The 6:10 To Murder (The Maude Rogers Crime Novels Book 3)

by Linda L. Dunlap

  Chapter 11

  Leaving the hospital without arresting anyone for crimes committed was frustrating for the detectives, but a necessary move. The law was clear. Without evidence to take to a judge, Dawson’s ruse would continue. What they needed was a credible witness. Maybe the nurse Ellen Goodbody could tell them something. Joe had spoken to the sour-faced control-room operator again, and found out the nurse’s schedule. She would be off work at three that afternoon. Normally her schedule was at night, but for a few days she was filling in for someone on vacation. Maude remarked that a normal person would believe a nurse with that much seniority could have her pick of shifts, instead of being the one chosen for vacation relief. She felt an immediate sympathy for her.

  Too early for lunch, the next best thing to do was visit the owner of Northside Pawn and see if they could get a few answers to questions concerning the murder. After fingerprints identified Phillip Mason as a visitor and possible suspect in the killing of Marlin Thompson, a warrant for Mason was issued, but he hadn’t been found. Maude could see a trip to Detroit in their immediate future, the home state and last known address of the suspect. Michigan officers had gone to the domicile, but found it unoccupied. Because the man wasn’t wanted in his own state, little time would be spent looking for him. The greater manpower of any police department was needed for solving crimes against local citizens. Maude sighed, knowing the truth of such reasoning. Their only hope was to get other information pointing them to the alleged killer’s location. She had no particular feeling about the state, but the trip loomed ahead as dreary and time-consuming when the man was finally found. With any luck, Mason was still in Texas.

  Forty miles and a few speculations later, the two detectives arrived at Northside Pawn to find it back in business, with all signs of violence removed. Wallace Avery was expecting them, and offered coffee and sandwiches. Since lunchtime was near, they took the coffee, but forwent the sandwiches. Even though they were hungry, it didn’t look good when they accepted food or other gifts from someone under investigation. Avery wasn’t a suspect, but that could change on a dime.

  “Mr. Avery,” Maude said, then took a second to sip some sweetened coffee, “we have prints identifying Phillip Mason. He had his hands on the counter near your manager. A large piece of the glass was found where he touched or leaned on it. How often is the glass wiped down? Do you have a cleaning person every night?”

  “Marlin was a clean freak. He wiped every part of the furnishings several times daily. Couldn’t stand the thought of germs passed by people’s hands. A cleaning person comes in once weekly for the overall ,” Avery took a minute to look off, gathering his thoughts. “He was a good man and will be hard to replace. Right now I have my sister’s husband working, but I don’t trust him out of my sight. Sure, he has a license, still, I know him to be a sneak. Wish I didn’t have to use him, but I’m stuck until I hire someone else.”

  “What time of day did you say Mason was here?” Maude asked, sorry to see the bottom of her cup as she spoke.

  “Near closing time, 7:00, 7:30. I was on my way out of the building. Marlin mentioned he would be working late, so I locked my door and was about to tell him goodnight when Mason saw me. Guess I was shocked and showed it. As I told you, I spoke to him, but he didn’t say anything before leaving. Excuse me, detectives, but I need to look in on my brother-in-law.”

  Joe smirked at Maude, his take on Avery’s worry over a potential thief a comical relief after the morning’s gloomy first visit. She nodded agreement, understanding the worry from the owner, yet seeing the family connection as a joke. Why was it always the brother-in-law?

  When Avery returned, he filled them in on the relationship he’d had with Phillip Mason there at the last, when the business was sold. Evidently Mason had been left destitute, not being able to pay his mortgage. The wife had left him soon after. Maude could see how that would stir some ire in the suspect.

  “Detectives, if there is nothing else, I need to get back to work. You understand. I hope you find Phillip soon. He was a good man when I knew him.”

  The drive from the pawnshop to a favorite burger place took only five minutes. Maude’s stomach was still upset, and a screaming headache had set in. She thought maybe if she could eat something it would help. They had eaten a late breakfast, but her stomach hadn’t held much. Afterward, the headache was still there, and in addition, some heartburn had begun from the hot sauce on the fries. Joe had no trouble finishing her fries and his own. He’s always hungry, Maude thought.

