Chapter 28
The motor on the four-seater airplane started at the first push of the button, just as he knew it would. Keeping his treasures in good repair had always been important to Ridge--maybe not to the two sickies--but to him it was necessary that they be primo. The ride out of the hangar had been smooth, even though the boy kept yelling for his mama, didn’t want to go in the plane, and had to be tied down in the seat!
Just like his society mama, simpering fool that she was. He put up with her whining too many years. No more of that. He fixed her. One bullet in her empty head, she had it coming for a long time. Too bad he had to rush, could have had some fun with a little more time. She deserved everything she got.
He would miss the house and all its conveniences, but he had money and could buy more houses. Money was never a problem, if you knew how to get it. And Ridge did. His off-shore bank account was growing. Every now and then, an old, rich skank looking for a young man to admire her would cross his path, and he took what she had, all of it, and she never saw it coming.
Pow! Out of the blue, he dropped them all, carried their worthless old skins, and pitched them from on high into the Gulf. Ridge patted the console of the small plane, smiling. He had opened the door over a few deserted lagoons, emptying more than one dead body into the salt water below
The cops had come too close to him this time. Almost got him, but he knew she was coming. Saw her at that motel, walking around big as you please, should have killed her then, but the kid got in the way. Sniveling, messing with him, pushing him to drop the rifle. Next time she would die. Now he had to get away. Fly to his uncle’s place in Texas. Leave the boy with the old man.
The trip was slow. Avoiding cities whenever possible, Ridge flew the plane low, staying away from radar, not answering the radio as the cops tried to find him. Homeland Security would be coming after him, he knew that. Had to hurry now. Going down. Mountains ahead, small cluster of hills, and then a secluded tabletop. The perfect place to land. He had a four by four Jeep hidden on the mesa under some brush and small trees. Always prepared, always ready, Ridge knew he was brilliant and invincible. They would never catch him. He was way too smart for those clowns.
The old man in the wheelchair had been sitting on the porch, a pair of binoculars at his side. He had seen the plane go down, knew who it was. Knew death was coming. Ridge drove into the yard, the boy at his side, head down; finally asleep.
“Get out,” he told his son. “Get out and stay with that old man. Both of you are the same worthless baggage.”
“Hey, old man,” he screamed from the Jeep. “You want this brat? Take him before I dump him on the road.”
The old man nodded and reached for the stumbling boy. “Give it up, Bobby. Don’t you think you’ve done enough?” The old man asked, tucking the boy behind his chair.
Ridge threw his head back and laughed, the insanity pushing him. “Bobby isn’t here. He hasn’t been outside for a while. Keep your mouth shut old man, or I’ll come for you. You’ll end up in a deep ditch just like that woman-chasing brother of yours.”
The road was straight and easy to follow, the trip to Madison still several miles away. Ridge was feeling high from the excitement of running, his alter egos quiet, afraid to break in. The murderer was ready and waiting for the next kill. Inside, Bobby was also waiting, fearful of what might happen at the end of the road, yet determined to be free again.
Chapter 29
Maude lit her first cigarette since she had arrived at the big house and took a deep drag, pulling it into her lungs, coughing it out at first. The scene with the little girl kept replaying in her memory. The woman on the floor had been identified as Barbara Stanton-Roberts, socialite and hostess of the elite; a member of several local charity organizations in the city of Phoenix.
The dead woman was the mother of two children--the six-year old girl, Alyson Roberts, and a boy of eight. His name was Jason Stanton Roberts, described by the neighbors as a good kid who did well in school. Lieutenant Sorenson had sent two of his detectives to the scene, and after getting the basic W’s from Maude and the Phoenix officers, they had retired back to the house to write their reports.
Information had come in from the FAA, about a small, four-seat airplane that disappeared in Texas, three hours after its Phoenix departure. Local authorities on the ground had lost the plane during a thunderstorm somewhere in the vicinity of Buena Vista, Texas. It had not been seen or heard from since. Authorities believed the plane had gone down, possibly crash landing.
