“I can stay until about eight, then my wife needs me home to help with the Cal, if that’s alright.”
“Yes, that will be fine. Meanwhile, is there anyone on our list who needs looking at again?”
“Can’t say anyone has struck me as lying,” Calhoun said. “But I’m not always good at catching a liar.”
“Probably a good thing. Look at me. I’m suspicious of everybody, even you, Calhoun Monroe.”
“Me?” He squeaked. “Why would I want to get rid of a homicide detective?”
“His job maybe,” she said, staring at the young man’s face. “You stand to be promoted if Joe doesn’t return. “
“Are you funning me, Maude?” Calhoun’s bucked teeth were chattering at the thought that he was a suspect in Joe’s disappearance.
“Well, I just said I was suspicious of everyone. Didn’t really mean you,” she added.
“Oh good lord. Thanks be to God. I just knew I was about to be arraigned.”
“Calhoun, you have to quit taking yourself so seriously. I just said, I was suspicious of everybody,” she repeated. “That wasn’t meant to accuse you. You young people sometimes don’t hear what’s being said. Now back to our investigation, who strikes you wrongly. Think hard.”
“How about that fellow who said his wife was out of town? Did we ever hear from her? He said it was a post office box, but when I searched for Brownsville beach houses on Google, I got plenty of addresses from the little side streets. The box number he gave us didn’t pan out. Maybe because the Post Office doesn’t have a numbering system like the emergency response people insist on.”
“Good follow up, Calhoun. What else did you find out?”
“Let me read the text that just came in.”
“Miralda J. Scarborough, PO Box 12, 133 Sandy Point, Aurora Beach, Brownsville, Texas. She has a daughter listed as her next of kin. Serena Bradley, Madison, Texas.”
“Bingo,” Maude said loudly. “That’s our girl. So Thomas Bradley lied about that. What other lies did he tell? See if the mama has a land line, Calhoun. We might get lucky.”
“Matter of fact, she does, 303- 555-2030. Want me to call it?”
“By all means, Calhoun. You found it, now call it. Good work.”
Chapter 7.
“Mrs. Scarborough, my name is Calhoun Monroe, and I’m with the Madison, Texas, Police Department. I wonder if we might speak for a moment?”
“Yes ma’am, Madison, Texas. Where your daughter lives. You see, we need to ask her some questions, and her husband. Yes, he said his name is Thomas Bradley. He said Mrs. Bradley is at the beach house. That she is a writer, and likes the privacy of the beach. Oh yes, he did reassure us of that. He said she doesn’t have a cell phone. What? You said she does have a phone? Wonder if you might give me the number. Oh yes ma’am. You can call me back. Just look up the number for the Madison Police Department, and ask for homicide. Oh, I should have told you. I’m sorry, this is the homicide division. Please call me back Mrs. Scarborough.”
“She thinks I’m playing a prank, or scamming her,” Calhoun said to Maude. “She sounds worried, so I think she will call back.”
Maude nodded, and wished for her nightly cigarette. Inside, she was nervous and hopeful all at the same time. They might have found a connection that would lead back to Joe!
The phone rang, and the voice on the line was the same woman, a shaken Miralda Scarborough.
“Officer Monroe? I believe you. My daughter’s phone is 512-998-0909. Please call her and make sure she is alright. I tried to call after I talked to you, but the phone went to voice mail.”
“We will make every effort to get in touch with your daughter, Mrs. Scarborough. We promise to keep you informed.”
“Two lies,” Maude said after the call disconnect, “Thomas Bradley is racking up no-good points.”
“What next?” Calhoun asked, excited by the prospect of a break in the case.
“You can go home, Calhoun,” Maude said. “It’s almost 8:00 o’clock. The other two detectives will be back from dinner break shortly. It’s late for kids to be up. We’ll have the Brownsville police go out to the beach house. Meanwhile, I’d like to bring Thomas Bradley in for more questioning.”
“But…you might need me along with you,” Calhoun said with a slight stutter.
“You said you need to go. I’m giving you the go ahead to leave. We can take it from here without you. You’ve done good work, Calhoun.”
