The East Avenue Murders (The Maude Rogers Crime Novels Book 1) (8 page)

The Homicide detail had four detectives
for the investigation of all suspicious, accidental, and family violence cases of serious bodily injury or death. You never knew when the bodily injury would become a cause of death.

Along with Maude, there were t
hree men assigned to the section: Lyman Eberhart, a tall man with a bald pate and very dark skin, Alfred Wheeler a short, rotund Irishman who was Eberhart’s partner, and now, Joe Allen.

Wheeler was a whiner, a fact well known by all the detectives and officers alike within the building. He was raised in California but leaned heavily on his ethnicity when work was passed out, often complaining about his assignments. He could always find a way to bring his Irish in as a reason it was unfair.

Secretly everyone called him Fat Frieda. Wheeler had once made a crucial error and admitted to a man in personnel that his mother had named him Alfred instead of Frieda as she had intended had he been a girl.

One day a street cop had seen
Wheeler buying two hotdogs and a sub sandwich for lunch. The cop told his buddies, “If no homicide cases get solved today, it’s Fat Frieda’s fault for eating so much he couldn’t get off his ass to investigate.”

Alfred’s partner was loyal enough to never employ the name but he never objected when som
eone else did; so the name stuck.

Joe Allen, t
he other man assigned to Homicide hadn’t made it to his desk yet. Maude thought maybe the Boss had some info so before looking at the rest of the reports on her desk she did the obligatory two fingered knock on the glass door and went into the office. She told him she still had to write up the events of the day before. She said she had met her new partner and he seemed a little green, but okay.

“
Where is he?” She asked “Did I scare him off?”

“
No, he’s down at Personnel fixing his papers for the new assignment, should be here by about ten. Tell me more about Saturday night. Are we finding out anything about this guy?”

Lieutenant Patterson was one of those supervisors who liked to remain in the loop
, but not close enough for the loop to become a noose and be hung by it. As long as Maude and his other detectives did their jobs he left them alone.

She
was very careful of her wording because one slip about Chicago would be enough for Patterson to give the case to the Feds believing it to be in everyone’s best interest. She explained about the box with the breast tissue that probably came from the crime scene at East Avenue but said they would wait for the lab to compare tissue samples with both of the victims. She rushed through the part about someone turning off her security light, not wanting to bring his attention to the possibility that the killer might know her from an earlier time.

She spoke of the man at her rent house and of the follow-up that was in process
. Quickly, before he had time to digest all of what she had just said, Maude said that she had to get cracking because of the heavy workload that she and Joe were looking at. She told him she was starting to feel overworked like Fat Frieda.

After L
ieutenant Patterson ran her out of his office, Maude went immediately to see Alice for any news from Interpol but there was nothing yet. She called the Medical Examiner’s office and made an appointment to be there by eleven o’clock trusting that Joe would be back by then. The next thing she did was to call and set an appointment to interview Betty Ann Davis about her brother’s death.

It was going to be a very busy day. So far Maude was feeling good, no aches and pains that a few ibupro
fen couldn’t fix. Lately she had begun wondering if gastric cancer could be caused by the anti-inflammatories. Often as not, two of the pills were part of her breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

While she waited for Alice to talk to her, Maude
looked down and caught sight of her black boots, noticing they were scarred a little from wear and tear. She decided they were presentable enough for what she had to do. The M.E. certainly wouldn’t care.

Clothing was always an easy issue
for Maude. She didn’t care for skirts or dresses, preferring long pants, especially jeans when she was off work or when her bosses let her get away with wearing them to work. In lieu of jeans she chose creased fitted slacks with front and back pockets, a wrinkle free tucked in blouse and a winter or summer blazer, depending on the season.  She owned several blazers in various colors.

He
weapon was carried at the waist in a holster, no purses or handbag holster for her. She wanted to be ready to reach the weapon quickly if she needed it. All of her identification was in her coat’s breast pocket and was easily accessible. There were diamond studs in her ears and a gold chain with a cross pendant around her neck. On her right hand she wore a simple gold ring without any adornment. The ring was very important to her. A sturdy wristwatch worn on the left hand completed her wardrobe.

