The Maude Rogers Murder Collection

by Linda L. Dunlap

  One of the Rajas she knew well enough to find at his mother’s place near Boca Street, the long stretch of potholed pavement and brick duplexes managed by the Madison Housing Project. Boca Street ran north to south, beginning where the curve of the creek bed changed directions, and extending several miles until it eventually died out as it neared downtown. Pauly De Luca was not quite seventeen, an in-and-out visitor to juvie hall since he was ten years old. His old man took off when Pauly was three, and though they never heard from the louse after that, the boy didn’t forget him. Needing a hero, Pauly pumped up the image of his father, believing the old man must have died, else he would have returned and taken the boy with him.

  The detectives drove to the De Luca’s house and pulled Pauly out, questioning him about the newest parolee in the neighborhood. Although the young man wasn’t a paid snitch, he owed the detective, and often gave her bits of information on the local criminal element. Maude had a reasonable amount of faith that the young gang member knew what went on near his home.

  “Detective Rogers, what do you want?” Pauly was nervous as always when he was questioned by the cops.

  “Good morning, Pauly. Nice day, huh? We’re looking for a fellow, new in town, maybe four, six months. Just out of TDCJ. Sammy Green. Know him?” she asked, keeping her eyes busy, seeing everything around her. The neighborhood wasn’t cop-friendly.

  “Nah, never heard of him. Gotta go, detective,” he said, beginning to close the door.

  “Detective Rogers asked you a question that deserves a little more consideration,” Joe said, wedging his foot in the door. “Want to rethink your answer, or would you rather ride downtown with us?”

  Sullen and unhappy with the cops being at his door, Pauly let them inside, where his mother sat in a beat-up love seat, drinking a glass of something resembling tea. The woman nodded at both detectives then continued watching a program on television.

  “So okay, yeah, about six months ago, dude brought his woman over to Cardinal, moved in with his old lady. Tats from the joint, big, long scar across his face, shaved head, not my kind of people. Tried to muscle his way into some local business, but the boys stopped him. Heard he knew someone with money.”

  “Did you have dealings with him, Pauly?” Maude asked.

  “Nah, he was looking for bigger stuff.”

  “How about the woman he brought with him?”

  “Her? She’s fine. Too hot for that skinhead.”

  “They still around?” Joe asked.

  “Dunno. They don’t run in my circles.”

  Driving away from Pauly’s house, Joe glanced at Maude and said, “Think he’s telling the truth?”

  “Part of it. He knows more about Green than he told us. I think he was a little scared of him. Green’s been where Pauly will eventually wind up.”

  “Yeah,” Joe said, “no doubt about that. Just a matter of time.”

  The house at 2329 Cardinal had been neglected, as had most of the houses around it. Both windows on the east side had cracked glass panes and were missing screens. The roof was asphalt and old, some of the pieces, having fallen from the front eaves, lay along the drip-line. An old rocking chair with broken slats sat toward the end of a small porch, where two cats vied for position on the seat cushion. Trash had accumulated along the front of the house. A few Pepsi cans and a KFC carryout lay near the outgoing trash. Maude knocked on the door then stepped back, away from the line of sight inside. She knocked again quickly and stood waiting.

  Finally, nodding to Joe to go around back, she beat on the door with her fists and called out, “Police. Sammy Green, I need to talk to you.”

  There was rustling inside the house, and the sound of running footsteps could be heard through the single-pane windows. Maude yelled again then kicked at the door, hoping to slow down the runner. In less than a minute, the front door opened, and an elderly woman with still-dark hair stood there, her eyes red as though from crying.

  “Hello, I’m Lois Martinez. This is my home. What can I do for you?”

  “Mrs. Martinez, I’m Maude Rogers, and my partner Joe Allen is at your back door. We’re homicide detectives. I wonder if we could come in. We’re looking for your son and his girlfriend.”

  “Lois, call me Lois. I’m not married. Green was my married name.” The woman seemed distracted, not wanting to give up any real information, yet letting the detectives know she was willing to cooperate. “Yes, come in. Sammy isn’t here. Lola, his girlfriend, is asleep. Should I wake her?”