“If it’s okay with you, Maude, I’ll tag along,” Calhoun replied.
“Alright then, if you’re determined. Let’s go pick up the photographer, and see why he lied to us. Remember, we try to get him to admit what he’s done. Don’t want him screaming for a lawyer. Meanwhile, try that number for Serena Bradley.”
“Yes ma’am,” Calhoun said, placing the call. After numerous rings, the cell went to voice mail, and he left a message for Serena to call the Madison Police Department, and ask for homicide detective Maude Rogers. “All done, Maude,” Calhoun said. “I sure hope we can find your partner before more people come up missing.”
They checked in with dispatch before leaving, and took Maude’s city car to Bradley’s house. It was about a half-mile north of Joe’s apartment, four or so miles from the Cop Shop. Madison was a medium-sized city, with a population of less than a hundred thousand on the last census, but that was nine years ago. Since then, it had surely added at least another ten thousand, after two major employers located on its outer boundaries. As for the crime index of small to medium cities, Madison was on the extreme end, with at least ten or more murders racked up each year. As with most growing populations, tensions in Madison often grew and exploded, counting human lives as coup on the belt of progress.
Thomas Bradley, according to police records, had been in trouble three times, and each offense concerned his behavior with women. The first two were misdemeanor assaults when Bradley was under seventeen years old, and had been dismissed due to his age, and lack of evidence. Later, a family violence charge had been placed against Bradley when his wife, Serena Ruiz Bradley, age twenty-six years old, attested to an alleged assault by her husband. Charges were dropped when the wife withdrew her complaint, but his juvenile record had already been unsealed, allowing the old information to be seen.
Maude read the report and frowned, now concerned for the man’s wife. “What did the Brownsville cops say when you touched base with them?”
Calhoun thought for a moment and sipped his root beer. “No sign anyone has been at the beach house for some time. No one has seen Serena Bradley in months.”
“I hope she got away,” Maude said quietly. “It’s been my experience that men who assault women don’t stop, if anything, they grow bolder as our system of justice forgives their bad behavior.”
“You think he might have harmed her? But what would that have to do with your partner?”
“I don’t know, but I’m beginning to believe Thomas Bradley holds the answers to our questions. He knows more than he’s said about Joe’s disappearance.”
A couple of miles from the Cop Shop, Maude received a call from the desk sergeant. A body wrapped in a pink quilt had been found buried in loose soil near the land field. As the detective on duty, she needed to report to the site as soon as possible. Calhoun quickly turned the car around and turned on the lights, prepared to show up at the landfill once again. Of course there was no need to hurry if there was a dead body, but the thought it might be Joe gave Maude such a fright she couldn’t focus on irrelevant facts.
“Hurry Calhoun,” she urged, ‘if they’ve found Joe, I want to know. I can drive if you want to play it safe.”
“No ma’am, I’ll get us there,” he said, planting his foot firmly on the accelerator. The car jumped, and careened near the edge of the road before straightening out.
“I believe you will,” Maude said. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” the young officer said politely.
James Patters
on had arrived, resplendent in his tuxedo, from the nights festivities back at City Hall.
“Sorry you were disturbed, Maude said as she walked by him. “Any identification made yet?”
“No, not yet. The body was found by cadaver dogs. It was wrapped in a homemade quilt, in two feet of dirt on the perimeter of county property. If it had been over the fence, it might have stayed there for years. The owners are a big corporation out of Houston, and seldom come to our part of the country.”
“Our lucky day,” she said lightly, praying it wasn’t Joe in such an ignominious place as the city-county dump.
“What are we waiting for?” Maude asked impatiently.
“Crime scene folks didn’t have the body out of the grave when I got here,” Patterson said.
“I’m going to find out,” she insisted, walking toward the crime scene.
“Watch yourself, Maude. The news vans got here about the same time I did. Don’t give them anything to film.”
“I won’t,” she said over her shoulder.
She was always impressed by people who knew their jobs so well they could do them in the dark. Two experienced technicians were on hand at the gravesite. Maude knew them well, and respected what they did. She knew that if it was Joe in the ground, they would treat him gently.