Maude Rogers was an attractive woman
although she would never have agreed with anyone who said such a thing. The years had treated her attitude badly, but time had been kind to her skin leaving few wrinkles to give away her age. Most people thought she was nearer fifty than sixty.

The few people who
were close to Maude knew some of her history: she was once married to a man who went to Viet Nam and never returned. The letter had come to her as it came to so many women, informing her of her husband’s loss in one of the conflicts in that far away country.

Maude was bitter toward the army and toward the world for a while. She had been married for three months when the army took her husband Paul away in his fine starched uniform. They sent him back in a locked coffin with n
o access; they said his body was riddled with bullet holes, his face unrecognizable. The identification of the man she loved had been made from the dog tags around his neck.

She never remarried or became serious over any other man. Paul Rogers had been the love of he
r life.

At about twenty minutes to ten Maude was completing the last
of the morning’s reports, getting ready to finish them with her signature when she looked up to see her young partner’s bandaged head and big grin. Maude couldn’t totally suppress a return smile even though she tried.

“Are you always this
cheerful?” she asked him, “or do I just make you happy? Well, never mind, I’m glad to see you made it through Saturday with nothing more than a few stitches.” 

“Yes
ma’am, they told me I was real lucky. Said the knife that old boy stuck me with nearly cut my eye out. I’d like about five minutes with him someday, just me and him on level ground.” Joe’s wish for revenge was pretty common among law enforcement officers who had been attacked, however; given the opportunity to get even with the attacker, the usual response was ‘he isn’t worth my job.’ Maude wasn’t worried that Joe might be a loose cannon looking to get even.

“So,” she sniped at him, “
are you ready to go to work or do you need some time to go straighten your shorts?”

“Sure, he said, “
I’m ready. Let’s go.”

The
Medical Examiner’s office was about four blocks from the station, located in the criminal justice building where most if not all the county offices were housed. The basement was devoted to the M.E. and the morgue with its cold storage lockers and stainless steel tables. 

Doctor Edward Keller, the pathologist who autopsied the victims of murder and suspicious deaths
was also the coroner filling a dual position in a small county. There was one assistant to the doctor, Theodore Hollingsworth, a forensics expert who retired from the FBI and settled in Madison. Bored with retirement he sought some part- time work in his field. He was keeping his hands in the business so to speak.

Holly, as he was christened by the lab, was a man in his seventies with no sense of humor. He worked Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, allowing Doctor Keller to take time away from the office o
r appear in court to testify in local, state or federal. Today being Monday, Holly was in the office finishing up a dictation that he and the doc had done while autopsying a hit and run victim from a week earlier.

Because the victim had been
involved in a political scandal during the last mayoral election, his family had demanded the autopsy believing the man might have been drugged before walking across the street from a local restaurant and bar and being run down by an automobile. The man’s family was disappointed at the results. No drugs of any kind were found in the man’s stomach or in his blood.

Holly
glanced up from his notes with a frown on his face. “You’re late,” he said.

Maude look
ed down at her watch and agreed with him. “Yeah,” she said, “ten minutes past. Sorry.”

“Doctor Keller is not here today. What did you want?” he said.

Maude told him that she needed to know about time and cause of death in both of the two women who were found on East Avenue. He reminded her that the autopsy hadn’t been done yet. She told him she knew that but wanted his professional take on what might have happened. Maude knew that the county had a gold mine of information in Hollingsworth. The man had spent an extensive amount of time in the federal labs, working with the forensics teams of Quantico, the hub of the Federal Bureau of Investigations research and training center. She also knew that the man had a large ego that he kept under wraps when Doctor Keller was on duty.

Hollingsworth muttered under his breath but took up the case notes and began looking them over. He had not misunderstood the admiration in Maude’s voice, the salute to his ability to read the tell
-tale signs from a victim’s injuries without cutting them open.