  “No, that’s all right,” Maude said. “I can do it myself. Where is she?”

  Lois Martinez motioned with her head toward the bedroom to the left. Maude walked softly, pulling her weapon as she grew close to the door. Turning the knob, she discovered the inside was barred against entry.

  “Open the door, Lola. My name is Maude Rogers, and I’m a homicide detective. Make it easy on yourself. Right now all I have are questions.”

  Maude heard skittering in the room beyond, and she imagined the woman was trying to climb out the window. Maude went to the back door and yelled, “Joe, she’s going for the window. On your right.”

  A few minutes later, the sounds of scuffling outside could be heard as Joe corralled the woman. He cuffed her and walked into the house with the woman ahead of him.

  “She tried to run,” Joe said, pushing her toward Maude.

  “Not very bright, Lola, if that’s your name,” Maude said, eying the woman’s dyed red hair. She knew enough about boxed colors to identify a dye job when she saw one. “Lola,” she continued, “you’ve got some serious explaining to do.”

  “He made me do it. I didn’t want to—it was all Sammy’s fault. Him and that friend of his,” she said bitterly.

  “It usually is someone else’s fault, Lola,” Maude said, sighing loudly. “I do so enjoy a criminal who takes blame for his own actions. Guess that’s a dying breed, though. Most everyone is looking for someone else to take the fall.”

  “It is his fault,” Lola repeated loudly.

  Lois spoke up: “Why, you piece of gutter trash. You’re as guilty as sin. Don’t go blaming Sammy for what you did yourself. You took that man’s money. I saw you standing out at the car, rubbing yourself all over him. Gutter trash, that’s what my Sammy brought home!” Lois Martinez was no easy mark. She spat in the girl’s face and stepped back. The fire in her eyes was Mama fire. Maude had seen it many times before.

  “Easy, Lois. I’ve got a handle on this. We’ll take Lola downtown and question her. Never fear, she’ll tell us what we need to know. Meanwhile, where’s Sammy?”

  “I…I don’t know. He left about three hours ago. He said he had…a job.”

  “Your little skinhead boy has a job, all right. Someone else’s house to burglarize.” Maude stared at Lola, curious about a woman who lived with a man, but obviously had no respect for him. “I’ll tell you where he went, detective; he’s at a bar over on Chicon. Trying to get some courage.”

  Lois dove for Lola, intent on shutting her up, and landed with her hands around the woman’s neck. She began choking her and they both fell to the floor, Lois on top.

  “No-good gutter trash. Shut your mouth about my boy. I’ll kill you if I have to. You got no business saying things about Sammy.” Lois was still screaming as Joe pulled her off Lola.

  “Call for transport, Joe, Lola is going downtown.” Maude shook her head over the violence before her. She understood the protective nature of Lois Martinez, but had no patience with it when the son had broken the law. She took a moment to explain to the woman that Sammy would receive fair treatment, but he would have to answer for his crimes. “Breaking into my house is something I don’t take kindly to, so hush it up.”

  On the way to the Cop Shop, Maude asked Lola why she took the money if she didn’t want to break the law. The woman said she was forced, that Sammy said the man who hired him would kill them both if she didn’t go along. He said they knew too much about his business and were working wi
th him or against him. Maude thought that the man’s words sounded like something Robert Dawson might say. He would be inclined to demand obedience, just as Dawson demanded it from him.

  At the station, Lola was put in a soundproof room where both detectives questioned her about her part in a plan of deceit.

  “Who’s the man you took money from?” Maude asked.

  “I don’t know his name, he was someone Sammy knew. He said he met him in the joint two years ago and promised to look him up when he got out. When we came here from Houston, Sammy got in touch with his convict friend, told him he needed money. Sammy landed a job with a landscaper his friend knew, but it only lasted one day. That’s all he told me.”

  Maude leaned back against the two-way mirror. She studied it for a minute, wondering if all station houses and police departments had the same kind of access to the secure room. It really wasn’t secure then, was it?