  They sat outside in the shade for a few minutes. Any rain that had been predicted for the area had passed them by. All that was left was hot and humid. August was not the best month for Texas weather. Maude shed her blazer while she smoked the second unfiltered of the day. She looked forward to the midday cigarette, even with the hollow feeling created by alcohol deprivation.

  “Joe, if I develop diabetes and have to give up pecan pie, would you shoot me, please?”

  “Sure.” He chuckled. “Be happy to oblige. A person can’t live without pecan pie anyway.”

  “No worry. It’ll be cancer that gets me. Probably in my stomach because of the way I eat.”

  “Maude, how you doing with the booze thing?” Joe asked quietly, not wanting to intrude, but concerned for her welfare.

  “Give me a minute,” she said. “Okay. Now, wait another minute—that’s how I am with the need. Once in a while I get blessed with a five-minute interval. They tell me it gets better, but it will always be one day at a time in the end. I can live with that, I think. I hope I can. I know what was happening to me before was lots worse.” She fingered the book in her pocket, then pulled it out and opened it to a favorite passage.

  Joe watched her for a minute, swearing to himself to cut back on his drinking before it became a problem like Maude’s. He knew the possibility was there. The stressful lives of cops made them vulnerable to the numbing effects of alcohol. For a minute Joe felt fear creep down his spine. He had a lot of years to go before reaching Maude’s age. Who could say what his tolerance would be by then. She seemed willing to talk as he drove, so Joe kept quiet and let her exorcise some ghosts.

  “When I was a kid, my old man kept a bottle hidden behind his toolbox. He drank rotgut whisky, the kind his buddies made in their barns. Later he graduated to store-bought. I used to watch him when he went into the garage, because in the beginning I wanted to be wherever he was. The hidden bottle became an obsession with me. I wanted to know what was in it, how it tasted. One day I saw him go in, and I followed then tried to hide behind a low shelf. He saw me, called me over, and put the bottle to my lips. I took a big drink and felt like I was going to die. I must have been about five or six, can’t really remember. He told me I mustn’t say anything to Mom, that to tell her would cause both of us trouble, since I drank some of what was in the bottle. Being a kid, I was torn between loyalty to my mom and the fear of being found out. I kept quiet. That was the beginning of his hold over me. After that, he started coming in my room at night, just staring at me as I pretended to sleep. I could see him sitting on the bed, rustling his clothes, but I was too little to understand what he was doing. I never told my mom about the things he did over the years, but she knew without me saying. Maybe she was afraid of him, or maybe she was afraid of life without him, but she never called him on it. After I threatened to kill him when I was sixteen, he left the house, and never moved back in. I think maybe she finally realized he was a bum she didn’t need.

  “The first taste of whiskey stayed with me for a long time. I could feel the burn in my mouth and my stomach. Never cared for the taste as an adult, probably because of the other memories it brought back. Gin was more to my liking, because it was clear and didn’t taste like the old man. My real drinking started when my mother developed cancer. Up until then, I took the occasional drink, but I preferred getting high after Paul, my husband, was killed in Viet Nam. When I took off for California a few years later, that’s what I
wanted, to leave my troubles behind, and stay bombed so nothing hurt. Besides, the free love state didn’t require anything at all from me, but it offered everything except reality.

  “When I rejoined the straight life, drinking became a way to end the day; a few gin and tonics made the violence of the streets easier to manage. Even later, it made my mother’s illness more bearable. I knew she was dying, and I didn’t want to feel the pain. Just never quit after she was gone, so here I am today, older and further along as a drunk, but not a darn bit wiser.”

  The echo of her last words filled Joe’s head. He was afraid to say anything in response for fear it would be too much or too little. He glanced over at his partner, understanding her better. She stared straight ahead, the Traditions book in her hand, a thoughtful expression on her face.

  “So, what do you think? This guy Mason do the murder?” Maude was finished talking about the past—it was time to get back to work, finding bad guys.