The early morning air was clean and clear in Phoenix, still cool from the night before. The news from Sorenson was brief; Barbara Roberts had died of a gunshot wound to her right temple. The time of her death was around 3:00PM, approximately twenty minutes before the arrival of the Madison detectives.
Maude felt helpless in the wake of Robert Dawson’s killing spree. No one was safe from his violence, not even his wife. The missing boy who had presumably been taken by his father was eight years old, with brown hair and brown eyes, and was approximately forty-eight inches tall. His name, was given to officers by the boy’s sister, and it was corroborated by his grandmother. The boy was last seen wearing a pair of dark blue jeans, a blue t-shirt, and a maroon baseball cap. Laura Bell Stanton, the children’s only grandparent, had taken little Alyson to safety.
Packing the few items Maude had brought with her took no more than five minutes. Immediately after a brief breakfast of coffee, a sweet roll, and two unfiltered cigarettes, the Madison detectives returned the rent car to the airport and boarded the flight back home. The plane ride was uneventful, with Maude lost in guilty thought that she had not done enough to stop the killer. She believed Dawson had returned to Texas to gloat and hide out, and was using the boy for a hostage. It wasn’t the first time that a parent had been ruthless with his children, and it wouldn’t be the last.
When the plane arrived in Madison, Joe called for an officer to give them a ride back to the Cop Shop, where they picked up Maude’s brown beater. Joe was glad to see the old car, its mundane presence somehow comforting. His partner dropped him at his apartment a little about 11:00 AM. After the long trip home, they needed rest, and all the paperwork could be done Monday. There was an APB out on Dawson, but Joe knew the man’s resourcefulness at hiding, and didn’t put much faith in his capture. At least, Joe thought, I have time to call Susan Lucas.
The familiar sight of home should have made the day better for Maude, but it didn’t. She realized that the job would be there tomorrow, yet it was impossible to stop thinking about Dawson and his most recent murder. It was one more death to chalk up to the man. The media had it right about him. He didn’t seem to have a conscience at all. Nothing but his own survival was important to the killer.
Arriving at her house during the day seemed strange. She should be back at work, but it was Friday, the end of the work week, and her logged hours already exceeded the amount of time she was allowed on the clock. The days had run together. Maude vowed to get some rest during the long weekend. Dawson’s whereabouts had to be put aside. He could be anywhere, maybe even back in Philadelphia.
After a long hot shower, Maude fell in the bed and slept straight through for ten hours. She awoke just before midnight, needing to pee and wanting a cigarette. The floor seemed cold to her feet even though the heat during the day had been merciless. Thank God for artificially cold air.
Work just won’t let me alone, she thought. The events of the days in Phoenix kept replaying over and over in her mind. I’m going to call Sorenson at home. Why not? She thought, after lighting an unfiltered. Hope he’s not sleeping.
The phone rang a few times before a sleepy-sounding voice answered. “Sorenson, here.”
“Lieutenant, sorry to bother you at home, but something is bothering me about the crime scene. Dawson, or Roberts, as you call him, kept treasures he took from his victim’s bodies. Did you find anything at the house after I left?”
“What kind of treasu
res?” The lieutenant asked, sounding more alert.
“He took the breast tissue from two women, but left some of it in a box for me,” she said. “He removed a victim’s eyes and tongue, and there may be other parts from victims we are unaware of. They might be hidden in the house or somewhere on his property.”
Sorenson was quiet for a minute. “Thanks detective, I’ll get another team out there tomorrow. We’ll look in some hidey holes since we know what we’re searching for. Now go back to sleep.”
The night seemed to go on forever with Maude smoking and pacing the floor, thinking of Dawson’s behavior up to then. What will he do next? He can’t get far on foot with the boy. The best way for him to get around is to station the boy with someone, possibly a relative or friend. Maude searched her memory for a connection that he might have, someone who had been part of his life at one time. The only person who might fit the bill was the uncle who hated him. She wondered about the town of Buena Vista, if maybe the uncle lived there.