“Well, now this is not official because we won’t know for sure until after the autopsy but all signs point to a short blade with a curved end in the manner of a saber, the depth of the fatal injury appears to be
over two and a half inches deep, almost severing the head from the body internally. The lack of trauma at the entry wound indicates very little force was used, therefore the blade would have been extremely sharp, possibly  new steel or a very well cared for older blade.

“
There was circular bruising evidence at both victims’ ankles, indicating some type of restraint was used on them. As to time, we haven’t changed our ruling there: death occurred four to six days prior to the finding of the body. The decay of the soft tissue and damage caused by the maggot infestation indicate our previous estimation was correct.”

Maude thanked Holly for his help, agreeing with him that the results of the autopsy would be the official word but now she had a direction to go,
an arrow on a sheet of paper saying “start here” pointing to a trail to follow. The man seemed pleased that she appreciated his skills and after muttering under his breath, he went back to the transcription he had been previously absorbed in, a tiny smile at the corner of his mouth.

Maude and Joe left the basement of the building with its cold sterile smells and returned to her patrol car.

“You should really insist on a better car.” Joe said. “This one must be ten years old.”

“Seven, and it still runs, a little shaky no doubt but it gets us there,” Maude said.

“So what do you think, Maude, are we going to get him?” he asked.

Maude thought for a minute, wondering how much she should tell her partner.
The man deserved to know the truth, but she didn’t know whether he could accept the idea of a killer from over eight years ago beginning all over in a small town where she worked as an investigator.
The thought seemed to be egocentric on her part, a grab for notoriety by attaching herself to the murderer. Then there was the need to know by the Feds. Would Joe feel inclined to pass any information along to those glory-grabbing pricks and give up the rightful case that fell their way? Truth was, she didn’t know that much about Joe Allen. For all she knew, he might be hoping to work for the Feds and watching for openings to boost his own career.

Maude’s sense of fair play won out and she began telling her partner about the victims in Chicago and how she left it all behind after getting too personally involved with the families. She told him about the killer and how he had taunted the investigators at the last with his careless disposal of the young women’s frozen hearts. Owning her own
mistakes even though she wasn’t the lead investigator, she accepted responsibility for letting the killer get away.

“Now,” she said, “I believe he is back.
Only this time his M.O. has changed to a more savage display of contempt for human life.”

He seemed to like abusing women
, she thought.
Maybe they could play on that, look for back cases of attacks on women in the last eight years that were unsolved, especially in the Madison area or on the route from Chicago to Madison.
She made a mental note to get with Alice when she got back to the office.

Joe sat quietly not asking questions even though Maude could tell he wanted to know plenty. She saw his facial muscles tighten as she told about the men in suits in Chicago who pulled all her notes from the investigation and locked both her and her
new partner out of the loop. Maude took a breath then talked about the box that was delivered to her house and what that meant. She believed the Chicago serial killer had pulled her in, and it wasn’t an accident. Joe nodded his head, agreeing with her.

“So, Joe, what do you want to do? Give it up? Take care of the rest of the workload we have and let them have this?” Maude needed to know his feelings, what to expect from this man who would become closer than a brother covering her in the tough spots.

“Or do you want to find the murdering scum that did this before he does it again?” Maude continued.

“Do you think he will, Maude?” Joe asked “Do it again?”

“Yeah,” she said, “I’d bet on it.”

“Then let’s
you and me stop him.” Joe said.  The sincerity in his voice was all she needed to hear.

Work goes on in other areas and Maude knew they had an appointment with Betty Ann Davis at two o’clock
, and she was getting hungry; going to the morgue always made her hungry. She supposed it was some deep psychological need for reassurance that she was alive, or at least that’s what a shrink would say. A hamburger stand on Fifth Street catered to cops, always making sure they got their food quickly before the officers got called away. That’s where she took Joe. The food was good as always and afterwards Maude took her soda with her, intending to put Joe behind the wheel.