  “Lola,” Maude said, turning back to the redhead. “I have a dozen people who can put you on the 6:10 train the day Eve Devine was killed. You pretended to be her, even down to talking to the ticket taker. I believe that something you said to him might have got him killed also. As far as I’m concerned, I have the killer and it’s you. Keep on denying your part, and that’s the way this story is going down. Maybe a good lawyer will get you off with life in prison and no parole, but I doubt it. More than likely you’re facing the needle. It’s a good thing we don’t have the electric chair anymore. I hear it was God-awful, the smell of flesh frying. The needle is quiet and lets you have some time to think about what’s going to happen. I’ll be outside writing this up.” She turned and started for the door, but Lola yelled out.

  “Wait,” she screamed, “just wait a minute. I didn’t kill anyone. The man gave me money to buy a ticket and get on the train. All I had to do was say my name was Eve Devine when someone asked.”

  “How did you get off the train without anyone seeing you?” Maude asked, sitting down again. Her knees were aching from standing, and the chair felt good under her.

  “I took a wig with me and put it on in the bathroom after the train stopped. No one recognized me. Honest, detective, I didn’t know they were going to kill that woman. I never even saw her. He gave me five hundred dollars, more money than I’d seen in a while.” Lola began crying great, snuffling sobs that left Maude untouched.

  “Who gave you money?”

  “I…don’t know. He said his name was Stringer. Stringer Malone. He said I wouldn’t get in any trouble if I was caught.”

  “Describe him for me,” Maude said, knowing the pale, blond man with blue eyes and small round glasses.

  Lola described Buzzcut to a tee. She said the man paid her and Sammy separately. Sammy’s part was to be on the parking lot with a dog he’d borrowed from a neighbor. He pretended to be jogging as the train sat on the tracks. It all seemed like some kind of play to Lola. When she found out the woman she had been impersonating was killed, Lola said she had a fit and told Sammy she was going to the cops. He told her if she did, she was just as dead as the other woman.

  “What could I do, detective? They had me tied up. There was nothing I could do.” Crying again, Lola shed enough tears to wet the collar on her blouse.

  Maude was outside the room, observing her, wondering why women like Lola survived while others made of decent material had to die. She’d had a good friend once, a sweet girl who trusted the wrong man, and he killed her. Mercilessly, he had taken her life and all the innocence from the girl’s family. Maybe Lola Bankston was an innocent herself, but she’d had a choice. Eve Devine didn’t have one; nor did Mary Ellen, Maude’s friend who was murdered. They were both victims of the whims of a psychotic killer.

  She gave her the crying woman time to compose herself then went back into the room.

  “Lola, I have something you can do to help redeem yourself. If you do it, I’ll tell the district attorney you cooperated. Maybe he’ll be swayed to lessen your responsibility in the woman’s murder. Are you interested?”

  “Interested? Yeah, I’m interested. What am I supposed to do?”

  Maude told her then, in no uncertain terms, what had to be said, the emotion that must carry the words, and what would happen if it went the wrong way.

  “Think on it, Lola. Get your words down pat. You only have one chance to do the right thing. In this case, someone has to pay for that woman’s murder. Is it going to be you?”

  The rest of the day the detectives searched downtown bars for the ex-con, but he was nowhere to be found. Joe believed the man had left town, and they’d never see him again, but Maude felt differently. Lola was the drawing card; she held the fate of Sammy and Stringer Malone in her hands. Maude could only hope the woman played it straight with her. Toward five o’clock, regular quitting time, she went home, greeted Bill with a big, wet kiss, and proceeded to make ready for the fireworks that might come later. Bill was all in it with her, ready to do whatever it took. He considered it great fun. Maude saw it as necessary work to catch a criminal. She imagined if the shoe was on the other foot, working with Bill on one of his cases would be fun.

  At 5:45, on the money, the house phone rang. Maude gave it a couple of extra rings to be sure of her listeners, then left the porch and Bill, to answer it.

  “Hello,” she said, waiting.

  “Detective, is this Detective Rogers?” Her voice was shaky, scared.

  “This is Detective Rogers. How did you get my number? It’s unlisted.”

  “The…uh…card you left with Lois Martinez. It has this number.”

  “So, who are you?” Maude dragged it out, making sure.

  “Lola Bankston; you met me there at the house. Sammy’s girlfriend.”

