The Maude Rogers Murder Collection

by Linda L. Dunlap

  “What have I done to myself?” The words sounded strange spoken aloud, as though they came from another mouth located somewhere to the left of her. She trembled, the near miss of overdosing-a frightening consequence of binge drinking-ramping her heartbeat. She called the Cop Shop again and asked to be transferred to Captain Patterson. Once he was on the line she told him she had a virus and was staying in for the day and could get some work done from her house. He grumped and told her to do that; the rest of them didn’t need her germs.

  Lying about her health was a new symptom of how far she had fallen. The Traditions book lay where she had pitched it the night before. Groaning some with the pain in her body, Maude picked up the book and began reading. She was taken aback by the first sentence, the part that spoke of powerlessness over alcohol. Gritting her teeth from the simplicity of the statement and its summation of alcohol abuse, she had to admit it was the truth of her situation.

  “I can’t live like this,” she said to the walls. “I need help.” The book became her reading material for the next two hours, and several things became clear to her. She couldn’t do it by herself. She had already proven that much. Moving slowly, Maude went about gathering the bottles of liquor together from the different parts of her house. When they were all standing in a row at the sink, she grimaced at the waste and began pouring their contents into the sink, one after the other. When they were all empty, there was no turning back. Her clear liquid escape had gone down the drain.

  Two hours later, she was dressed and ready, her head aching and the burning in her belly starting again as it had the day before. A quick trip to the bathroom to wash her face seemed to help, and allowed her to drive from the house to the small church she had visited the day before. That time she sat in the circle and listened to the stories told by the people there. When it came around to her, all she could do was nod, and pass it on to the next person to talk. Maybe after a while she could do it, but not at that minute.

  A smart-looking woman sitting left of her gave Maude a sympathetic look and came to her after the session was over. She introduced herself as Claire M. and said, “If you have a problem with drinking and want to stop for twenty-four hours, you can call me. I’m an alcoholic, but by the grace of God, I haven’t had a drink for two years.”

  Maude stood quietly, watching as the woman turned to leave. Her tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of her mouth. Finally, before Claire was out of hearing, Maude spoke up.

  “Yes. Please, I need help. I…think maybe I’m an…alcoholic.”

  Claire turned back and smiled at Maude. “That wasn’t too difficult, was it?”

  At the end of their conversation, Maude left the church with a book of instructions on how not to drink, and a few pamphlets pointing her toward recovery. She also had Claire’s phone number and permission to call when the need got out of hand. Maude breathed a little easier, knowing there was someone she could call who wasn’t part of work. She knew that Bob Eberhart was due an apology for her attitude, and intended to tell him so when she saw him next. The people she had seen at the meeting were strangers, but in the back of her mind, she rationalized that someday, she would see someone she knew from the streets.

  Maude went home and spent the rest of the day meditating, thinking about her life and how it was going to be without the ever-available half-pint of gin she kept next to the bed. Grateful she hadn’t died the night before, Maude did some praying in thankfulness.

  The night was long and need-filled, but she didn’t give in, just read what they called the Big Book, and found the stories within them similar to her own. She called Claire once when it became more difficult and talked a little about her difficulty, but she made it. The next morning was like the other, so she called and talked to her captain and said the virus was still bad and another day ought to fix it. He grumbled, but agreed. The most difficult chore she had to do was to call Joe. She asked him if he had time for a cup of coffee after work; that she could pick him up if he needed a ride. He still had his feelings hurt and was a little cool to her. He said he was riding with one of the street patrol officers, who could drop him at the Donut Shop after work.

  Pride was a strong part of being Maude Rogers. Humbling herself by admitting she was a drunk meant some of that pride had to go. She also knew she owed Joe an apology for snapping at him. Jeez, I guess I really screwed up this time, she thought. But she also needed to talk to Joe about the murder of Eve Devine and what Marge Campbell had seen.

  During the second day she spent at home, Maude made more notes about the scene and was convinced that it was all set up, even down to the murder of Henry Fonda. They had to prove it, though, to put the facts together in a workable scenario. The need for a drink came often, and each time she fought it down and picked up the Big Book, reading more and more through its pages. With each reading, some peace would come to her in bits, not enough to kill the need, but enough to get through. She went to another meeting at the church and sat quietly again, listening to what others had to say. The only thing her sponsor mentioned was she should own her addiction. When it came time for her to speak, she introduced herself as Maude, an alcoholic, and passed to the next person. Claire sat across from her and smiled with encouragement.

  That evening at five o’clock she went to the Donut Shop and sat down with the largest coffee they served. She laced it with sugar, for the sweet taste helped the craving. Looking up from stirring the cup, she saw Joe come in and motioned him back to the table. He took one look at her and his face dropped. She thought she must really look rough.