“You’re up,”
she told him, rattling off the address as she pitched him the key and stretched her long legs in the passenger seat. She had filled him in on the details of the old man’s trip to the roof and subsequent death. “We’re seeing the sister”.

The street where Betty Ann Davis lived was in a low rent neighborhood, some government housing mixed with old run down rental property mostly appealing to people on fixed incomes
paid by the federal government.

When they rolled into the driveway kids scattered off the street near them, fear of the cops evident in the way they grabbed their bicycles and headed anywhere but there. Kids did that
in most places, but especially in low-rent neighborhoods. They seemed to believe that nothing a cop had to say was going to be any benefit to them. They were usually right.

The lawn was lush, heavy green grass and weeds, badly in need of mowing. Maude got out of the car and walked to the front door
, climbing the five steep steps to the landing, Joe right behind her. At the last minute she sidled away and put Joe in the front. He looked at her strangely and knocked on the door. After a couple more knocks they heard the locks and the chains moving on the other side of the door. Apparently Betty Ann was prepared against intruders.

When the door opened
the first thing they saw was a large red motorized wheelchair at the room entrance. Operating the speed and direction control was a white haired woman of about seventy five. She appeared to have been crying for her eyes were swollen and red.

“Yes,” she asked of Joe, “what do you want?”

“Police ma’am,” he answered showing her his identification, “we need to talk to you. We called this morning.”

“Oh yes” she said, “about Earl
.” She began crying again, tears running down her face.

“I’m sorry
ma’am,” said Joe in his nicest voice, “we’re trying to find out what happened to him. May we come in?” he asked.

The door opening was widened as the woman moved the scooter back and asked the two investigators inside.

“Come in,” she said, “it’s just so hard to believe that he’s gone.” Betty Ann began crying harder, the tears flowing even faster.

“We’ll g
ive you a minute,” Maude said. “Meanwhile, do you mind if I use your ladies room?”

“No,” Betty Ann said pointing away from her, “I don’t mind. It’s down the hall.”

Maude had decided to let Joe’s charms work their magic on Betty Ann and give her time to relax. Something about the woman’s tears bothered Maude. When the first officer on the scene wrote his report, he commented on the matter of fact manner in which the victim’s sister told of finding her brother in the front yard, dead, with the crowbar in his back. Now she was overcome with tears. Of course, it could have been the shock that made her appear unemotional to the officer, or it could be something else. She hoped Joe could gain the woman’s trust with his soft green eyes and sweet smile.

The bathroom was large, designed to accommodate the motorized chair. A shower lift was attached to a cable in the ceiling, its purpose obvious to Maude. She opened the medicine cabinet and stared into it, not knowing what she might find, maybe a bottle of ibuprofen. Her knees were starting to give her fits after climbing the steep house stairs, the muscle stiffness beginning across and under the kneecaps, an indication of more pain to come. Maybe she could borrow some of the over the counter stuff. Better not, she thought, passing it by.

Three bottles of a well-known pain medicine inscribed with the name Earl Davis, and a local doctor who had prescribed them, were in the forefront of the cabinet. Maude wondered why there were three bottles, none being more than half empty. In the back of the cabinet were several bottles of generic antidepressants, all appearing to have a large supply of pills inside. That must be the medicine that Betty Ann had spoken about, the ones her brother refused to take.

Maude returned to the room where her partner
was speaking softly to Betty Ann. She sat on the chair across the room from them, hoping to distance herself until the last minute, giving Joe enough time to break through the woman’s facade. Maude believed it to be false, the excessive grief, the tears on her face timed to the knock on the door. Betty Ann was quite the actress or so Maude thought. Not to say the woman was not upset, Maude believed she was, but not so much that she wasn’t relieved at the death of her mentally ill brother. Maude also believed that the woman was covering for someone and intentionally trying to misdirect their efforts.

Joe was about to ask Betty Ann a question when Maud
e interrupted with a question of her own.