Up close, under the bright lights, she breathed deeply, and almost cried out upon seeing the long brown hair falling out of the pink and green quilt. Thank God, it isn’t Joe in the pit. The victim was a female, youngish, in her twenties. The back of her head was crushed. A heavy blunt object had been used to bludgeon her, but an autopsy would tell the cause of her death. There was little blood on the site, an indication the woman was killed somewhere else, and moved there for burial. Maude scooted closer, and observed the pale skin now smudged with blood and mud, and recognized the victim from the picture her mother had sent by text. It was Serena Bradley: wife of Thomas, writer, a victim of a brutal murderer. In her folded hands lay Joe’s cell phone. Maude knew it by the piece of tape attached to the back. She had seen it before.
Maude was the detective on duty on a technicality. She had stayed over at the Cop Shop while the night detectives were on dinner break. By showing up at the landfill, she and Calhoun had put themselves in the middle of a case she was slightly familiar with. Thomas Bradley’s wife had just turned up dead, making his connection to Joe’s disappearance even darker. The sight of the phone nearly sent Maude over the top.
“Captain, before this, Calhoun and I were about to visit the victim’s house, to speak with the husband. We can go now, and bring him downtown for the interview. It’s murder for sure, and he may be up to his neck in it.”
“I’m sorry you got caught in this,” Patterson said, eyeing the cell as technicians pushed the phone’s power button, to no avail. “But it doesn’t look good for Detective Allen. It appears that he might have killed her, and dropped his phone as he buried her. You need to find him, and get him to turn himself in.”
“I know what it looks like Captain. But it wasn’t Joe who did this. I’ll stake my badge on it. Thomas Bradley must have killed his wife, kidnapped Joe, and set him up to take the fall. I just pray he didn’t kill Joe to cover his own butt.”
“Maude, you know I want to believe in Joe, but what I see is hard evidence that one of my detectives got into a lover’s quarrel and killed his girlfriend. Do your best to find Joe.”
“Yes sir,” she said distractedly, considering ways she might trap Bradley into telling the truth.
***
“He thinks he got away with it,” Maude said to Calhoun as they sat in the car in the dark. Through Bradley’s open windows, they could hear music playing and see movement.
“You’re sure he did it?” Calhoun asked.
“Who else? It wasn’t Joe,” she replied. “Makes sense. Bradley lied about her being on the beach, but he’ll say she told him she was going, that she must have had an affair, and her lover killed her. We need to find the red-haired woman,” she said absently. “Let’s take him in, but not lean on him. Pretend we think he’s innocent. Don’t mention Joe’s phone or wallet. See if he rolls over on someone else.”
Thirty minutes later, a saddened Thomas Bradley was in the back of the city car, staring out the window. He had taken the death of his wife hard, crying real tears as far as Maude could see. To his credit, he didn’t make accusations about anyone who might have wanted to harm his wife, nor did he ask questions that might have put him in a bad light.
He’s smart, Maude thought. Knows some about the law. I must be very careful with Mr. Bradley.
When they passed by the desk sergeant, Maude winked, a signal she had set up with Benny Long some time back. When she had someone to interview that might be volatile, Long opened up a channel on a secondary radio that allowed him to listen in, and respond with officers if necessary. It was their system, and it cost nothing, but it had saved some face-pounding over the years.
“Mr. Bradley,” she said after she had read him his rights, “I hate like heck to ask these questions at so delicate a time, but we are investigating a murder, so bear with me.” Maude adopted a kind tone, even though she instinctively knew the man in the hot seat was guilty. Lord, forgive me for being such a phony-baloney, she thought, but you catch flies with a load of bull mess.
“No, go ahead,” the photographer said. “I know you have to ask.”
“Was your wife having an affair, Mr. Bradley?” Calhoun asked abruptly.
“I don’t know, but she might have been,” Bradley replied hesitantly. “Yes,” he said strongly, “Why deny it. She was seeing someone else.”
“Hm. Did you confront her, Mr. Bradley, or if not through outright accusation, how did you find out?”