  Her third night went the same way as the one before. She tossed and turned, trying to sleep without a sedative. A couple of ibuprofen helped with the aches and pains, but the animal that had taken up residence in the bed beside her demanded a reckoning. The need was strong, as strong as a wild creature in a net trap. It kicked out at odd times, twisting itself into positions designed to slam the solar plexus of its host, taking all breath away. A few times she thought she saw old faces floating across the darkness, some glaring and fierce in shades of outrageous colors. The bedroom light helped make sleep more accessible without the ghosts of her past taking form.

  Weary and worn, she woke in the morning to the alarm, feeling as though she had not slept at all. But it was the fourth day, and that was saying something. Three full days without a drink and she was still alive. After coffee and a shower, Maude read for a while from the little book, finding comfort in the words. She made another pot of light coffee and drank most of it, the sugar infusion reviving her with its energy. Realizing the day was Saturday, she called Joe’s house and reminded him he was on call for the weekend. She told him her intention was to visit Ellen Goodbody on their mutual days off. Mostly, she needed to be away from the house and around other people. He seemed to understand her need to mix with others.

  Apart from her earned income from the hospital each month, Ellen had very little savings or valuables. When her parents’ property was sold by the state, the money went to pay for lawyers and psychiatrists for the children’s welfare. After every dime was spent, the overzealous advocates deserted Ellen and Geraldeen, content to see the girls in the home of an elderly great uncle and aunt as caretakers and maids. Being a naturally guilt-ridden person since the murder of her younger brother, Ellen felt privileged to exchange a childhood of indenture for a home with her sister. Truth was it didn’t much matter where they lived if they were together.

  The little house left after the uncle died was a three-room clapboard, where the girls grew from early childhood to young women, sleeping on pallets near an old wood heater. Their privacy was never a consideration. They didn’t even know the word, but often wondered why Uncle Rupert stared at them as they lay upon the quilts and blankets. Somehow it didn’t seem right—in fact, it was almost indecent the way he drooled at the sight of a bare leg. Their aunt was sickly and died when Ellen was fifteen; however, nothing much changed. The sisters had been taking care of the housework and the old lady since they had arrived at their new home.

  Geraldeen figured she was made for better things than being a service maid, and had begun planning her future around that thought. Ellen, on the other hand, dreaded her older sister’s departure and was worried the old man would die, leaving no one to care for. She always believed her life was meant to provide comfort for others.

  Going to see Daddy had always been a pleasant duty for Ellen. She would fluff his pillows and feed him breakfast and lunch, never getting upset, even when he accidentally popped her with his fist. She knew he never meant to hurt her; the reflexive movements of atrophying muscles sometimes made his arms flail.

  At seventeen, she was employable and out of high school. That was one thing Uncle Rupert and Aunt Gertrude had insisted on: the girls must attend school. They hadn’t wanted uneducated beggars living in their house.

  The office door was open when Ellen first decided to apply with the hospital by just stepping in and asking for work. The overpowering smell of pee and shit offended her desire for cleanliness as she walked down the hallway to the open door. There were many who lay in their own excrement for hours, unable to get about on their own. Ellen swore to the bald man in the office that she would change that part. She didn’t think herself too good to clean up a mess if it was her job. The man hired her on the spot, having advertised for cheap labor only a short time before. He knew there were few willing to do the work required for the money paid. A religious man might have seen Ellen as God-sent, for there was plenty of work to be done and few to do it.

  After taking care of her daddy and many others just like him, Ellen had begun to detect an odor of vinegar mixed with sulfur when she was at work. At first, she thought it came from everybody and put it down to her nose giving her problems, but later, she realized just some of the air carried the smell. Curiosity got the best of her, and she started reading charts on the inmates where the air smelled bad. It wasn’t everybody like she had first thought, and it wasn’t her nose. Well, maybe it was her nose, because no one else picked up what she smelled, but mostly, it was them, those she began calling “the really bad ones,” the ones who had a burr under their saddle that made them kill and maim others. The ones who liked it.

