by the Indians for council meetings because of size of the rooms and the cool temperatures.”
Joe was looking at the deputy, pointing to a picture on one of the pamphlets. ”Seems they closed this river cave off because the Sonora Caverns down south were getting all the tourist trade.”
“Yep, they shut that cave down ‘bout two years ago, just up and closed it. My kids liked going there cause of the river running under it. It’s kind of high in the air above the river bed.”
Joe turned a noticeable green at the Ernest’s last remark. “How high, Ernest?” he asked quietly.
“Fifty, seventy-five feet above the water; you got to climb a little ways and the cave goes back deep in hills. Not hard to get there though, got a trail that goes up to the main opening. It’s a little steep.”
The Maude Rogers Murder Collection Page 10