“She…felt guilty, and told me she had been seeing someone she met at her gym class. I forgave her, of course, because I loved her. She said she was going to break it off, but my god, if I had known he was going to hurt her, I would never have agreed.” At that point, Bradley broke down, sobbing unmanly tears.
I could just puke, Maude thought. “Did you see the man, or get his name, Mr. Bradley?”
“No, neither, but she told me he loved her, and would be troublesome when she broke it off. Can I take a break, detective?” Bradley interjected. “Maybe have some coffee?”
“Of course, get him some coffee Detective Calhoun. Cream? Sugar?”
She settled back in the chair across the table from the bereaved man and watched his facial expressions. A myriad of thoughts went through her mind, not the least of which was to throttle the man pretending to love his wife. Maude scolded herself, and vowed to withhold any caustic remarks that might give away her true feelings. Interviewing a man whom she believed killed his wife required patience. He had to believe he was much smarter than any dumb cop who might question him.
“I think I can go on, now,” Bradley volunteered. His curly hair was mussed, and he ran his fingers through the light brown strands, trying to straighten them. Women would definitely be attracted to Thomas Bradley, Maude thought. He has that little-boy-lost look in his soft brown eye, and tremulous smile.
“Mr. Bradley, who was the man your wife had an affair with?” Maude asked.
“I’m scared to say it, especially in this setting. There’s too much against me, if I do. I mean, I know what I read in the papers about cops protecting their own, and I don’t want to get beaten,” Bradley said with a frightened look. “I think I need my lawyer,” he said quickly.
Calhoun jumped in quickly before Maude could say anything. The expression on her face was enough to warn him that all hell was about to break loose. “What are you saying, Bradley, that a cop was boinking your wife?”
“Yes, that‘s what I’m saying. And what about my lawyer?” Bradley had thought it through, and knew at what moment to drop the bomb. “I will say no more until I am represented by counsel.”
“Lord almighty, I’ve been snookered,”” Maude said to the captain when they were alone in
the office. “He set me up, put me through the traces, and I ran, just as he wanted. Now he can sit on his hands, let his lawyer take the lead, and he doesn’t have to admit to anything. I wish I had a drink,” she muttered.
“What’s he getting at Maude? Is he pointing the blame for his wife’s murder on Joe?” Patterson had followed most of the interview but not all. He hoped to catch the end of the banquet, and kept glancing at his watch.
“Yes, he is, all the way down to making it look like Joe cleaned his apartment to remove any of Serena’s blood stains. Bradley’s set to put the finger on Joe, to make him the fall guy who killed Serena Bradley, and then disappeared.” She was so mad she wanted to beat Bradley’s smug face in, and throw him to the alligators at the Madison zoo.
“Now I know he has everything to do with Joe’s disappearance,” she said angrily. “He got a little too smart for his own good, dropping that bomb, and then yelling for a lawyer. Truth is, up to the minute they found Joe’s cell I hadn’t really considered Bradley for anything other than his wife’s murder. But now I believe he tucked Joe away somewhere, and if he hasn’t killed him already, he will when he gets out of here. Joe’s disappearance will be proof of his guilt. The problem is, we have no reason to hold Bradley, and his lawyer will say we’re harassing him if we try for a confrontation. What I wouldn’t give for a search warrant.”
“You’ll never get it now.” The captain said on his way out the door. “I have men on this, you know. You aren’t working alone. It’s important to me to find Detective Allen if he’s been kidnapped.”
“Thanks Captain,” she said. “I have to believe he’s alive, and can’t get home. I hope we find him soon.”
Chapter 8.
The coffee in the pot was black and almost syrupy from being on the fire so long, but Maude didn’t notice or care. She was mentally beating herself up for playing Bradley’s game, and maybe getting him off for killing his wife and kidnapping Joe. It was obvious the man was claiming Joe was Serena Bradley’s lover, and had killed her because she threw him over for her marriage and husband. But Maude knew different, she knew Joe Allen, and his strict moral code that didn’t go along with dating married women, or killing anyone who didn’t try to kill him first.
The Maude Rogers Murder Collection Page 80