  “I’m okay, Joe. Or at least, I’m going to be okay,” she said. “Get a cup and have a seat.”

  He was back soon and sat down, holding the cup of coffee in front of him while munching a donut. She smiled, glad to see his appetite had survived. The story came out of her, all of it, from her mother’s death and a drink at night to ease the grief, all the way to the recent blackouts. It took a while to tell it all, but Joe listened quietly, sipping his coffee, not making any remarks.

  “I’m a stubborn old woman and don’t like admitting I’m a drunk. But I owe you an explanation of what’s been going on the past few days. I’m sorry, Joe, for being a jerk. I hope you won’t hold it against me.”

  Much to Joe’s credit, he didn’t try to pretend it was nothing. He listened to her and seemed to consider what she had said.

  “Of course. You’re my partner, Maude, but you’re a friend too. I’m hurt you didn’t trust me with the truth, but I think I understand. The important thing is you’re going to be okay. I was afraid you were really sick, maybe dying from cancer. I’ve known a long time about the booze problem you have. I have some of it myself sometimes. If I can help, tell me how. Just don’t shut me out again. Okay?”

  “Okay.” She sighed with relief. “Okay. Now we need to talk about work a little.”

  “Sure, what did you find out?”

  “The night we found Eve Devine on the tracks, someone saw a man run across the parking lot and get in a car parked alongside the tracks. He had a dog with him. The description of the man fits Buzzcut. The witness, a woman named Marge Campbell, said the man wasn’t trying to hide. She thinks he wanted to be seen.”

  Joe sat quietly for a few minutes. “Do you think Dawson is really awake and scheming again?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m going back out there tomorrow. I intend to see him for myself.”

  “Don’t even consider going without me,” he said, and started on another donut. “I blame myself for not going with you before. We might have discovered the truth back then. By the way,” he said hesitantly, “Sheila wasn’t sincere. Her reason for wanting to meet me was to put restrictions on where I worked, get me to move to California, and make me believe we could become a happy couple again. Now, I expect she will take revenge by asking for more child support, since I don’t want her back.”

  “Damn,” Maude said, breaking her no-cussing rule. The coffee cup was empty, but it was tim
e for decaf. After making a trip to the counter, Maude turned to Joe and shook her head. “I’m sorry, partner. I was hoping she might have rethought her life some. She’s a foolish woman to let you go without making a few changes of her own.”

  The coffee eased her headache, but she needed sleep more than anything. After making her excuses to Joe, she made her way home. In the car she recalled her confession, the memory sending a tinge of red climbing from neck to cheek. Thinking of the blackouts made her wonder what kind of ass she’d made of herself when the booze was doing her thinking. Imagining the worst, she spoke to herself. “You didn’t live this long by running away from your problems, Maude Rogers. Face it down and admit it. You’re a drunk. No pretty words necessary. Tonight is going to be bad. May have to give that girl Claire a call.”

  Chapter 10

  The worst came around midnight, with sweat that poured from a fever dream, wetting her hair and skin, leaving a driving need for a drink. Finally the morning slugged its way through the darkness, bringing a hope of more life to come. Rising from her wet pillow, Maude dragged her tired body to the bathroom, ran water through the hateful shower, and dunked faded curls into the pulsing water. Coffee’s rich smell wafted across the steam, adding courage to an almost defeated body. She was tired and felt beaten by the need for gin. A few tears of self-pity rolled down her cheeks, mixing with the streams of water as she continued to ready herself for the day to come. Afterward, when all was silent, a careful step onto the bathroom floor led to a fluffy towel, which cuddled her headache. She wrapped herself in its warmth and comfort as the fogged mirror waited to accuse her of many past sins. Wiping a corner of the glass, she gazed into red-rimmed blue eyes. The bright light from the fixture above seemed overly harsh and unflattering. Where did all the time go? When did I get so old and cantankerous? Her thoughts were self-flagellating. She was, after all and always, her worst critic.

  A few hours later, sitting at the desk alongside Joe, looking over the reports from the day before, Maude read fingerprint identification taken from the countertop of the pawnshop where the suspected murderer Phillip Mason had leaned, the swirls and lines unique to him imprinted upon on the glass. They had him there, no longer his word against Avery’s. Also, a report told her the bullet that killed Henry Fonda was shot through the barrel of an M40A3, a precision-fire weapon used by military snipers. The mystery shooter was an excellent marksman, taking out the ticket master through traffic, trees, and structures between the rifle and the train station. Maude felt it in her gut, the slight rumble produced by the weird and the crazy, the insane killers who were more than good at their job, those practitioners who honed their craft until becoming perfect. She knew the feeling; she had felt it before.

  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. Late
r, 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.”