  “Oh, yes, Ms. Bankston, what can I do for you?”

  “I…uh…don’t want any trouble, but is there a reward for Sammy?”

  “Not that I know of. Do you have some information?”

  “Maybe, but it isn’t free.”

  “Young lady, you’re skirting the law real close. If you know something about a crime, it’s your civic duty to tell it.”

  “Maybe so, but I need money. If you want to know if Sammy had something to do with that woman’s death, you have to give me something for the information.”

  “Lola, I need Sammy’s boss. Sammy is small potatoes. There might be some money for the big man. I’ll need proof.” Laying it on thick for the egocentric listener gave Maude some pleasure. She liked her revenge served a little cool.

  “All right, but you have to protect me. He’s dangerous.”

  “We can do that. Name the place you want to meet.”

  “There’s a bar on Rio. Chesters. Tonight, ten o’clock. Bring the money. Oh, and come alone. If I see other cops, I’m sliding out the side door.”

  “Just you and me, 10:00 o’clock tonight. I will bring as much money as I can.” Maude affirmed.

  Sitting on the porch with Bill had become a ritual Maude enjoyed. She dreaded the next day, when he had to leave. He had found a couple of good prospects for spring when he retired, but it was time to get back home for now. Bill’s son would be leaving Philadelphia soon, and the grandkids would no longer be close by. He had no reason to stay in the northeast when they were gone.

  “You think you’ll be able to live in the heat? Texas summers can be uncomfortable when you’ve never lived in them.”

  Bill got up from his chair and walked out to the late-ripening peach tree. He pulled a couple pieces of fruit from a high branch and returned to her. “There are advantages to it. Like these Big Reds. And you.”

  “I like you, Bill. More than I have ever liked anyone since Paul, my husband. I feel lucky we met.”

  “Good Lord, Maude Rogers, did you just say something sweet to me?” He laughed and hugged her, kissing her with peach juice on his mouth.

  “Yeah, I guess I did. Next thing you know I’ll be saving the whales. Hey, I have to go,” she said, licking her lips. “Want to ride along with me and Joe
?”

  “Thought you’d never ask,” he said. “Where we going?”

  “A bar downtown. Going to do a little switcheroo. Got to go by the jail and pick up that woman, Lola Bankston. I hope it goes well. I’d sure hate it if she got hurt. Come along, I’ll fill you in on the way.”

  “I’ll do what I can to help,” Bill said.

  Chapter 19

  Night came slowly on the twenty-second floor. Tall, sealed windows with tiny electronic bars sensitive to touch bordered the intake area, and further away, the dining room walled the west end. On certain nights the moon’s glow shone through the safety glass, haloing 73’s door, splintering reflected light from the highly shined floor tile. Overall, the appearance was one of tranquility. The chaotic behavior of mentally deranged men was soothed at night with pills, namely sleepers, tranquilizers, painkillers.

  Robert Dawson had recently decided his days of being a number were about over. He was fully conscious at all times and tired to the bone of pretending to be otherwise. The kid, Bobby, had settled long ago, seldom raising his head to whimper and cry. When he did emerge as a turtle popping out from its shell, Ridge slapped him back inside, refusing to set free the sniveling part of their personality. The salesman, Dawson, was uncaring except for organization. He cataloged the must-haves necessary before they could leave the facility as a whole. Ridge was in control and wouldn’t back down for anyone. His desire for revenge and blood was strong, demanding release outside the hospital. The disorder that divided Robert Dawson into three distinct personalities was no longer controlled by medication.

  Stringer Malone was a long lost cousin Ridge had met in Phoenix, someone needing money, willing to do whatever it took to load his bank account. Small and blond, he was the picture of innocence, able to disappear in places Ridge would have stood out. In the early days, when he first became aware of the hospital world, Ridge lay still, pretending to be out of it. The doctors had said he would never be more than a mass of tissue, with no functioning brain. Amazingly, he defied them, and began to heal. A heavy bank account bought silence from food staff, nurses, security guards—all of them people who came and went from the facility. A time or two, Ridge had ordered someone taken out, but never near the hospital. He wanted nothing to draw suspicion to himself.