  These elements of her life were part of what Ellen related to the lady detective, Maude Rogers, who came to interview her about the Madison-MacArthur Hospital and its famous inmate, Number 73, Robert Dawson.

  “You make good coffee, Ellen,” Maude said, enjoying her second cup. “Not everybody does.”

  “Why thank you, detective. I do enjoy a cup myself, though I can’t abide weak brew or thin character in a person,” Ellen said, rocking in her chair, enjoying company for the first time in several days. The last person who’d sat on her small divan was the man who fixed the plumbing. She had offered him coffee and cookies and he seemed grateful.

  “Ellen, what do you know of Robert Dawson, other than he’s on the twenty-second floor and comatose?”

  The nurse looked sharply at Maude and frowned as though something rotten had crossed her sensitive olfactory nerve.

  “He’s a bad one, is what I say. Maybe the worst I ever knew.” She stirred her coffee for a minute and rocked.

  Maude could tell there was more to be heard if she kept quiet and let Ellen think.

  “There are times make me wonder what he’s up to,” she said, finally.

  “What do you mean, Ellen? Sounds as though you have reason to believe the man is conscious.” Maude was playing her hand close to the vest, not wanting to put words in Ellen’s mouth that weren’t there already.

  “What I mean is, would you like some cake, detective? Just baked this morning.”

  Ordinarily she would have refused the offer, but Maude believed Ellen was old school, and laid trust on the table along with the products of her work. What she had to say seemed so important she had to trust Maude before telling it.

  “Probably shouldn’t, but why not? I love good homemade cake.”

  The serving done, the cake was proven to be delicious, probably an old recipe Ellen had learned from her aunt. Maude detected a hint of lemon with lots of butter. She complimented the cook on her baking and proceeded to finish off the large piece, stilling the animal with an overload of sugar.

  “You see, detective,” Ellen began, “I’ve seen them come and go, watched their faces as they tried to get to me, hoping to strangle the life from my body. Medicine holds them for a while, keeps them down and harmless. That fellow 73 is like that. His medicine keeps him down for a while, but not forever. Sometimes when I go by that room and the door is open
outside the bars, I see him lying there and I know he’s pretending. When Doctor Hopkins was around, 73’s door was never open. I believe they were up to no good, and the doctor kept it all hush-hush so the patient wouldn’t be moved out of his comfortable room. As it is, he has a laptop in there, a television, and even a cell phone. Now why does an unconscious man need all that unless he’s pretending? Doctor Hopkins said it was for visitors to use, but I don’t believe a word of it. Anyway, they got me moved where I won’t come in contact with 73. Which is fine, but it makes me wonder why. Tell me it isn’t because I saw too much! And what happened to Doctor Hopkins? Detective, who gets run over and killed by a car in front of a hospital? Doesn’t that sound fishy to you?”

  “You bring up some good points, Ellen. Protect yourself is my best advice,” Maude answered, her sympathy going out to the woman. “Thank you for speaking to me today. If you see anything suspicious you think I should know, here’s my card. Don’t wait to call. Your life may depend upon quick action.”

  “I won’t, detective, I do protect myself. Learned a thing or two from my daddy. Even though he was a bad one, there was a time he loved me.”

  Driving home was a short trip, but it seemed to take hours. Maude was tired from lack of sleep and didn’t hope for much better that night. She had a doctor but hated to show up in his office whining. Maybe Doctor Lindsey from the job might have some suggestions. She called her a few minutes later, surprised as always to get the busy woman on the phone.

  “Doctor Lindsey, hello, this is Maude Rogers, detective from Homicide. Do you have a minute?”

  “What is it, detective? Another shooting?”

  “Uh no, doctor. I have a problem I thought you might help with. If you aren’t busy.”

  “Don’t you have a doctor, detective? Someone whom you see regularly?”

  “Well, no, I don’t, but even if I did, that’s not the kind of doctor I need. I’m sick but I’m not.” Jeez, she was sorry for the call, but it was too late to turn back.