Hoping that Ernest was working the night shift, Maude dialed the sheriff’s office where the deputy worked.
When he answered the phone, Maude began speaking. “Ernest, it’s Maude Rogers from Madison P.D. How you doing?”
“Well, I’m just fine, Miss Maude. What can I do for you?” Ernest was his same friendly, helpful self. Maude was grateful for the words of kindness from the young man.
“Well, Ernest, I’m still chasing that son of a mangy coyote who killed those girls. Bout to get him treed, but I need some information on some folks around your city,” Maude answered. “Dawson has an uncle that might live down there. Let me check my notes a minute, and get his name for you. Oh yeah, here it is, Farley Dawson, about sixty-five years old, has a family. Know him?”
“Oh yeah, I know him. Got a big old house out near the lake. Sits in a wheelchair. Comes to town about once a week. Crippled in both legs. Guess it was the war. Want me to go out there tomorrow?” Ernest asked eagerly. His duties were mostly stopping drunks from speeding outside the city limits. Some real police work would be a good thing.
“That would be great, Ernest. Be careful though. Our man is a mean piece of work. He took his boy with him. About eight years old. Kid’s name is Jason. Dawson may dump the kid whether the uncle likes it or not. Blood is thicker than water, you know.”
“Yes ma’am. I know. He’s lower than a cow patty, but his uncle would take the kid from him if need be. Farley’s a fine man. It might be a real good idea if he knew about his nephew. Course he may already know,” Ernest added thoughtfully. “No telling what might have happened out there.”
Maude felt a little better, trying to close some doors before Dawson could walk through them. If the killer’s uncle kept the kid, then they would know for sure Dawson was still alive, that he hadn’t gone down in a thunderstorm.
“Thank you Ernest,” Maude said gratefully. “If you find out anything, I’d be pleased to know it as soon as possible.”
“Yes ma’am. I’ll give you a holler,” he said.
The rest of her night was quiet, and sleep returned two hours before the alarm sounded. Tired and weary, she climbed from the bed, wishing she could sleep a few more hours. The coffee pot had molded on the bottom over the past few days, the dregs of last week’s coffee a veritable garden plot of thick growth. Later, after the pot was cleaned and the perking was done, Maude finally settled with her first cup of the day. Cigarette in hand, she reread her notebook, looking for some connection that might predict Dawson’s future movements.
She wished for a degree in psychology. On second thought, she did have access to a person who might understand psychotic behavior. The shrink who worked with the police department had come to them from her last position at a state level prison for the criminally insane. Doctor Jean Lindsey was as good as they come.
“Doctor Lindsey, please,” Maude said on the phone. “Yes, I can hold,” she replied. In just a moment or two, the doctor came on the line.
“Yes, this is Doctor Lindsey. Who are you?” She asked, briefly and to the point. Maude liked that about Lindsey. Each time she’d been in the doc’s office and seen her work, she had been impressed with Lindsey’s ability to get right to the heart of a matter.
“Doctor Lindsey, this is Maude Rogers. How are you?” She asked, not forgetting her people skills. Joe would be poking her with his elbow to remind her if he was sitting close by.
“Doctor, I wonder if I could impose upon you for a few minutes of your time. It’s about a serial killer who is running loose. I need to have an idea of what he may do next. I wonder if you might give me some pointers?” Maude asked, hoping the doctor had the time and willingness to help.
“Well...I guess I could try to help. I’m here at the office, catching up on some files today. If you want to come by, that would be okay,” Lindsey said, and then added as an afterthought. “Bring any notes you have on the person you want to talk about.”
Maude was glad to get out, to do something positive. Saturday was a slow day for traffic in Madison. All the local government offices, schools, and banks were shut down, and their employees were at home, having a barbeque or laying by the pool somewhere. A lucky break, the doc being in and giving away some of her time. Detective work wasn’t always ability, sometimes it was luck. How many times had she heard and said that?
When she arrived at the address for the police psychiatrist, Maude once again admired the decor of the suite of offices where Jean Lindsey ran a successful practice. Pale green against cream colors alternated within the doctor’s working arena, the colors designed to soothe and quieten the savage beasts of the mind. Maude always wanted to snooze when she came in for an evaluation after a shoot and sat on the cushions of the front office couch.
The need for expedience pushed her toward the doctor’s office door and she gently knocked. “Wait just a minute,” came back the response.
True to her word, Jean Lindsey opened the door after a few seconds.
“So what is so important, detective that gets you out on Saturday when you could be resting at home?”
“Why is it that everyone thinks I need to rest? I’m not that old yet,” Maude retorted.
“Sorry. You know what I meant,” Lindsey said apologetically.
“Well, yeah, sorry to be so touchy. I’m not used to people looking out for my comfort. My new partner tries to take care of me sometimes, makes me feel old.” Maude sat in a chair as the doctor’s pointed toward it with her right hand.
“You are not old, detective, just deserving of a rest on your days off. Now what do you want to ask me. I have other work to do, and then I’m going home to rest,” she said, with a slight smile.
“Let me tell you about the subject of my stress right now,” Maude began. “He’s a killer in his early forties, abused by a relative when he was a child; probably his mother. Kills women, removes body parts. Hearts, breasts, tongue, eyes. Just killed his wife, took his son with him, would have taken his daughter, but she hid from him thinking they were playing a game. Now he’s in Texas again. Oh yeah, he’s been fixated on me for years. I was his nanny for three months when he was less than three years old. I believe he was being abused even then.” Maude was out of breath, talking too fast. She needed a cigarette, but knew the doc would throw her out if she lit up.
Lindsey was busy, sorting files, listening to Maude. A small worry frown crept across her face. “How did he kill his wife?” She asked.
“Gunshot to the temple. The kid was hiding, and heard the gunfire but didn’t come out,” Maude said.
“Good thing. He probably would have killed her too. What do you want out of this?”
“What do you mean? I want him caught,” Maude answered.
“Then what happens?” The doc asked.
“Then it’s out of my hands, but at least the murdering scum won’t be on the streets.” The answer came from years of training, from knowing how to do the right thing. The police perspective was to catch, not punish, crimi
nals. Emotions had no business in law enforcement, or so they had told her.
“And about your young friend, will you be content to ‘catch’ her killer?” Lindsey asked, looking sharply at Maude.
“Are you asking me if I intend to kill him, or bring him in? If you are, then I have to say I’d get pleasure out of pulling the trigger on the gun that sends him to hell. Nothing would bring me greater pleasure at this time in my life, but I won’t do that,” Maude said hoarsely, with a catch in her throat.
“My guess is, he’s not done with you. I think his obsession with you has been growing for many years, since you left him there at the house. The safety he had with you was taken away when you left, somewhat in the same way that his mother took her love away from him each time she hit him or hurt him in some way. Maybe you two are tied together and seen as one in his memory.
“There are no explanations for the anomalies of mental disease. Sometimes they just happen. Your killer is on the extreme end of obsessions aberrations. Quite possibly his only contact with reality may lie within you, detective. I think he will come to you very soon, and I would suggest, from a clinical viewpoint that you be prepared. Don’t let him get you alone.”
Lindsey finished talking and began putting her files back together, giving Maude a quick nod that could only be interpreted as dismissal.
“Thanks, Doc. You’ve given me some things to think about; none of them to my liking,” Maude grumbled as she opened the green and cream colored door. “I hope I don’t have to see you anytime soon.”
“Make an appointment detective. You have a shooting to discuss.” Doctor Lindsey looked up from her armload of files. “See you soon.”
Maude let the door close behind her, intent on her next move. She called Joe but all she could get was his voice mail. “Joe, this is your partner. Give me a call if you get this.” She hated talking to machines, but had no choice sometimes. “I’ll be at my house.”
The Maude Rogers Murder Collection Page 25